“Christmas morning.”
She nodded. “Anyway, time goes by, then one day a package shows up.”
“From the stranger.”
“You shoulda seen Carl’s eyes when he opens it up and finds this inside.” She drew the knife and turned it over so they could see one side and then the other. After twenty years, the blade’s mirror finish had become scratched, but it still looked like something Jim Bowie would have carried at the Alamo. “Came with a little note sayin’ how much he ’preciated what Carl done for him. Said he’d made the knife up special jus’ for him. Called it the ‘Good Samaritan.’”
“He made the knife?” said Samantha. “Like, with his own hands?”
Gran shrugged. “That’s what the note said. Don’t know if it’s true or not.”
Someone hand-making a knife piqued Tanner’s interest.
“Mind if I take a look?”
Gran’s eyes narrowed. “What for?”
“Just wondering if he might have left his mark on the blade somewhere.”
Gran slid the Mare’s Leg closer. “Lest you forget your manners.”
“Fair enough.”
She handed the knife to Tanner, and he turned it over in his hands. The craftsmanship was nothing short of superb, with the nine-and-a-half-inch blade feeling more like a precision instrument than something designed for hacking through small trees. It featured a brass guard and pommel, and even after two decades, the Macassar ebony handle remained as smooth as butter. The inscription on the blade read “Gil Hibben.”
Tanner only knew of three knife makers in the entire world, and Gil Hibben was one of them. Having crafted the “Kenpo Knife” for Ed Parker, he had become something of a legend in the martial arts community. What had really brought him fame, however, was his transition into making movie knives, including those for Rambo III and IV, as well as The Expendables and Star Trek.
Tanner couldn’t help but envision the old knife maker toiling away in front of a belt grinder, sparks flying as he ground away steel much like a sculptor removed unwanted clay. Tanner had always held a special love for blades. While he couldn’t recite the tradeoffs between stainless, alloy, tool, and carbon steels, he firmly believed that survival began with a good knife. Not only did it provide for defense, it could also be used to build shelters, skin animals, prepare fires, dig holes, stake shelters, carve bowls, and much more.
Samantha saw him studying the blade with his mouth hanging open.
“You okay?”
“Huh? Yeah, fine. Why?”
“You look like you just found an artifact from the Temple of Doom.”
“Temple of Doom?”
“You know.” She put her hand to her chest and pretended to pull out a beating heart.
He rolled his eyes. “You’re a goof.”
She smiled. “Maybe, but what’s up with the knife?”
Art was in the eye of the beholder, and it seemed almost sacrilegious to explain to her and Gran why a custom knife from Gil Hibben was so special.
“Nothing,” he said, pushing the blade back into its sheath. “Just a knife.”
She furrowed her brow but said nothing more as he slid it across the bar to Gran.
Tanner went back to eating, and with the mystery left unsolved, Samantha reluctantly did the same.
“Get your fill now,” Gran said, watching them eat. “I don’t want ya’ll goin’ hungry.”
By the time they were finished, both plates had been cleaned, save for a few peas that Samantha unsuccessfully tried to hide under biscuit crumbs.
Gran took their plates and set them in the sink.
“I’m ’fraid you and your li’l one gonna have a hard time. Not much ’round here. No cars workin’, and not much clean water, neither.”
“We’ll manage.” Even as Tanner said the words, he began to wonder if Gran might be right. Without food and water, or even a way to defend themselves, Fort Knox could be a difficult journey.
“You know,” she said, as if suddenly coming up with an idea, “I got plenty more where that came from.”
Tanner recognized the windup but let her toss the pitch anyway.
“Truth is, I need a favor, an ugly, nasty, dirty favor. You do it for me, and I’ll make sure you git on your way with as much food an’ drink as you can carry.”
Samantha looked to Tanner, obviously expecting him to follow his standard M.O. and immediately head for the door.
He didn’t. What was the harm in listening, especially when full bellies were on the line?
