When they left the lake it was to follow CJ and Artie’s path into the forest, but about a mile in they’d lost their trail. After that, the three of them had spent the intervening hours canvassing the woods. Crossing swaths of ground, bedding down for several minutes, then moving on—creating an expanding triangle that should have caught up anything moving within its boundaries. In this fashion they’d covered what Graham would have thought was CJ’s most likely path. The fact that they hadn’t found the pair meant that either Graham had guessed wrong or that CJ and Artie had found a hole to hide in. He thought the latter more likely.
He ignored Richard while he scanned the forest, not expecting to see anything but looking nonetheless. Somewhere out there was his brother; he was hiding and he knew that Graham was coming for him. And Graham knew that when he found him, he would kill him. He would kill them both.
With that realization came the tandem understanding that, unlike when he’d killed Eddie, he would find no joy in this; it wouldn’t feed the hunger born of the Baxter blood. It was just something he had to do. He suspected that was growth of a sort.
George was at his shoulder.
“Maybe the boy’s hurt worse than we thought,” George said. “He’s found himself somewhere to die.”
Graham considered that and then shook his head.
“There wasn’t enough blood at the campsite,” he said. “And none at all on their trail.”
George didn’t answer, and Graham knew it was because he was making spare use of his breaths. He’d insisted on taking part in the hunt and the night had worn on him. Even so, he looked strong, ready to keep going. Graham harbored no delusions that his father had accompanied Richard and him because of some misguided principle. Rather, he wanted to make sure the murdering was done right.
If Graham was successful, his father would get his chance.
“I can’t believe it,” Richard said again.
With that, Graham had had enough. He was about to turn and knock out one of his cousin’s teeth when George placed a firm hand on his shoulder. Graham turned and locked eyes with his father, and the look on George’s face was the type that Graham had seldom felt comfortable defying.
When he knew he’d made his point, George switched his focus to Richard.
“I’m going to tell you this once,” he said, his voice quiet but grave. “If you so much as say another word, I’ll put a bullet in you myself.”
Richard’s own father had been a soft touch, and Graham’s cousin lacked sufficient experience with George to understand the seriousness of the threat. His response, then, was a change of color—a redness that touched first his ears and then moved across his forehead. Before it could go any further, George took a step forward, and with a speed that belied his age he struck Richard in the midsection with the butt of his gun. The blow took Richard’s wind and he doubled over, nearly going to his knees.
George stepped back and waited until his nephew had recovered enough to meet his eyes. “Understand?” he asked.
All Richard could do was nod.
Satisfied, George walked on.
“GPS,” Dennis explained. He looked at the ground, swiveling in both directions before he caught sight of the GPS unit he’d dropped upon seeing CJ come out of nowhere. He walked back a few steps to retrieve it. “This thing w-works great.”
CJ smiled. Artie had asked CJ to carry their end of the device, so CJ had dropped it in his backpack. His smile, though, was short-lived. “Tell me you brought a phone,” he said.
Dennis reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a cell phone, which he proudly held up. He didn’t object when CJ snatched it from his hand.
The phone was off. CJ found the power button, but pressing it had no effect. He tried again with the same result. “What’s wrong with this thing?” he asked.
Dennis took it back and studied it. When he looked up he gave his friend a sheepish smile. “D-dead battery.”
The annoyed and dejected look on CJ’s face did much to cause Dennis to look at CJ and Artie with clearer eyes.
“What’s g-going on?”
CJ sighed and then, as fast as he could, explained the situation. After he was finished, and understanding how insane his story sounded, he gave Dennis the time he needed to process it.
“You’re k-kidding,” Dennis finally said. “It has to b-be a m-mistake.”
When he looked at CJ’s expression, though, he saw nothing but honesty. A glance at Artie confirmed the truth of it.
“Why?” was his follow-up, and while CJ knew he owed his friend the same courtesy he’d shown Artie, he suspected they’d spent far too much time standing in the morning light.
“Would it be okay if I tell you over a drink at Ronny’s?” CJ said. “Right now, I think we should get moving.”
Dennis nodded. “So w-where to?”
That might have been the only question Dennis could have asked that would have succeeded in pulling another smile from CJ.
“Where did you park?” he asked Dennis.
“I see them,” George said.
No one said anything for a few ticks, and it was Richard who broke the silence.
“Two hundred yards,” he said. Then his eyes narrowed. “Wait a minute. Why are there three of them now?”
Graham looked in the direction that his father and Richard were looking, and it was then that he spotted three shapes silhouetted against a mountain that was growing lighter by the minute. He thought that any one of them could have missed the trio had they not been looking in just the right spot.
“Are you sure that’s them?” Graham asked his father. “Maybe it’s another hunting party.”
George watched for almost a full minute, but with each passing second the other group extended the distance between them.
“It’s them,” George said. “I don’t know who the third one is, but the one in the middle is CJ.”
That was enough for Graham. Turning to his cousin he asked, “Can you hit them from here?”
“No problem,” Richard said.
From behind, George said, “Stop. Don’t you want to get closer?”
