Robert B. Parker: The Spencer Novels 1?6

by Robert B. Parker

  As the land continued to drop, I could see a gray glint of water through the trees. I was feeling feverish now, and turned my face up toward the rain to cool it. Pearl was a little ahead of me. She seemed to have gotten used to the rain. I don’t think she liked it, but it didn’t puzzle her anymore, and she had stopped turning and looking at every raindrop that hit her. Suddenly I saw her drop her head low, her belly sucked up, her neck extended, and then she charged, running like pointers do, using more of their front feet than their rear. She swerved sharply right, then back left, and I realized she had an animal in front of her. It was a groundhog. She had it trapped in the open away from its hole. It couldn’t outrun her, and near the edge of a pond it turned and crouched. Pearl swung half around it as she came up on the groundhog and grabbed him by the back of the neck. She gave one sharp shake and broke its neck and dropped it and turned it over and began to eat it, ripping open its belly and eating the viscera.

  My baby had given way for a moment to something older and more fundamental. She wasn’t cute while she ate the groundhog.

  Along the edge of the marsh I found some Jerusalem artichokes, and uprooted one, cut off the potato-esque tubers on the roots, peeled and ate it. It was like eating a raw potato, but less tasty. Still it was nourishment, and it beat chasing down a groundhog. I put a couple more of the tubers in my pocket for through-the-day snacking.

  The pond looked like a glacial gouge that had slowly filled in over the millennia. Its surface was dappled with rain, and there were weeds, including Jerusalem artichokes, along the margin. I found an area where I could get at the water and knelt and drank some. It had the strong rank taste of vegetation. Carefully I took off the bloody bandage and washed it in the pond. I dropped my jeans. The wound was dark with crusted blood and the flesh around it was puffy and red. I found some kind of moss in among the rocks along the margin of the pond and wet it and mixed it with some mud and put it on the wound like a kind of poultice. Then I wrapped it with the wet sweatshirt sleeves to hold it in place and tied it again and pulled my pants back up, edging the trouser leg carefully over the mess of a bandage.

  Pearl finished with the groundhog. I went over and looked at the carcass. It was about half devoured. I picked it up and put it inside my jacket. Pearl would be hungry again, and despite her initial success, I wasn’t confident that she could live off the land. She jumped up to sniff where I had stashed the carcass and rested one big paw on my wounded leg. I yelped and she dropped to the ground and backed off a yard and sat down very quickly, looking at me with her ears pricked forward and her head canted.

  “Come on,” I said, and we moved north again.

  I ate some chokecherries, which were quite biting, and I found some acorns which I cracked and chewed and swallowed despite the strong bitterness of the tannin in them. If I had had something to soak them in, and time, I could have leached out the tannin. But I didn’t, and if I had, how good are leached acorns anyway? Later on, as we moved through the heavy cover, I gnawed at some more of the Jerusalem artichoke root. Everything I ate tasted like tarantula juice, but I knew I had to eat, and this was the best I could find.

  The drizzle was persistent. By noontime I was beginning to feel light-headed, and the pulsing in my leg was Wagnerian. I wasn’t going to be able to walk for too much longer. We crossed a stream, and again I washed my wound and washed the bandages and tied them back in place. I paused and stood still, listening. I couldn’t hear anything except the sound the rain made in the woods. The ground rose ahead of me and I went up it. Whenever I could I stayed on the high ground, where it was a little easier going than the hollows. I found a big old pine and climbed it clumsily; my left leg was feeling more and more useless. Except for the pain it was largely without feeling, as if the pulsing insulated it from everything else. When I got as high as the tree could support me, I wedged myself into a crotch, with one arm wrapped around the trunk and waited and watched. Below me Pearl sat on the ground, looking up. The half-gnawed groundhog inside my jacket was beginning to ripen. My hair was wet and the water dripped onto my forehead and into my eyes. I was feverish, and hot, except that I was also cold, and the effort of climbing the tree had made me more than light-headed. I was dizzy.