“Go on,” he said.
“My husband, Carl, God rest his soul, caught the pox nearly a year back now. Killed him in the most awful way, it did.”
Samantha used a sleeve to wipe her mouth.
“We’re sorry. Aren’t we, Tanner?”
He grunted something that might have been taken for agreement.
“Back when so many folks was dyin’, they took the bodies over to the primary school for what they called ‘baggin’ and ‘taggin’. Promised they’d bring Carl back for a proper burial once it was all over.” She sighed. “Typical lyin’ gov’ment sacks-a—”
“Probably cremated him,” Tanner said, hoping to keep her from going off on a rant.
“That means burned him,” explained Samantha. “Nothing to do with ice cream whatsoever.”
Gran shook her head. “I don’t see how they coulda. Ain’t no oven hot enough ’round here for that. No,” she said, rubbing her wrinkled chin, “I think they left him in that hot buildin’, rottin’ away like some kinda road kill.”
“It takes a body a good ten years to turn to bones,” said Tanner. “Even so, after a year, there wouldn’t be much left. Certainly, nothing you’d want to see.”
“It ain’t like I wanna see him one last time. Jes’ wanna put him to rest, here, where he belongs.”
He glanced over at Samantha to see what she thought about the idea. It was no wonder that she seemed to be struggling with the decision. Fetching bodies was not high on her list of charitable causes.
After wrestling with it for a moment, she said, “We’d need a way to bring him back.”
Gran pointed outside, toward the horses.
“You can take Dusty and Major, both easy riders. Gather up what you can in an ole blanket, and we’ll bury him proper and all.”
Tanner weighed the proposal. Recovering the old woman’s husband was an unnecessary detour, but if it led to a pack full of food and water, and maybe even a weapon or two, it seemed like a worthy one.
“And if we can’t find your husband?” he said. “Is the deal still good?”
“So long’s I got your word you really looked.”
He glanced over at Samantha, and she gave a little nod.
“All right,” he said, “we’ll bring Carl home.”
What happened next was not at all what Tanner and Samantha had expected. Gran didn’t thank them, or even go on about why it was so important to her.
Instead, she began to cry.
Chapter 8
Mason and Bowie had barely left the runway when they encountered their first obstacle, a small offshoot of the Pagan River. While the tributary wasn’t particularly fast moving, it was a good fifty feet across.
Mason saw three problems with just trudging out into the water. First, it would leave him soaked from head to toe, and fighting in wet clothes was almost as bad as fighting in a gas mask. Also, to prevent his ammunition from getting wet, he would need to keep his pack and both firearms out of the water—not an easy thing to do when swimming or balancing on slippery stones. And finally, without a weapon at the ready, he and Bowie would be sitting ducks for anyone who might happen upon them.
Accepting that crossing would require a little effort, Mason shrugged off his backpack and quickly stripped down to his underwear and boots. He placed his clothes and Supergrade inside the pack and stuffed it into a large plastic bag. Cupping the top of the bag, he blew in several deep breaths before tying it shut. Wit
h his rifle resting atop the improvised float, he stepped out into the water and began making his way across the river.
Bowie stood on the bank, watching with great fascination, ears upright, tail wagging.
Mason glanced back at him. “Are you waiting for an invitation?”
The dog snorted and bounded after him, sending water splashing in every direction.
Wiping it from his face, Mason muttered, “I suppose I brought that on myself.”
They forged ahead, the water growing ever deeper. When it reached Bowie’s head, he began to dog paddle.
Mason looked over at him and smiled.
“You look like a horse crossing the Rio Grande.”
Bowie didn’t seem to see the humor in it, as he continued his slow, arduous advance. It wasn’t long before the water had come up to Mason’s neck, and he too had to hold onto the float and paddle-kick the rest of the way across.