Graham brought the Kimber around, even though he knew he wouldn’t use it—not from this distance. He watched through the rifle’s scope as CJ, Artie, and the third member of their group picked their way up the mountain. After a while he said, “You take your shots where you get them.” He looked back to Richard.
His cousin nodded.
Chapter 35
They had lost most of their cover the higher they went, and CJ had realized the danger that presented with the sun going up behind them. He, Artie, and Dennis had left behind the lowlands, aiming northwest now in a loop around the mountain. Dennis had taken his truck as far into the wilderness as he could, yet he was forced to park a good distance away. Then they began their climbing, taking a wider circuit around the mountain because of Artie’s condition and the fact that his legs couldn’t handle too steep of an ascent.
CJ was hopeful that, at the very least, they might be putting greater distance between themselves and Graham. He had no idea where Graham and his companion—or companions— were, but he had to assume they were close and that Graham would have been hunting them all night. So the farther they traveled, the harder it became for Graham as the territory he had to search increased exponentially with each mile CJ and his friends covered.
“By the way, she t-took me b-back,” Dennis said.
“What are you talking about?” CJ asked.
“S-Stephanie. I d-did what you said. I saw her last n-night.”
“Congratulations,” CJ said.
“By the w-way, you were r-right. She threw away the shoes.”
“Naturally.”
Artie was behind them a few paces. CJ looked back to check on him. He moved with grim determination, though CJ could see that the older man had grown weary and was close to being exhausted.
This business had pushed CJ and Artie’s campfire revelations to the side,
but as they’d hunkered down in the cave, CJ had considered some of it, and he did so again now. Despite how easy it was to call Artie Pop, it was still difficult to process. Artie Kadziolka had loved his mother, and they’d had a son together, even while Dorothy was married to George.
As if he could read CJ’s thoughts, Artie raised his head and met CJ’s eyes, and for a moment a warm smile replaced the man’s pain.
CJ started to say something, but then stopped himself. This small acknowledgment would have to suffice. If they got out of this thing alive, there would be plenty of time to talk about things. If they didn’t, it wouldn’t matter.
He started to look away when he saw Artie’s eyes snap wide. Half a second later he heard the report. Before CJ could react, Artie fell, landing like dead weight on the uneven ground. CJ stood frozen, looking down at Artie, and what got him to move was the cloud of dust that exploded near his own right foot, followed by the booming sound coming from the east.
He dropped to a knee and grabbed Artie’s arm, ignoring the bloody mess of Artie’s shoulder. He swung the arm around his own neck and was gratified to feel Artie’s hand close on his shoulder. A second later Dennis was on the other side, and between the two of them they lifted Artie off the ground.
With his gun over his shoulder, and after a quick glance at the forest below them, CJ and Dennis guided Artie toward a cluster of boulders sticking up like misshapen teeth from the mountain’s surface. Their progress was slow—much too slow— and CJ flinched when a portion of the rock where they were headed suddenly vaporized.
When they reached the cover of the rock no one was more surprised than CJ. All but the first shot had missed, even if the one round that had connected had done its damage.
CJ and Dennis lowered Artie onto his side, and Dennis went to work with a knife, cutting away the tangled coat and shirt fabric enmeshed in Artie’s ruined shoulder—a jumble of polyester, blood, and torn skin.
“D-do you have any b-bandages?” Dennis asked CJ.
CJ shook his head.
“How’s it look?” Artie asked. His voice was weak, but CJ thought he heard a sliver of humor running through it. The hardware store owner didn’t have to see it to know it was bad.
“Not bad,” Dennis lied.
“Which is good because we have to move,” CJ added.
Artie started to answer but a cough came instead. When he recovered, he shook his head. “You both need to get out of here,” he said. “You can’t outrun them dragging me with you.”
CJ would have none of that. He found his leverage and, signaling to Dennis, they brought Artie up, bearing his full weight until Artie found his footing. Without another word, they started off, cutting across the incline, keeping behind the rocks as much as they could.
CJ knew they had a head start of less than two hundred yards, judging by how long it took to hear the sounds of the shots. That distance would evaporate quickly.
George and Graham were ready to move before Richard finished his cursing. After the final missed shot, Richard had held the gun out at arm’s length, looking at it as if it had betrayed him.
“I think it was when that dog hit us,” Richard said. “He damaged my gun.”
“The dog was nowhere near your gun,” Graham said. He’d watched while CJ and the others disappeared behind the rocks. Their helping Artie would slow them down; Graham would have them within the hour.
“They won’t get far. Not with Artie hurt,” George said, echoing his son’s thoughts.
At that, Richard ran a hand though his thinning hair. “Let’s get them then, and be done with it.” He swung the Weatherby over his shoulder and strode past the others.
Graham and George exchanged a look—one that seemed to convey a growing uncertainty. Even if they were able to finish what they’d come here to do, there would still be loose ends, things that threatened to expose them. Their window of opportunity to have pulled this off without anyone knowing was closing, if it wasn’t gone already. The thing about having one’s choices stripped away, though, was that it bestowed on a man a stoicism that made the pursuit of the singular path easier than it might have been.
George started walking, with Graham watching him, watching until the old man disappeared between the pines. A chill caught Graham, ran up his spine. He drew a breath and then released it, the visible vapor of it carried off on the cold wind.