  I took in some air, and exhaled, and did that a couple of times, and concentrated on the woods behind me, where Pearl and I had come from. Maybe a mile back was a bare patch, a basalt outcropping of maybe thirty or forty yards. I focused on it. Pearl and I had crossed it maybe forty minutes ago, and if they were behind us they’d cross it too. Not only did my trail lead that way—if they really had somebody who could follow a trail—but anyone would head for it because it was much easier going, if only for a little ways.

  The acorns and chokecherries and Jerusalem artichokes rolled unpleasantly around in my stomach. The drizzle had upgraded again to a steady rain. The smell of pitch and pine needle and wetness was very strong as I pressed against the tree. A double Glenfiddich on the rocks would have been helpful. Pearl whined a little, nervously, from the ground under the tree. I said “shhh” automatically, the way people do with dogs, even though dogs generally don’t know what “shhh” means. In Pearl’s case I was up so high, and shhh’d so weakly, that Pearl probably didn’t hear it anyway.

  And then I saw them. Mostly I had been hoping I wouldn’t and I could concentrate on making it to the Mass Pike before my leg gave way. But they were there, in three groups. In front a big dark guy, with long black hair, wearing a red and black mackinaw. He was tracking—his head down, swiveling slowly back and forth.

  “Son of a bitch,” I said. My voice sounded hoarse and funny.

  Behind him were three other men. I recognized Maishe from the restaurant in Beverly, and Anthony. The third guy wasn’t anyone I knew. He carried a white sack in his left hand. And behind them, straggling, maybe ten yards back, was Gerry Broz. He was laboring.

  The white sack was probably a pillowcase. He’d probably had the brains to grab it and fill it with whatever foodstuffs he could find in Patty Giacomin’s kitchen. He was smallish, and wiry looking, from where I was watching. And he looked country, like the tracker. Maishe had an Uzi, and Anthony carried the shotgun. They looked tired and wet, but still functional. Behind them Gerry was so tired he almost staggered. Even at a half mile I could tell he was exhausted. He was a plump, flabby, small-framed kid. All the muscle he had, he hired.

  It had taken me about forty minutes to get to where I was from where they were. They were moving faster than I could, but Gerry slowed them down. I had at least a half hour, and I knew I had better make my stand here. I was nearly spent. I edged down the tree, holding my bad leg carefully away from me. When I reached the ground I had to ward Pearl off, to keep her from hurting my leg again.

  “Unerring,” I said. “You are unerring.”

  I moved slowly back down off the rise toward the stream. I made a wide circle as I went, being careful to avoid the path I’d taken up. The tracker would follow my path across the stream and up to the ridgeline before he discovered I’d doubled back. It should be enough time. If things worked out. I reached the stream and entered it about twenty yards below the place I’d crossed before. I waded upstream with Pearl on the bank, moving through the brush, glancing at me in puzzlement now and then, but enjoying the cascade of smells that she was encountering among the weeds along the bank. I took the ripening groundhog carcass from inside my jacket and tossed it across the stream to her. It landed five feet in front of her. She stopped. Dropped her head, raised her rear end, and put her front legs straight out in front of her. Then she pounced on it. Picked it up in her jaws, shook it a couple of times, and dashed off into the woods with it. Which is what I was hoping for.

  At the point where I’d crossed before, standing in the water, I bent one branch and broke another, so that the tracker shouldn’t miss it. Then I moved across to the far bank and pulled loose a small sapling, as if I had grabbed
it to climb the bank and it had pulled loose. The water moved rapidly here, the streambed full up with the long rain. I went back to the far side of the stream, the one they’d come from, and edged myself in against the bank, under the low sweep of a black spruce whose roots were half exposed in the stream bank.

  I was hip deep in the water, half crouched against the bank. The cold water numbed my leg. The rain granulated the black surface of the stream. There were no rocks here, no snags, so that the fast water moved sleekly without any show of white. Pearl was out of sight, communing with her lunch. I took the Browning out and cocked it and waited.

