by Maggie Pill
“Retta!” Rory called, waving wildly. I stopped, leaving the sled idling as I ran to where the groomer rattled and hummed. Styx met me with a joyful yip, putting his paws on my shoulders. I staggered back, keeping my balance with difficulty as I patted his head and scratched his ears.
“It’s okay, baby,” I crooned, comforted by his solidity and warmth.
“Where are they?” Rory had come up behind Styx, his anxious face incongruous in the outlandish outfit he wore. “Are they all right?”
“They’re pinned down at the cabin,” I shouted over the noise of both engines. “Two men with guns.” I looked back the way I’d come. “There were three, but one chased me and I managed to dunk him in the river.”
“Barb?”
“She’s okay. So are Winston and Agent Johannsen.”
Rory’s eyes unfocused for a second as he pictured the scene. “Gabe,” he told the driver, “Take Mrs. Stilson back to my truck so she can get the sheriff out here.”
The guy nodded, but I said, “He can show them the way. I’m going back with you.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Barb
Crouched between the snowmobiles I waited, but Johannsen didn’t appear. It seemed like forever, but forever wasn’t enough time to conquer the zipper that wouldn’t unzip. I pushed at the fabric with my fingers, hoping to free it from the teeth. I yanked on the pull, trying to force it down. I extended my neck in an attempt to stretch the nylon mask thin and slide it out of the jammed spot. Nothing worked.
As I tried, failed, and muttered some pretty bad words, scenarios flitted through my mind. If Carlos was unhurt, he might have forced Johannsen back into the cabin. The agent might be caught somewhere, pinned down. If his wound was more serious than he’d admitted, he might have passed out from loss of blood. Even if he was still mobile, an unusable arm presented problems, as I could attest.
Had Carlos shot him as he fought his way toward me? I couldn’t recall how many shots had been fired. Worst case scenario was that Carlos had killed Johannsen while I ducked the bullets George had sent my way. In that case, I was on my own. Well, there was Darrow, but I knew I couldn’t count on him.
What should I do, or more precisely, what could I do?
First, I needed better cover. Sooner or later, George would take his chance. From my current position I couldn’t aim the gun at him. Any shot I fired was likely to hit one or the other of the snowmobiles and ricochet back at me.
Releasing the gun, I went back to clearing the sleeve. I pulled the empty right-hand mitten off and tried to pull the stuffing out that way, but the cuff narrowed the opening, and my fingers just slipped off the fabric, which stayed wedged in place. When I gave up and reached for the gun again, I couldn’t find it. I almost panicked. Why had I let go of it?
There it was, in my pant leg. I pulled it slowly toward me, aware that the safety was off and I might shoot myself in the thigh if I wasn’t careful.
Once I got my hand and the gun back up to my waistline, I felt a little better. If George did come at me, I could wait until he was directly above me and shoot through the fabric again.
If only Johannsen would get here! He’d unzip the suit and retrieve the gun—
Movement caught my eye and I looked up. George had moved to where he could see me clearly. He pointed the gun at me, its barrel low. My legs tensed in anticipation of a bullet through my thigh, my calf, my foot. Frantically I yanked at the zipper. I had only a few seconds.
A noise—a roar—interrupted my thought, and I turned to see something out of a nightmare—or in this case, a surreal-but-wonderful dream. A snowmobile bore down on George at full throttle. On it sat a figure whose professionally high-lighted hair streamed behind her. Retta! Behind her was someone wearing a bright red hat with earflaps, a tattered, faded orange jumpsuit, and blue-and-yellow-striped, University of Michigan stretch gloves. As the sled neared, he leaned out to peer around Retta’s shoulder. Rory!
George froze, unsure if he should stay or run. The machine kept coming. As George’s head swiveled between me and the oncoming sled, his courage wavered. At the last second, he jumped sideways, diving back into the trees with neither grace nor caution.
Unable to turn aside, the snowmobile continued past me, left the road, and took to the air, narrowly missing the trees George sheltered in. The engine whined to a higher note as the track left the ground. Rory and Retta floated briefly like oversized swallows before dropping out of sight. Somewhere below me the machine growled again, roared briefly, and stopped with a choking groan.
