“That’s just it,” David said, almost gladly. “I don’t want to stop. I don’t want to let it go until everyone who had a hand in my sister’s death is dead. They all deserve to die.”
Lars lowered his eyes to the white-tipped cigar in his hand and, watching the smoke rising up from the cherry, he thought, you can’t blame this kid. How could he know that there’s no amount of bloodletting to make things like that feel right again? Revenge changes nothing internally. Nothing long term. It’s just an itch that keeps on itching.
He shifted his weight and thought, but then, who the hell are you to give him such advice? Just another hypocrite? No, hypocrites are actors. They put on shows. You’re not pretending to be a sage or a choir boy. You’re just too damned glad to share what you’ve learned along the way.
“What about the woman?” he asked.
David replied, “She’s enjoying a stay in Joseph’s barn.”
“What will be done with her?”
“The Snows will use her for all she’s worth. She was stupid as hell to ever think she could come here.”
“Maybe not,” Lars suggested. “Maybe she’s the worm on the hook, dangling before a really big fish.”
“The Snows aren’t stupid, Mr. Olsen.”
“I’m not suggesting they are.”
“Joseph believes that her pompous arrival was actually a desperate act. His senses are well beyond my own. I don’t always agree with everything, but I do find it hard to doubt him.”
“I don’t doubt him,” Lars said. “I’m just saying, I still wouldn’t trust her or the circumstances. If people like that have the connections to hire someone like me, there’s no telling what other connections they might have.”
David grinned. “It looks like they’re hurting for money—funding for their little projects. That’s what it’s all about.”
“That’s good news for you folks.”
“And you.”
Lars puffed a decent smoke ring and said, “Why is that?”
“If the eldest Snow has no use for you, he’ll probably let you leave.”
“Yeah?”
“I’d say so.”
Lars grinned ironically, thinking, who says I’m ready to leave? I’m just starting to get a little more comfortable in this place.
They were silent for a while. Lars studied the smoke rising from his cigar, while David enjoyed the scent.
“What other interesting jobs have you had?” David finally asked.
“Are you asking who else I’ve killed besides lowly bodyguards?”
“If the shoe fits …”
“Scumbags. The worst of the worst,” Lars told him, not proudly or shyly. He simply told him.
“Any who made the nightly news?”
Lars shrugged. “A pretty big one went down a few years back. Some kid got killed, caught in the crossfire of some rival cartel men in Mexico. Well, it turns out the kid’s father had money and connections and wasn’t a forgiving man. The local asset he tried to hire refused the job, so eventually it came to me and a few other guys—all ex-military—from the states. My team went to work on them pretty hard. Took out a bunch of small-time guys from both cartels before getting a clean shot on one of the primary targets—a big deal. One of those guys who hardly ever showed his face in public. Spotter helped me get in position for an easy shot. Nailed the guy right in the head.”
As he had spoken, Lars had seen it all replaying in his mind. He saw the man shirtless in the morning sun, greeting the new day with confidence. Just standing there obliviously. Secure in his hilltop home. His men kept careful watch over all his property. The opposing hill with the little house being occupied by shooters who watched over his big place day and night. He could not guess that his two shooters had died in the night, being bested by two Americans out to claim a nice bounty. The man looked serene. Nothing of any consequence seemed to trouble his mind … until the bullet passed through it. It hit him right where the nose met the cheek, just under the eye, moving at a very slight upward angle. Lars saw the spastic tremor of his body as his brain ceased governing nerves and muscles. Saw his blood looking black on the wall behind him. Saw him sink down, his head split in half. The legs folded up like an accordion. He saw it and remembered thinking, how many have you killed? A good many, I’ll bet. Probably did it yourself at first. Then you got bigger and anyone who got in your way, you gave the order and had them dealt with. You killed rivals and cops and street kids and sometimes put their corpses on display. Hung them from street lights or overpasses to make a statement. You had power, respect. Pomp and the pride of life. And now look at you. I’ve taken all that power from you in a second, one fifty caliber round. Every thought you ever had is spread all over that wall behind you. You’re nothing. Just like that. Nothing but a stain.
“You took his head right off?” David said, his eyes widening.
“Basically. Everything from the mouth up looked like a smashed pumpkin. Close shot for such a big gun.”
David nodded approvingly. “Where’d you catch him?”
“Home, of all places. It turned out that he liked to watch the sun rise in the mornings from his veranda. Made it real easy on me. I just feel bad for whoever had to clean him up after.”
“How’d you feel about yourself?”
“Pretty good, I’ll admit. But the best feeling came after we’d hauled out of there.”
“So, is it all sniper work?”
“The majority is. But now and then you can get them other ways. Like paying off the housekeeper to plant a bomb, or drop something in a drink. That’s a lot safer for our side. But then again, you have to mingle with them for those tactics to work. I’m not much of a social butterfly, as you can tell.”
“You’ve been in some rough places,” David said. “That’s why you’re not afraid of us.”
Lars said nothing and drew on his cigar. He blew out a nice big smoke ring and admired his handy work.
“I’m not kidding,” David told him.