  In twenty minutes they arrived. The tracker first, moving easily through the cover. On his right hip I saw the nose of a holster poke down beneath the skirt of his mackinaw. He paused at the stream, looked both ways and across, saw the broken branch on the other side. His hair was long and black and wet, plastered by the rain against his skull. In profile he had a nose like Dick Tracy, and around the eye a hint of American Indian. I saw him nod to himself once, then step into the stream and walk across. Behind him came the other three: Maishe and Anthony, and the stranger with the sack. I had been right. It was a pillowcase, soaking wet now, and lumpy with canned goods in the bottom. Maishe looked back once, hesitated, then shrugged and went into the stream. The other two went with him. They were all up the other side and thirty yards beyond before Gerry reached the stream. He was a mess. He was still wearing the camel’s hair topcoat he’d worn in Beverly. It was belted up now, and the collar was up. But the coat was sodden with rain and probably added twenty pounds to his load. He was limping, and his breath was audible for ten yards, rasping in and out. Even in the cold rain his face was flushed, and he staggered occasionally as he struggled through the thick woods. He paused on the stream bank, gasping. Across the stream, Maishe turned and looked back. Gerry waved him on. Maishe shrugged again and started up toward the ridgeline after the other three. Gerry gasped in a big gulp of air and then edged into the stream. When he was halfway across I came out from under the tree and caught hold of him by the long modish hair at the back of his neck. I yanked him back toward me and jammed the Browning into his ear.

  Gerry made a kind of yowling noise, and the people ahead stopped and turned. I held him motionless there in the stream with my gun screwed into his ear. The tracker hit the ground, rolled once. As he rolled I saw a flash of metallic movement. Then he was behind a rock outcropping with his handgun out. It was a big one, with a long barrel.

  The other three stood motionless. The wiry guy with the pillowcase frozen in a sort of half crouch. The other two standing upright, looking at Gerry and me in the water. The noise of the stream and the sound of the rain was all there was.

  “It ain’t Richie,” Maishe said finally.

  “And proud of it,” I said.

  Gerry’s voice was barely audible as it croaked out of his throat.

  “Spenser?”

  “Un huh.”

  Again silence. Pearl appeared on the rising ground opposite and sniffed at the pillowcase that the wiry guy was holding.

  Nobody moved.

  I said, “Which one of you wants to tell Joe that you were there when his kid got killed in the woods?”

  “There’s four of us, Spenser,” Maishe said.

  “How many did you start with?” I said.

  No one spoke. Pearl continued to sniff carefully at the pillowcase, bending her neck and moving her feet a little to get a careful smell survey of the contents from every angle. The guy holding the pillowcase didn’t look at her. His eyes were fixed on me.

  “Where’s Richie?” Maishe said.

  Close to me I could hear Gerry’s breath, wheezing through his throat as if there were very little room for it.

  “Listen,” I said. “Here’s the deal. You four beat it. Gerry and I walk out of here alone, and when we get to the Mass Pike, I let him go.”

  “That’s it?” Maishe said.

  I nodded.

  “And if we don’t?”

  “Then I drop Gerry like a stone and take my chances with you.”

  “How many rounds you got left?” Maishe said.

  I didn’t say anything.

  Maishe looked at Anthony. Anthony had nothing to say.

  “You drop Gerry and you got nothing left to bargain with,” Maishe said.

  I didn’t say anything. Pearl had given up on the pillowcase and walked over to sniff at the tracker on the ground behind the granite. He reached back absently and scratched her ear with his free hand. Her tail wagged. Maishe shifted his feet a little. He looked at Gerry.

  “What do you want, Gerry?” he said.

  I spoke softly to Gerry, my mouth two inches from his left ear, the pressure of the Browning steady in his right one.

  “I would like to kill you, Gerry. It would be a good thing for civilization. And it would be fun. I’ll keep you alive if it gets me out of here. But you know that if the show starts, your brains will be floating in the water.”

  “How do I know you’ll let me go?” His voice was little more than a hiss.

  “Because I said I would.”

  Gerry was silent. Maishe spoke again.

  “What do you want us to do, Gerry?”

  “If I knew you’d let me go . . .” Gerry whispered.

  I didn’t say anything. Pearl left the tracker and moseyed happily down to the stream edge and drank noisily and long. Ripe woodchuck will give you a thirst.