I fired a shot in George’s direction, hoping to give them time to reach cover. The smell of singed fabric rose from the second hole in my suit, but George didn’t fall. As the echoes died away, he slid over the rim of the hill, heading to where Rory and Retta had disappeared.
A few seconds later, a shot rang out. On one hand that was good, because it meant someone had survived the landing. Still, Rory and Retta were sitting ducks with George above them and possibly Carlos somewhere below. Rising briefly I fired again, worried about wasting bullets but desperate to help. I waited. There were no more shots.
What I did hear were sounds of blows being struck: dull thuds, widely spaced, and grunts of exertion.
Skittering to the rim, I slid into the clump of trees where George had been a short while before. Below me was a tableaux that seemed to move in slow motion. On one side of the cabin, Johannsen traded blows with Carlos, and though he fought fiercely, his wounded arm clearly hampered him. The deep snow was another problem, though in that both men were similarly handicapped. Each time one landed a blow both staggered backward. Determined, each man waded back toward the other in order to re-engage.
Standing upright, I tried again to unzip my suit and free the hand that held the gun. I straightened the zipper as much as I could, but the pull stopped at the knot of fabric under my chin. If I fired at Carlos from inside the suit, my chances of hitting Johannsen were equally likely.
Johannsen was hurt, but he was focused. I got the sense he was figuring Carlos out, watching his moves and measuring his cadence. Though I know little about such things, I guessed the agent was letting his opponent wear himself out and waiting for a chance to do some damage.
At the other side of the cabin, Rory crouched behind the generator shed, apparently watching Johannsen and Carlos. Twenty yards away, George wallowed toward him, circling in an attempt to get a shot off. Rory seemed unaware, and I almost shouted a warning, but he glanced up, saw me, and made a quick gesture of caution. I realized I was completely exposed on the ridge. If George turned and spotted me, he’d easily pick me off.
I ducked, and Rory returned to what I saw now was a ploy. He was actually waiting for George, but why? He had no weapon, and George was, as they say, armed and dangerous. Whatever his strategy was, it didn’t seem likely to be successful.
Then I saw something else. As George closed on Rory, Retta stole out from behind the outhouse, holding a chunk of firewood like a softball bat. Intent on Rory, George didn’t see her, and she swung her improvised weapon sharply, catching him on the upper arm. Roaring with pain, he dropped to one knee. When he stood again, the gun was still in his hand. Retta struck again, whacking his wrist this time. The gun dropped into the snow. As George dived after it, she hit him a third time across the back.
He still didn’t stay down, but rose and punched at Retta with his fist. When she backed away, he immediately returned to searching for the gun. But Rory had left the shelter of the shed and started toward George. He left one boot behind, but he fought his way forward. He had to reach George before he retrieved his gun.
Though I was mesmerized by what was going on below me, I hadn’t stopped fighting the suit. I pulled at the neckline until I half choked myself in an attempt to tear the fabric. I stuck my fingers up the stuffed arm and tried frantically to pull the wadded fabric out. I even jerked at the sleeve itself, trying to break the stitching at the shoulder. None of those things worked
.
I had to get my arm free! Although I couldn’t fire at George or Carlos without endangering Rory or Johannsen, a warning shot might be convincing—if our attackers could see that I really did have a gun.
If I could show the gun. If I could aim it. If I could get my arm out of the stupid suit.
Something bumped past me, almost knocking me down. With a mighty leap, Styx landed in the snow a few yards downhill, his whole body a-quiver with anticipation. Someone unfamiliar with the dog might think he was determined to subdue the bad guy and rescue his mommy. To me it looked like he wanted a hug.
Either way, Styx was a formidable sight as, using his webbed paws like paddles, he swam through the snow toward Retta. “Styx!” She called as George dug frantically through the snow. “Stay back, Baby!”
In a desperate attempt to help, I stood, tilted the gun muzzle away from the scene and myself, and fired another shot. When it echoed over the ridge, everyone, even Styx, looked up, but they couldn’t tell where the sound came from. The holes in the suit weren’t visible at a distance, so I appeared to be merely an observer of the events below. I thought about shouting, “I have a gun,” but with no way to prove it (or point it), I’d be wasting my breath.