They arrived at the other side of the river without incident, and Mason quickly dried himself as Bowie did a few full-body shakes to shed the excess water. Before he could dress, Mason heard voices coming from a thicket of trees to the west. Standing in nothing but wet underwear and boots, he quickly buckled his holster around his waist and picked up the M4.
Weapons first, vanity second.
He took a knee and brought the rifle to a low ready. Bowie stood beside him, waiting to see who—or what—was coming.
A man and a woman hurried from the forest. As they ran, they glanced over their shoulders, clearly worried that someone was after them. The woman clutched a canvas sack to her chest, and the man waved around a Beretta 92 like he didn’t know any better. Both wore white jumpsuits, a telltale sign that they were workers from The Farm.
While not exactly his enemy, Mason thought they likely fell into the category of “desperate people.” Unfortunately, in his experience, desperate people were dangerous people. There were few exceptions to that rule. Even so, he thought they might prove useful in better understanding what he’d be walking into.
Taking a calculated gamble, Mason leaned the rifle against his pack, stood up, and offered a friendly wave.
“Over here!” he called.
As soon as they spotted him, they made a beeline in his direction.
Bowie let out an uneasy growl as they approached.
“Easy now. They may be of some help.”
As they approached, the man holding the Beretta blurted, “Are you the one with the plane?” He was a big man with a crew cut and lips so full that he reminded Mason of the famous linebacker Sam Huff.
“Give the man a moment,” the woman said, waving him back. “Can’t you see he’s trying to get dressed?”
“It ain’t like we got time to spare,” grumbled Huff.
When the woman turned to Mason and smiled, he saw that she had shoulder-length blonde hair and cheeks as flushed as those of Renée Zellweger.
“You’ll have to forgive my friend. We’re just in a bad spot, that’s all.”
Looking over his shoulder, Huff said, “Bad spots ain’t the half of it. Any minute, we’re going to be up to our assholes in trouble.”
“Who’s coming? The infected?”
“It sure as hell ain’t the Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders.”
“They’re attacking The Farm,” explained Zellweger. “A handful chased us into the forest.”
“So,” said Huff, “were you the one who flew in or not?”
Mason nodded. “I was on the plane, but it’s gone now.”
“They dropped you off?” Zellweger said in disbelief. “But why?”
“I came to help get folks out.”
“That’s crazy. Don’t you realize how dangerous those monsters are?”
“I’ve had a few dealings with them.”
“Then you must know that going back there is suicide.”
“Not if I hurry.”
Hoping to encourage them to move along, Mason busied himself pulling his shirt and trousers from the backpack. He placed them to one side, not wanting to risk tangling himself in clothing while a man waved a gun around.
“Call him back,” demanded Huff.
“Who?”
“The pilot. Call him back to pick us up.” He used the gun to point to the radio clipped to Mason’s pack. “You’ve got a radio.”
Mason shook his head. “Sorry, I can’t do that.”
“Why the hell not?”
Not liking his tone, Bowie pulled his lips back and snarled.
Mason reached over and gave him a quick pat.
“It’s all right, boy, they’re just scared.” He straightened and turned back to Huff. “It’s like you said, the infected will be here in a few minutes. There’s not enough time to have the pilot turn around and land.”
“Sure there is,” pleaded Zellweger. “He was exaggerating, that’s all. Call the pilot back. Please. Get us out of here.”
Mason eyed the white canvas bag that she was carrying. It looked like something taken from an armored car. They were either bankers or thieves, and his bet was on the latter.
Seeing him studying the bag, she did a quick calculation.
“We’ll split it with you.” Zellweger held the bag out to him. “Go ahead. Take your cut right off the top.”
“The hell he will!” cried Huff. “It’s ours.”
She cut her eyes at him. “It ain’t gonna do us much good if we’re dead, now is it?” Reaching inside, she pulled out a thick stack of gold-backed credits. Pushing them toward Mason, she said, “Take them. They’re yours. Just get us on that plane.”
Desperate people.