“No?”
“No BS.”
“You’re telling me that you couldn’t sense my nerves like a bloodhound while you hid behind that tree?”
“There’s caution in you,” David said. “There’s a healthy respect. But it’s not fear, not cowardice—not like most humans. And I watched you at the hotel. And at the airstrip. You get stuff done.”
“Old Ed isn’t afraid of you. What about him?”
“Edmond is a child trapped in an old man’s body.”
“Yeah,” Lars said, a broad smile cracking his face. He liked the old guy. And it was a pretty accurate assessment.
“He’s lived here all his life, so he’s used to this place,” David said. “He has no ill intensions or hostility, so he receives none from us.”
“Look,” Lars said, dropping the cigar and grinding into the dirt. “If you want to keep talking, I’m game. Walk back to my camp with me. This cigar is parching me and my water jug is about empty. I’ve got drinks stashed in my tent. You’re welcome to one.”
3
They moved swiftly and silently, two black shadows gliding through the night. Always moving southwest, by trail or power line or logging roads—whichever kept them moving steadily in their desired direction—they carved their way through the Maine wilderness with boundless proficiency.
Erica was beyond elation. This new strength, new status that her great uncle regarded her with was something greater than even her own wondrous body. His simple act of not waiting for her to keep up with him—and more so, of not needing to wait—was among the highest compliments that could be paid to one her age. It was honor, respect, the unspoken confirmation that lifted her to a near equal in his eyes.
No comfort, no relationship—nothing in her short life had ever swelled her heart with such a satisfying assurance.
They had come down skirting the snow-dusted country north of Mt. Katahdin—the mountains marking the end of the Appalachians—and were now moving over frost-hardened
earth littered with dead leaves. Ponds and lakes were beginning to freeze. Only swift-flowing streams and rivers were of convenience for drinking.
At just such a little stream, flowing clear and sparkling under the star light, they halted for a drink and a few minute’s rest.
Abel, lifting his head after his drink, stepped away from the trickling sound of the stream. The smallest puff of air moved against his face, and by it, a certain, unmistakable scent met his experienced nose. A scent which made his body go instantly rigid.
“What is it?” Erica asked after her own drink.
A low growl began in his belly, proceeding his simple response. “You tell me.”
Head raised, she tested the air, noting the differences of odors of everything from dead leaves to frozen mud near the stream’s bank. And then it hit her. A faint hint of a sharp and pungent odor which typically she would try to avoid.
“Death,” Abel growled when he saw the look of recognition on her face.
“How far?”
“It is surely near. This stream flows south past a hermit’s cabin. But it is not he who has died tonight.”
“Should we look or keep moving?”
At first he gave no answer. He stood there thinking, should we take the time to see what this man has done? I know of him and I know almost certainly what he has done. My senses do not lie. But should I allow her to look upon his kill, and then let his just punishment be served? Or should we let his treachery slide, just once more, and pursue our business in the west?
“We will look,” he finally told her. “For I do not smell a dead game animal. It is—”
He moved off without finishing, loping along the stream’s edge, making no effort to be quiet. Erica followed, mildly repelled by the odor that she could not ignore, yet feeling almost helplessly drawn to investigate it.
***
The hermit’s name was Lucas Merton. Along with his meager life’s savings and some basic supplies, he had settled in the north woods some two decades earlier. A defiant man weary of society’s rules, he set out to prove himself capable of mastering all challenges of solitude, hardship, and all the harshness a backcountry winter could throw at him.
By all accounts, Merton had done well for himself. In comparison to the animals he killed to feed himself, his superiority of intelligence coupled with his skillful use of weaponry made him a master of survival in his small corner of the earth.
His only serious mistake was made a few days prior, when he spotted a rare eastern wolf, assumed it to be after the deer that he greatly enjoyed shooting from his cabin porch as they fed on the crab apples he’d baited them with, and shot it.
Had he killed the wolf and simply buried it, his crime might have gone unpunished. But by then Lucas Merton considered himself a bold master—a modern day Jeramiah Johnson of the northeast. Nothing in those woods had mastered him yet. He assumed that was because nothing could.
From a tree he hung the wolf’s corpse as a display of warning to all other carnivores: keep away. Atop a stake hammered into the frostbitten earth a few dozen yards from his cabin, he placed the wolf’s severed head for both his own amusement, as well as an indicator to any human hunters—at that time of year tracking deer—to keep well away from his home and hunting grounds. Trespassers would be sorry.
***
Erica regarded the dead wolf with deep pity and trembling outrage. It’s black and silver coat was stained with its own dried blood, and its graceful frame, having been robbed of its noble head, seemed a cruel and satirical defilement of its former beauty.
She turned her gaze to Abel. His snout crawled with little spasms as his lips sought to curl, involuntarily, up over his teeth. The teeth themselves click-clicked lightly together. To her, his quiet rage was almost more unnerving than his thundering outbursts.
“What will you do?” she finally dared to ask.
“Kill him,” the old one grumbled.
“Have you encountered him before?”