I might even have made things worse. Carlos took advantage of Johannsen’s moment of distraction to hit him squarely in the face. The agent reeled briefly but remained standing, blood squirting from his nose.
With the approach of the big dog, George abandoned his search for the gun. Circling around Styx, he began fighting his way uphill, obviously headed for the snowmobiles and escape. With a burst of effort, Rory closed the distance between them, caught George by the collar, and spun him around. While George was still off-balance, Rory hit him with an uppercut that snapped his head back. It looked for a second like he would collapse, but calling on some reserve of energy, George delivered a return punch Rory just managed to avoid. Leaning in, Rory hit his opponent in the stomach, doubling him over. That will do it, I thought, but George remained on his feet. With vicious fury he went at Rory, no doubt aware of what he faced if he was arrested.
Styx was still heading toward Retta, but she moved away from him, toward the cabin’s porch. He followed, tongue lolling with effort, as she reached her goal, an ice spud leaning against the side wall. Ordering Styx to stay, she took up the spud and turned, undecided. Who would she assist, Rory or Johannsen?
The agent and Carlos were still struggling, but it was clear they were both near exhaustion. Though he was the more intelligent fighter, Johannsen was weakened by his wound, and Carlos was his match in size and strength. Rory and George continued trading blows as well. Retta hesitated briefly, holding the long-handled spud. Tipped with a small, flat blade, it was a good weapon if she could get close enough to whack an enemy with it. Her problem was two-fold: the decision of who needed help more, and the distances between them.
I had to do something. Twisting my arm inside the suit, I tried again to free it. Nothing. Tears of frustration came to my eyes as I stood there, looking down. Two men who’d come to rescue me were in trouble and—
Men! I looked down, recalling something that had never meant much to me before. My suit, made for a man, had a convenience slit for urinating on the trail. Only a small patch of Velcro held it closed. Maneuvering the gun muzzle in that direction, I used it to pry the Velcro open and pushed the pistol and my hand out the hole. Pointing the gun at the sky, I fired.
“Stop!” Turning the gun toward Carlos’ massive chest I added, “I won’t miss at this range.”
Carlos looked up at me, apparently dismissed my courage, and took another swing at Johannsen. “Duck, Lars!” I shouted. With quick understanding, he dropped to the ground. I fired twice from the groin position, one I’d never practiced on the pistol range.
To be truthful, I think I closed my eyes at the last second. The shot went wide, but not by much. Hearing a cry of pain, I opened my eyes to see Carlos holding his elbow and Johannsen rising to his feet. I felt simultaneous but opposite reactions: Joy that I’d hit the mark and shock that I’d actually put a hole in another human being.
Taking advantage of his opponent’s confusion, Rory grabbed George’s collar. “You’re under arrest, jackass.”
Johannsen turned Carlos, gave his arm a cursory glance, and said casually, “He’ll live.” As he pushed Carlos toward the path, Johannsen looked at Rory—the garish gloves, orange suit, and red, flop-eared hat—and turned to me questioningly.
“Agent Johannsen,” I said, “meet Chief Neuencamp.”
CHAPTER FORTY
Retta
If anything in this world was ever funny, scary, and miraculous at once, it was my sister Barbara standing on a snowy ridge with a Glock 9 millimeter sticking out of her fly. I didn’t know whether to laugh or break down in tears. As always, my big sister came through, though not with her usual, over-developed sense of dignity this time. Barbara can think on her feet, and she does what’s necessary, no matter what it takes.
I followed Johannsen and the prisoners uphill, carrying the spud in case someone needed swatting. George said nothing. Carlos whined about how much his elbow hurt. Lars claimed he was fine, though he held the wounded arm tightly to his side. He’d easily have defeated Carlos if he hadn’t been wounded.
My Styx came through it all beautifully, scaring the bad man so Rory could deal with him, and once it was over, he visited everybody, willing to hug and be hugged.
