Arkin couldn't read the tone. Was it disappointment? Exasperation? Guilt?
"Really?" Sheffield said. "The Priest?"
"A mere phantom. A shadow wreaking havoc with my paranoid imagination." Sheffield didn't respond. "Roland."
Sheffield took a deep breath and stared at his glass of water. "Did you know, Nathaniel, that when the U.S. Navy SEALs found Osama bin Laden, they discovered video footage of him sitting in front of a mirror and coloring his gray beard with hair dye? Did you ever consider the implications of that?"
"Of bin Laden coloring his beard?"
"Damnation, Nathaniel," he said, sounding exasperated, shaking his head again. "If the human race would take one minute—just one damned minute's break from the hamster wheel to watch that video footage, to really think about it. The irony!"
"Roland, what the hell are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about all of the dirt we visit upon each other for the sake of our pathetic need to be a part of something enduring and bigger than ourselves. For the sake of our ridiculous illusory dreams of immortality. Because of our fear of death. Of oblivion. I'm talking about humanity not having enough time left to learn. I tried so hard to show you the light. It's the exigency, don't you see? The exigency is what justifies the method. Speaking of which, I've wasted enough time on this charade."
With that, Sheffield reached over to the wall and flipped a switch that illuminated a kitchen light over the sink, right over Arkin's head. Sheffield's face had turned alarmingly hard. Arkin began to reach for the gun he carried against his back.
"Roland, turn off the—"
At that moment, the window in front of Arkin exploded, shards falling everywhere to the loud bang of a heavy anti-materiel rifle. As he fell to the floor, he turned to see a newly punched hole, the approximate size one would expect of a .50 caliber bullet just beginning to tumble, in the fir-paneled wall to his left. In nearly the same moment, he heard a rapid series of rifle shots—nine or ten—of a lower caliber. Maybe 7.62 mm. Startled, he rolled away from the area of the window before springing to his feet. As realization hit home, he again reached for his gun. But as he looked up, he found that in his moment of distraction, Sheffield had drawn what looked like a .32 Beretta Tomcat from an ankle holster and was now pointing it at him. Sheffield fired three shots into Arkin's chest. Yet as he fell backward, his mind wasn't focused on the terrible pain in his abdomen, but on the frozen image of the expression on Sheffield's face. It was emotionless. Dead. And he knew then that Sheffield was a fanatic. Worse, that he had never really cared about him. Had never regarded him as anything more than a tool. A tool of potential use to the cause. Something to be exploited or discarded.
A deep sadness washed over him as he dropped to the floor.
THIRTY-SIX
Pain brought Arkin out of his daze. Tremendous pain, both in his chest and the old bullet wound in his side. He was flat on his back, on a bed of shattered glass. As he stared up at the light bulb over the kitchen sink, it struck him that while he was certainly sad, there was an unusual absence of any inner conflict or uncertainty. It was, in a way, liberating. A long-jumbled corner of his universe made sense again. Had a logical order to it. Effects connecting with their causes in a linear way, as with a family tree. Still, he felt as though he'd just been to a funeral.
But then Arkin heard a wholly unexpected and hugely welcome voice—more a whisper—coming through the open gap of the back window. "Nate," Morrison said, sounding deeply worried. "Nate, are you in there?"
"Yes," he answered, gritting his teeth as the effort to speak brought sharp pain to his rib cage.
"Talk to me."
"House is clear."
Morrison slid the window open from the outside and dove through, cradling his rifle. He looked up to see that the light switch was on the far side of the room, in front of the shot-out kitchen window. He grabbed an old hardcover thesaurus he found next to a bunch of worn crossword puzzle books on the shelf of an end table at his side and threw it at the overhead light fixture, knocking it out to a flash of light and the sound of breaking and falling glass. The room went dark.
"You're hit!" he said with alarm as he elbow-crawled across the floor to Arkin.
"Vest caught all of them," Arkin said, his voice strained. "It was just a little .32."