  Gerry raised his voice. “Do what he says.”

  “You want we should leave you?” Maishe said.

  Gerry’s voice was shrill with the effort of squeezing it out.

  “Do what he says. I believe him. He’ll let me go later.”

  What Gerry really believed was that I’d kill him now. We all knew that.

  Maishe shrugged. The tracker got to his feet. He still had the big revolver out but he let it slide down at his side. The guy with the pillowcase eased out of his crouch.

  “Go back the way you came,” I said. “Cross downstream. Keep going. If I see you or even hear you in the woods I will blow his brains out. And then you can explain to Joe how you let that happen, and who was in charge, and how four of you let one guy do it. Joe will be interested.”

  Nobody moved for a moment. Then Maishe said, “Fuck it,” and the four of them began to drift back toward the stream, twenty yards or so down from where Gerry and I stood. I turned slowly as they went, keeping Gerry between us.

  The tracker entered the streambed last. As he walked into the water he said to me, “Your dog?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Nice dog.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Mass Pike’s about three miles.” He jerked his head. “Back that way. Stay on the ridgeline.”

  I nodded again. Then he was out of the stream.

  “Maybe we’ll see you down the road,” he said.

  I didn’t answer and he was into the woods, and in a minute he was out of sight.

  CHAPTER

  27

  GERRY and I were strolling toward the Pike. My leg was hot and stiff and swollen tight against my jeans. I limped badly and my head swam periodically. I didn’t mention this to Gerry. He walked three or four feet ahead of me. Struggling with his own limitations, barely aware of anything except the need to get air into his lungs and stay upright. Pearl hustled along in front of us, sometimes swinging far out of sight and then larupping back through the woods to prance in front of us with her tongue out, before she careened off again. She was able to go through the dense woods at nearly top speed. Groundhog must be nourishing.

  I was having trouble concentrating. My mind kept moving back over things. I was cold and wet, but my body felt parched, and the pain in my leg pounded up and down my left side. Pearl came bac
k to nuzzle my hand and went off again. I thought about beer. I had come down to New York, a lifetime ago, to fight a guy named Carmen Ramazottie, from Bayonne. We had fought a prelim at St. Nick’s and I had put Carmen down with a very nice combination that my Uncle Bob had worked on with me. Bob and I stayed at a dump on the West Side called the Bristol, and the morning after the fight we checked out and took a subway to Brooklyn to see a ball game at Ebbets Field before we got the late bus home.

  It was late August in New York. The subway was dense and sweaty and running slow. I had a headache and the right side of my face under the eye was puffy and darkening steadily from the reiterated application of Carmen’s pretty good left jab. Coming up into the harsh city sun made my head hurt worse. I had been thirsty since the second round of last night’s fight. I knew I was dehydrated and in time I’d catch up, but it didn’t make me less thirsty. As we crossed Flatbush Avenue, the tar was soft from the sun, and the ballpark crowd was damp with sweat. Shirts clung. Bra straps chafed. There were a lot of black faces in the crowd, come to see Jackie Robinson play.

  Ebbets Field was small and idiosyncratic. It was a short 297 feet to the right-field screen. The base of the scoreboard in right was angular, and Carl Furillo, and Dixie Walker before him, had made an art of playing to odd caroms off it. There were advertising signs on the outfield walls. The fans were close to the field, and after a game they could stream across the outfield and exit through the gate in deep center field.

  The Cardinals were in, their gray road uniforms trimmed in red; Stan Musial and Red Schoendienst. We got seats behind first base while there was still batting practice to watch. I was old enough to drink in New York. In Boston I was still underage. We got two big paper cups of Schaefer beer and settled back.

  The beer was cold from the tap and fresh. I felt it seep through me the way spring rain invigorates a flower.

  In the bottom of the first inning Duke Snider did his little kick step and hit the ball into Bedford Avenue. My Uncle Bob and I toasted him with another beer. My headache was going. The throbbing in my cheek diminished. Stan Musial. Duke Snider. Cold beer in the sunshine. Only yesterday, when the world was young.