When we reached the road, Lars took his gun from Barbara without even a glimmer of a smile. After some digging, Rory retrieved the weapon George had dropped, and when he joined us I stepped aside, letting the two law officers handle things. When Barbara explained her problem with the zipper, Rory handed me his pocket knife and I cut away the jammed fabric, opened the zipper, and un-stuffed her sleeve so she could use both hands again.
Lars had one set of handcuffs, which Rory put on George, tight enough to make him wince. Positioning him on a snowmobile facing backward, Rory tied his feet to the bumper bar at the back, using the drawstrings out of his jacket. When he finished he stood back to check his work. “Retta, if he moves, hit him with that spud.”
“Not a problem, Chief.”
Next Rory went to work on Carlos, splinting his arm with branches tied in place with more laces. While he worked, Barbara fetched Winston from the cabin, and Agent Johannsen went to examine the body of the man George had shot. “Hey!” he called. “This guy’s still alive!”
Rory turned from tightening a knot. “Who is he?”
Johannsen turned to George, who shrugged. “Some guy we hired to help us get here.”
“We have to get him to a hospital,” I said.
“He’s as stuck out here as the rest of us,” Rory replied. “We have to wait for—”
Just then we heard a rumble, and soon a voice called, “Chief? Chief, are you okay?”
“Is that who I think it is?” Barbara asked.
Rory nodded. “I sent him to get help, but apparently he followed us.” Cupping his hands to his mouth he called, “Gabe, can you bring your machine in here?”
“On my way!” We heard the engine shift into gear, and in a few minutes the groomer lumbered through the woods, knocking down small trees as it came. The driver wore one of those elf hats with a tassel hanging down the back and a grin that said he was feeling clever. On the back of the groomer was the guy who’d chased me through the woods, wet to the armpits, shivering with cold, and tied to the vehicle’s frame with bungee cords.
“I called the sheriff on the radio,” Gabe told us. “He’s coming, but they had some kind of problem.”
“And how did you do that?” Rory asked, gesturing at Gabe’s prisoner.
With the eagerness of a true storyteller, Gabe said, “It was part capture and part rescue, if you ask me. He come staggering onto the trail, dripping wet and waving a gun. I stopped, and the dog there jumped off and went running at him.” Gabe’s grin got even bigger. “He freaked, but the
dog was just bein’ friendly.” Turning to me, he asked, “What’s his name, ma’am? If I heard you say it, I forgot.”
“Styx.”
Gabe nodded vaguely, and I guessed Greek mythology was foreign to him. “Anyway, Styx created a distraction, and that gave me time to arm myself.” He patted a small chain saw carried for times when a driver needed to clear trees from the trail. “Soon as I fired ’er up, he started surrendering like mad.”
We all looked at the glum-faced prisoner, whose expression showed disgust. “Bigfoot and a chainsaw-waving maniac,” he mumbled. “It’s like one big horror movie out here.”
“Gabe, you did well,” Rory said.
“Except the dog took off. I couldn’t call him back.”
“That’s because he knew I was in danger,” I said. “Styx is a very brave boy.”
Though we hadn’t been formally introduced, I’d heard about Gabe and his former life of crime from Faye. He seemed to me a Huck Finn type—not ill-intentioned, just ill-equipped in some areas. He was obviously pleased to have helped Rory, and when he spoke to Barbara, you’d have thought she was royalty.
Johannsen suggested Gabe take the unconscious guide out on the groomer. Rory agreed, having done what he could for him with the first aid kit I carried on my sled. He had a chest wound, but landing in the snow had stopped the bleeding, giving him a chance. While Gabe turned the groomer around, I went back to the cabin and got the two sleeping bags I’d brought. We wrapped the wounded man in one for warmth and padded the groomer with the other.
“Hey, I’m shot too!” Carlos complained.
“Shut up,” Johannsen said, but Barbara went down and got the third sleeping bag for him. I suppose the first time you shoot someone, you feel a little guilty about it.
Johannsen handed Barbara Ann his gun so she could guard the prisoners while he, Gabe, and Rory lifted the wounded man onto the vehicle. Glancing at Winston, who didn’t even offer to help, I wondered what I’d seen in him. Even as a casual date, he didn’t look so good to me now.