"Said the ultimate tough guy." Morrison pulled a pen light from a pocket to examine Arkin's pupils. "You're lucky the sea breeze kicked up when Slobodan fired that .50 cal, or I'd be scraping you off the floor with a snow shovel right now. Speaking of which, I emptied a magazine toward the point of the muzzle flash, but I can't be sure I smoked the son of a bitch. But I thought you might be hurt, so I didn't linger to figure it out."
"And Sheffield might still be in the neighborhood."
"You mean your surrogate father? Oh, good. Did you and Daddy have a nice talk? Did he finally tell you he loves you?"
"If three shots to the chest can be so interpreted, then yes."
"Love is complicated. And some folks have trouble expressing their feelings."
"It always boils down to communication."
"So say the self-help books." Satisfied with the reactions of Arkin's pupils, Morrison examined the three holes in the front of Arkin's shirt. "Wow. Daddy can still shoot. These are all in the five-ring. The range masters at FLETC would be proud."
"He was only six feet away. Even you could have done that."
Morrison's expression turned irritated. "Shit, Nate. To think I was starting to believe you had sense."
"I apologize."
"It's alright, I guess. When someone's as desperate to believe in something as you apparently are, the mind's capacity for self-delusion is limitless. Of course, if we take a good look at your childhood—"
"Hey, I couldn't be less in the mood. And I have a loaded gun. So whether I deserve a lecture or not, just send me the audio book."
"Would you listen to it if I did?"
"No. How did you find me?"
"How do you think, dummy? I put a tracking app on the smartphone I gave you."
"Didn't trust me."
"Should I have?"
Arkin couldn't quite suppress a groan as he sat up and slid himself back against the wall. "Now what?"
"I don't know. You're the genius who orchestrated this. I thought you always planned everything out ten moves in advance, like in your chess games."
"I think it's safe to say I let emotion cloud my judgment and planning this time around."
"You don't say. So where does that leave us?"
"The cabin provides decent concealment, if not cover. If we wait in the northern half of this room, nobody can see us from outside. Of course, given that the Zastava could shoot clear through this cabin, we have to hope Slobodan is dead, incapacitated, or at least doesn't have IR gear."
"Wait until when?"
"Until daylight."
"Daylight? Won't they just call the cops on us? You're still a fugitive."
"We have to assume one or the both of them are still out there, and still functional, and we would probably also be wise to assume they at least have basic night vision gear. Speaking of which, where's yours?"
"The IR set is back up the hill. Thing ran out of power at the most inopportune possible time. Can you believe the luck?"
"Since you ask, yes, I can."
"I'll tell you, Nate, kingdoms will rise and kingdoms will fall, and it will all be determined by the damned brand of lithium batteries they bought."
"You're a philosopher."
"At least I have these night vision binoculars. But it's a cheap ATF set. Early generation. If those guys sit still in the bushes, I probably won't be able to see them."
"Great."
"So, what, we just hunker down until dawn, hoping nobody calls the cops, shoots us through the walls with that .50, or sets the cabin on fire?"
"Actually, we may have to move sooner than that," Arkin said, lifting a bloody hand from his ribcage. His shirt was soa
ked through.
"The old wound?"
"Every time it starts to heal, I tear open the suturing. The impacts of Roland's shots must have really ripped it wide this time. It's bleeding pretty good."
"I can see that."
"I don't suppose you have a needle and thread?"
Morrison shook his head. "There's a Rite Aid down in Florence."
"Okay. Let's think about this for a minute." A second later, Arkin caught a whiff of wood smoke. Oh, no. "Do you smell that?" Arkin asked.
"I do. I guess thinking time is over."
"I'm going to venture a guess that you didn't quite neutralize Slobodan."
"Or maybe Daddy came back to make s'mores with you. Plan."
"Give me the rifle and night vision. Slug that you are, you can probably still run faster than me today since you don't have broken ribs and a bleeding bullet hole in your side. You make a run for it. If and when either of them break cover to pursue or take a shot, I'll put some lead in them."
"Don't we want to take them alive?"