After a time, Graham followed his father.
Twin headlight beams swept across Graham’s truck as another car pulled into the service station parking lot. For an instant bright light illuminated Daniel’s face and he had to fight an urge to slump down in the seat. He half watched as a family emptied from the sedan and went into the store, two tired children trailing a man and woman whose body language told Daniel that they were at some point in a long ride and were tired of each other.
Besides their sedan, Graham’s truck was the only other vehicle in the lot, and it had been that way the entire twenty minutes since Daniel had arrived here. Whoever was working the counter had come to the window twice to give the truck a once-over, and Daniel knew it was only a matter of time before the guy became suspicious enough to call the police. The problem, as Daniel saw it, was that since this was the only open business for miles in any direction, his only other options were to continue driving in circles or park on the side of the road, neither of which seemed like better choices. Eventually he would attract a cop’s attention, and once that happened, everything would fall apart.
It had been a moment of stupidity that had kept him from putting the truck in reverse before CJ got close enough to see him. Once Graham’s brother had seen his face—well, they’d had to go all in.
It angered Daniel to have his carefully cultivated career now hanging on the outcome of a gunfight he couldn’t witness, much less participate in. Graham and his family were playing out Daniel’s future somewhere out there, in the shadow of the mountains, while Daniel could only serve as witness to a snot-nosed brat sucking on a juice box.
But if his vast experience in the underbelly of the political machine had taught him anything, it was that one must always retain a bargaining chip. He reached into the back seat to retrieve his briefcase. Setting it on his lap, he popped it open and pulled out a thin metallic-looking object that bore a resemblance to a sleek calculator. He found a cord and plugged one end of it into the device and the other end into his cell phone. That done, he touched a button on the digital recorder.
He dialed the number. Weidman picked up on the first ring.
“It’s done, Mr. Weidman,” Daniel said.
Weidman absorbed that, and Daniel didn’t concern himself with what the man might have been thinking. He knew Weidman had liked CJ, that it was a serious thing to kill a man—two men. But the kind of money riding on Graham’s election brooked no obstacles.
“Alright,” Weidman said. There was a pause, and Daniel could imagine him looking at his watch. “Why did it take so long?”
Daniel ran a hand through his hair. He didn’t have to act this part out. “There were a few complications,” he said.
“What kind of complications?” Weidman pressed.
“CJ ran. And it took Graham a while to track him down.”
Another period of silence passed, during which the family in the sedan pulled back onto the road and headed south, and then the clerk came to the window a third time. Daniel knew his time allotment had run out and so he fired up the engine.
“But you say it’s done,” Weidman said, seeking confirmation.
The fact that he’d asked annoyed Daniel. It suggested a man without the conviction—the decisiveness—Daniel had thought him to possess. It made him sound weak.
“Yes,” he said. “CJ’s dead and his article won’t be published. Your investment’s safe.”
Little else remained to be said and the call ended soon after. Daniel set the phone on the seat, stopped the recorder, and slipped it and the cable back into his briefcase. It was his doomsday scena
rio—something for the federal prosecutors if things went that far. If somehow they got out of this mess unscathed, Daniel would reclassify it and add it to his collection to perhaps be used at some point in the future.
Sr. Jean Marie had spent a lifetime listening to God. Rather, she’d spent it listening for God. In the mass, in the flowers that made up the convent’s garden, in the prayers of her sisters, even in the tears she often witnessed from hurting parishioners. She was convinced that God’s voice was everywhere, permeating His creation, and anyone could hear Him speak if they learned how to listen.
What helped, she’d always thought, was getting into the habit of holding up her end of the conversation. She reasoned that if God could take the time to talk with her, the least she could do was to talk back. Toward this end she kept up a near constant stream of dialogue with the Almighty, even if those around during these exchanges felt that they were rather one-sided affairs. To her, though, it seemed that God listened, that He laughed at her jokes, shed a metaphysical tear when she confessed her hurts, and stood in the face of her anger when such came bubbling to the surface.
She understood, of course, that there was a danger in anthropomorphizing the Creator of the universe, but she’d never felt as if her soul was in need of chastisement, despite the fact that Father Joseph had muttered something about pantheism.
The tenor of the conversation could change on any given day. On Tuesday the sister might feel content to rest in the peace that God spoke to her as she pulled weeds from around the hostas. On Friday she might feel as if the Lord wanted to discuss theology, and she’d spend the afternoon reasoning out a piece of doctrine, asking Him to clarify the sticky points. Yet there were other times when she felt the presence of God—the voice of God—so strongly that she couldn’t do anything but stay silent and listen to what He spoke to her heart. Today was such a day, and it had hit her the instant she opened her eyes.
She recognized straightaway that what God was telling her was something that required much prayer, so she’d spent the first hour of her day on her knees, still in her pajamas. It could be difficult to pray without specifics, but she had long ago concluded that God knew the specifics of every situation in a way she couldn’t understand. So if He wanted her to pray, she’d pray, and He would use her heartfelt, if indirect, petitions for His purposes.
Don Hoesel Page 32