“He is no stranger to me. For years he has lived here, defying all game laws of men, killing what he pleased, when he pleased. But those who make such game laws are not self-sufficient men. All creatures must eat, so I allowed this man to eat—and eat well. But his appetite has increased. And now, this display of irreverence I find unforgivable. This wolf was not killed to check starvation, but to satiate human pride and arrogance.”
“Where’s the head?”
“Nearer to his cabin, I would guess. The body is his warning to all predators, while the head will be kept as his trophy.”
“Let me kill him,” Erica said. She did not ask.
Abel was silent.
“He has earned death,” she pressed. “I must learn to deal with such humans.”
Now he looked at her, feeling proud without displaying it, and said, “He is well armed, young one.”
“He is nothing,” she growled.
“Nothing in himself, you are correct. But his aim is true enough, and his bullets will burn, if given the chance to use them. Once wounded, it could be hours before you may travel at full speed again.”
Erica replied with only a snarl, imagining a man—any man—pointing a rifle at her. She knew she would destroy them. She would overcome whatever pain they inflicted on her and repay them brutally, tenfold, without the slightest remorse.
“Very well,” Abel said at length. “You may take the lead. But know that I do not wish for him to die quickly or easily. His cruelty runs deep. Therefore, his punishment must exceed his crime.”
“He will not die easily,” she assured him. Already she was envisioning how she desired to deal with him. She started off toward the dark cabin.
Abel, curious as to her plans, followed after.
***
Lucas Merton could hardly believe his ears. He had heard many sounds in the night during his time in the north woods, from whippoorwills and screech owls, to moose raging in the rut, and even a few sounds to which he could attribute no clear culprit. But he’d never heard anything as out of place as a rhythmic knock on his door as he slept, here, miles from even the smallest of rural towns. It was well after midnight.
He sat up on his cot, reached slowly for the .38 revolver under his pillow, then held absolutely still.
Four more knocks.
Holding his breath, Merton rose from the cot. Wearing only his thermal underwear, his bare feet instantly complained of the cold floorboards as he tiptoed across the little cabin.
Four more knocks.
The cabin had only two small windows, one on either side of the door. Toward one of these he tiptoed, straining his eyes in the low light to see through the hazy glass.
Then he heard a voice. It was woman’s voice. By the sound, a young woman’s voice, soft, distressed—like a lost puppy.
“Hello?”
Merton exhaled, feeling the apprehension go out of him. A lost woman was a lot less troublesome than a game warden or a criminal on the run—or whoever else could be outside his door at such an hour.
“Hello?” repeated the voice with greater urgency.
“Yeah,” Merton grunted, by then guessing that some crazy hiker chick had strayed from the Appalachian Trail and found her way to his door. This happened every few years or so. Some hippie would inevitably get lost, run out of granola bars, and show up on his property tired and exhausted. Expecting a free meal, of course.
He unbolted the wide wooden deadbolt with his right hand, holding the gun behind his back in his left. He lifted the latch, pulled back on the heavy door, and then stood there blinking in disbelief.
Unless he was dreaming, the girl standing on his porch in the dim silver light was young, baby-faced and raven-haired. And stark naked. Shivering in the frosty night, her arms were folded tightly around herself. Her expression was pitiful.
“Please, can you help me?” she asked through chattering teeth.
Merton admired the view for a few seconds before coming to his senses. She needed help, before hypot
hermia set in—if it hadn’t already. So, assuming her to be completely harmless, stepping back, he motioned her to enter with his right hand, while placing the revolver on the little wooden table with his left.
Big mistake.
In a split second the girl took hold of his right forearm—his strong arm. Her small, soft-looking hand closed on it like a vice that instantly made his bones ache and his stomach roll. Before he could even cry out in pain, he regarded her now cold glare. He couldn’t believe the power in her grip, or the ferocity in her eyes—which seemed to be glowing. Then she closed her other hand on his other forearm, shifted her weight back onto her heels, and with a violent heave, she pulled him from his cabin, spinning him as he went, and hurled him out into the night.
Merton tumbled across his porch and his back hit the frozen ground with a thud. He tried to breathe but his breath would not come. He saw the night sky clear and bright above the clearing about his cabin, and his mind raced to try to comprehend what was happening. In a few painful and confusing moments, his whole existence had slipped completely out of his control. He felt it happening, yet his mind raced to comprehend it.
And then, lifting his head slightly, he saw a wolf—a massive black wolf, bigger than all but the very largest black bears. He hadn’t the breath to cry out as he felt the wolf put its weight on his chest, compressing his ribs, stifling his lungs, completely immobilizing him.
His eyes were rolling back in his head now. The weight of this animal was incredible—at the very least three-hundred pounds. Maybe four. Blinking, dazed, he next caught sight of a man approaching from behind where his head lay.
The man was tall, lean and muscular, with wild hair and vicious eyes. If the girl had been startling to Merton, this man now standing over him was a nightmare. He still had not put together in his mind that the girl and the wolf who now held him were actually one. But as he looked at Abel, he understood that he was not beholding a man but some other being in disguise.
Snow Rising (The Great North Woods Pack Book 4) Page 2