"I'll do my best."
"And you aren't going to hesitate if it's Daddy you find in your sights?"
"I will not hesitate," Arkin said, meeting Morrison's stare.
"Good times. Let's put some lead in them before they score in my five-ring, shall we?" Morrison said as he traded guns with Arkin. "You have a full 10-shot magazine there."
Arkin rose to his feet, gritting his teeth. They checked their weapons and took up positions to either side of the front door, left wide open by the fleeing Sheffield.
"Won't they be expecting us to come out the front door?" Morrison said.
"No, they don't think we're this stupid."
Smoke was beginning to pour in through gaps in the wood-paneled walls behind them, collecting along the ceiling. They peered at the area outside the door. A wall of dense forest—evergreens, maples, salal, ferns—offered excellent cover if they could just get across a 20-yard-wide clearing.
"Go straight into the woods," Arkin said.
"No, I think I'll stop and have a picnic in the clearing."
"Hopefully, he takes off after you, and I can get a clear shot from the door," Arkin said, extending the bipod legs of the rifle and dropping to the floor to take up position.
Morrison chambered a round in his handgun. "Whenever you're ready."
"Count of three." Arkin took a deep breath. "One. . . ."
On three, Morrison bolted for the woods. He made it across the clearing and into cover without a shot being fired. But barely a second after he'd disappeared into the trees, a black-clad figure appeared from the left, racing across the clearing in pursuit, holding some kind of handgun. Arkin lined up, aiming for the figure's lower abdomen, and fired. The figure continued on, unchecked, reaching the edge of the woods. Arkin lined up on him, just as he was disappearing into the forest, and fired again. He heard a groan of extreme pain, then heavy breathing. Alive. They'd bagged one of the bastards alive.
As he waited for Morrison to double back through the woods and assess their captive's status, he was startled by another unexpected bang, clearly of a small caliber handgun. Half a minute later, Morrison called to him. "It looks like you're clear to here. But I have you covered anyway. Make a run."
Reluctantly, Arkin set the heavy rifle down on the floor, took a deep breath, and, hand pressed to his bleeding wound, ran for the woods. When he got there, he nearly tripped over the body of Andrej Petrović. He scanned the body with Morrison's LED pen light. Petrović was on his back. There was a hole through the front of his pants, and they were soaked with blood. He was also holding a Glock to his own bleeding right temple. His stubbly face bore a final agonized grimace.
Morrison, his eyes still watching the clearing, said, "Looks like he didn't want to chat with us."
That much was certain, Arkin thought. With prompt medical attention, Petrović probably would have survived Arkin's hit. The shot looked like it went through his bladder or intestine. Yet the man hadn't let himself be taken alive. Arkin stood staring, frustrated but in awe.
As Morrison stood watch, Arkin searched the body, knowing he wouldn't find anything. He didn't. Then, dizzy, he dropped to a knee. "I got him though the guts there," he said. "But there aren't any other holes, aside from the one he put in himself with that Glock."
"So?"
"You missed him. All those shots, and you didn't even scratch him," Arkin said, panting
"I was shooting blind, jerko."
"You saw the muzzle flash. You knew where he was."
"I was a 100 yards away."
"Say it."
"Say what?"
"That I'm a better shot than you. I want to hear you say it."
"Haven't we been over this? And anyway, it's you who should be saying thanks, Bill, for tracking me here and trying to cover my stupid ass after I withheld information from you and made the ungentlemanly move of ditching you while you were on the pot. I owe you steak dinners for life, my best and only friend." Morrison looked down at the killer's face. "He doesn't look so magnificent now, does he?" he said as Arkin lowered himself, with a soft groan, to sit against the trunk of a large fir tree.
"All the great one's die young."
"So they say. Now let's get you some medical attention."
"I think you had better just stitch me back up with a needle and thread from that Rite Aid down in Florence."
"No hospital?"
"Too risky."
"What about the delightful Roland Sheffield?"