“I appreciate the offer, but I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
Huff’s lower lip quivered as anger did its dance. He seemed ready to take things to the next level.
“Wait,” Zellweger said, stepping closer to Mason. “There’s more than money.”
Mason cocked an eyebrow. “Oh?”
She slid the zipper down on her jumpsuit.
“You can have me. Right here. Right now.”
“What the—” started Huff.
“Hush!” she snapped. “You can turn away if you don’t want to watch. It’s mine to give, and by God, I’ll give it for a ride out of here.”
Mason shook his head.
Desperate people.
Zellweger’s eyes tightened. “You don’t want money. You don’t want sex. What the hell kind of man are you?”
Sensing that things had taken a turn for the worse, Bowie inched forward to position himself between them and Mason, his tail tucked and ears folded.
Rather than engaging in an argument, Mason said, “Your best bet is to head to the James River and look for a boat. Make your way across and you’re home free. With what you’ve got in that bag, you can both—.”
“Shut up!” Huff snapped as he swung the Beretta up. “You’re gonna give us what we want. One way or another.”
Given that the hammer wasn’t cocked, Mason doubted that Huff could pull the fourteen-pound double-action trigger before being plugged by the Supergrade. Even so, in his heart he knew that they weren’t bad people. Thieves, yes. A bit of a whore, perhaps. But not people who would normally pull a gun on someone.
Hoping to defuse the situation, Mason relaxed and brought both hands up in front of him.
“Even if you take the radio, the pilot won’t come back.”
Zellweger’s face grew tight with a mix of anger and resentment as she withdrew a knife from her pocket and carefully unfolded the blade.
“Oh, he’ll come back. Especially if we start cutting off your fingers and toes.” Her eyes drifted down to his underwear. “Maybe I’ll even take me a little keepsake to remember you by.”
Mason pressed his lips together and let out a frustrated breath.
Desperate people.
“Okay,” he said, “have it your way.”
Mason’s right hand swung down as he sidestepped to the left. The Supergrade was in hand and on target before Huff could
even register what was happening. Two shots rang out, each striking the big man in the chest. As he toppled to the ground, Mason shifted back to his right, the gun swinging over to Zellweger.
Before he could decide whether or not to fire, Bowie tackled her to the ground, biting and growling. Zellweger screamed as she tried to bring the knife up to stab him. But it was too late. The big wolfhound had already found her neck, and with a quick shake of his head, it was over.
When Bowie was sure that she was dead, he opened his mouth and let her body settle onto the wet dirt. He looked up at his master for praise.
Mason bent over and stroked the big dog’s head. While he would rather that Bowie hadn’t killed the woman, he couldn’t afford to have him second-guessing when it was time to fight.
“You’re a good boy,” he said in a coaxing voice. “Always keeping me safe.”
The dog’s tongue snaked in and out as he licked the blood from around his mouth.
Mason looked down at the two workers and shook his head. Killing them was a damn shame—no other way to see it. But trying to sort real threats from those only out to scare you was not something he had the luxury of doing. If a man pointed a gun at him, he was defining the nature of their relationship, and anything that followed was on him.
Mason returned to his backpack and finished dressing. When he was ready, he slipped the pack over his shoulders and started off in the direction of The Farm. As he pushed his way through the thick forest, he couldn’t help but think that the killing was just beginning.
Mason knew that the first rule to any rescue was to avoid all unnecessary contact. To do that, he would need to enter The Farm, find Joseph, and escape through a backdoor before the enemy’s net became too tight. Given that he didn’t know where to find Betsi’s son, let alone what he looked like, Mason was going to require help from someone on the inside. And that made things much more complicated.
Considering that Locke had successfully branded him as both a kidnapper and a rapist, there was a good chance that anyone he encountered might decide to shoot first and ask questions later. There was only one person who he could count on hearing him out, and as luck would have it, he was the first person Mason encountered.
The Survivalist (National Treasure) Page 9