"He would have shown himself by now. He's probably on his way to Valparaiso, Chile, traveling under yet another assumed name. And speaking of names, I still won't be able to clear my own without capturing Sheffield. But I'm fresh out of North American leads."
"Well, you'll have to save South America for the sequel, 007. Sheffield is on the run. His group is, at least for the moment, probably in retreat and looking for a place to regroup. And you're needed elsewhere."
THIRTY-SEVEN
Against a yellow painted curb directly in front of the main door of the small Durango hospice, Morrison parked the medical services van he'd borrowed—using a friendly request, then guilt, then intimidation—from a man he sometimes played rugby with, who happened to own a dialysis center down in Farmington. He donned the white uniform top that he'd borrowed in the same instance, opened the side double doors, lowered the wheelchair lift to the level of the sidewalk, and rolled the wheelchair into the building.
"Can I help you?" the front desk secretary asked.
"Yes, ma'am. Here to pick up a Hannah Arkin for a radiology appointment at Mercy Hospital. I like your brooch. What kind of stone is that?"
"Oh, thank you. It's labradorite. My daughter gave it to me for my 50th."
"It's beautiful the way it plays with the light."
"I know. I stare at it all the time." The secretary flipped through the top several forms in a clipboard. "I don't see her out-sheet here. Who is the doctor?"
"McIver. 5 p.m. Here's the paperwork from our end." He handed over the convincing forgery.
"Well, okay. She's in room 4."
"Room 4. Thanks."
He rolled the wheelchair down the linoleum hallway and turned left into Hannah's room. She was awake, wearing a pale pink hospital gown and with a blanket draped over her legs. Her face was colorless, sagging, dark around her eyes. There was a small bedside oxygen tank feeding a tube and cannula in her nose. Her eyes were directed at the television. There was a program on about dolphins. But her blank expression gave Morrison the impression that she wasn't really paying attention to it. Her head didn't move, but her eyes turned to him.
"Hey, good looking. I'm going to take you out and get you a little fresh air. Alright?"
*****
Having lifted Hannah and her oxygen tank into the wheelchair, and then into the van, he drove slowly, with uncharacteristic care, across town and onto northbound U.S. Route 550, taking a circuitous route to make sure he wasn't being fo
llowed.
"So how've you been, sweetheart? I've been thinking to myself, I need to take Hannah out on a little excursion. A little adventure. Now, what would she like to do? Watch some NASCAR? Do some whiskey shots down at the Diamond Belle? Have me read her tweener vampire fantasy romance novels all day long?" He glanced in the rearview mirror, and his heart warmed to see her smile a weak little smile. "Nothing seemed right. But then I finally came up with something good. And mark my words, Hannah, you're going to say to yourself, man, I had that creep Morrison all wrong. There's more to him than an obsession with high-capacity toilets. He's a hell of a guy, he is. All heart under that slimy, cold snakeskin. Yes, ma'am. That's what you'll say."
*****
After an hour of driving north, into the heart of the San Juan Range, with Morrison constantly checking his rearview for tails, he turned onto a well-maintained gravel road. It climbed and climbed, passing several cabins as it snaked up a mountainside. At last, as the sun was setting, he pulled into a driveway at the back of an old ski cottage framed by tall aspens and a spectacular view of the valley below. He lowered the wheelchair, lifted Hannah into it, and then wheeled her not to the old ski cottage but back down the driveway and onto the gravel road, which they silently followed a few hundred feet to the next cabin—an A-frame. The windows were dark, but a faint wisp of smoke curled from its chimney. He rolled her to the door, knocked, and then turned and left her as he went to stand lookout by the road. The door opened, and there stood Arkin. Unable to speak, tears in his eyes, he embraced her. And as awkward as it was for him bent over her chair, he didn't let go for a long, long time. When he finally did, he wheeled her over by the warm wood-burning stove, pulled a soft blanket up over her legs, and sat down in a chair next to her. There, they held hands and stared out the large windows, looking out from high above the Animas River Valley as the sky grew dark and the stars began to appear.
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