White Star

by James Thayer

  "You might not be as smart as I first thought," Trusov said, still working on the detonator.

  Ellison hoped the big maul-faced man was joking. He ventured, "I've tried to stop time, stop the clock, just like the Amish in Pennsylvania and Ohio have. They stopped the clock in the last century, and I stopped it in 1968."

  Trusov appeared uninterested, working on his second mine.

  Ellison forged ahead. "Do you ever wish you could stop time?"

  The Russian slowly lowered the plate. "I'm happy where I am. And with what I'm doing."

  "Isn't there a time you wish you could return to?"

  Trusov's eyes were blank. "There is one day I would want to have back, yes." Then he was silent and unblinking.

  A full minute passed.

  Andy Ellison generated cheer in his voice. "But this'll soon be over. We'll shake them. They'll never find us."

  "Yes, we will soon be released."

  "The word is 'free.'"

  The Russian looked at him. "Yes. Free."

  The monitor glowed with vibrant colors, blue and green and red and orange and yellow, all in wavy lines unreadable to Owen Gray.

  Coates pointed at the blue. "That's him. Heat shows as blue. He's in an upstairs bedroom."

  "What's this?" Gray raised a finger at a dot of blue on the first floor.

  An FBI technician answered, "He left a light on in the kitchen, probably the same light the Robinsons left on when they went on vacation."

  The three men were in a delivery truck that read "Big Sky Plumbing" on the side. They were parked fifty yards from the Robinson house. The infrared's sensor was located in the passenger-side rearview mirror, and the apparatus was pointed at the Robinsons' house. The technician played with a dial. A row of blue shades appeared at the bottom of the screen, from ice-blue to dark purple, each in a small box.

  The technician instructed, "A person asleep has a different blue signature than one awake." He pressed a finger onto the screen below a light blue, then pointed at the wavy blue figure in the middle of the monitor. "See? Same color. So he's asleep."

  "You sure it's Trusov?" Gray asked. He was squatting on one side of the technician, Coates on the other. He held his rifle by the stock, butt plate on the floor. Gray's leg ached where the axe had sliced into it. The tech sat on a low milking stool, facing the monitor and keyboard.

  "A mailman on his way home from a softball game spotted Trusov entering the house about nine tonight."

  Every post office in the western U.S. had a photograph of Trusov. Same with every Federal Express and UPS office and 7-Eleven and gas station. Every newspaper had run photographs of the Russian. In Montana alone three quarters of a million people knew his face.

  Coates carried a flashlight in his hand. "And the Silver Bow County sheriff's department has been watching the house since about ten. No one has come or gone since then. It's the Russian, we're pretty certain."

  "What about that dope grower Trusov forced the Black Hawk pilot to pick up?" Gray asked. "That could be him asleep in there."

  "We don't know where he is. He's not in the house, because the heat detector sees only this one body, and Trusov was seen going into the house."

  An hour ago Gray arrived in Butte, flown from Hobart by Bruce Taylor in the Black Hawk. After the disaster in Jefferson County, Coates had realized he was in over his head. Coates had said that had Gray been there, Gray might have sniffed out Trusov's presence in the field behind the helicopter. Gray had doubted it, but Coates had insisted Gray be present when next they cornered the Russian. Gray had the best chance of detecting a trap.

  The technician asked, "Why don't you just plug the Russian right now from here. Hell, we've got rifles powerful enough that they'll send a bullet through that house's wall, through Trusov, out the far wall, and into the Pacific time zone."

  Coates rubbed his chin. "There's a chance it's that hippie lying sleeping in there, not Trusov. There was an hour gap between when Trusov was seen entering the house and when the sheriff's department started the surveillance."

  The tech was wearing a Pendleton shirt and climbing boots. He had a porky face, and it creased into a grin. He reached for a manila envelope. "But look at this." He pulled out an X-ray radiograph, switched on the cab's overhead light, and held the sheet up.

  "You X-rayed the house?" Coates asked. "X rays will go through wood?"

  "You bet, if you crank them up. They're called hard X rays. But it won't go through metal. And that person on the bed is never going to have children, but we don't care about that, do we?" He started a laugh but swallowed it when Coates and Gray would not join in. The technician pointed at the plate. "This dark figure on the X ray is the barrel, bolt, and scope of a rifle."

  Coates stared at it for a moment. "No hippie carries a rifle around. That's Trusov all right."

  The tech suggested again, "Let's plug him from here. Save the taxpayers some money."

  Coates ordered, "You tell me over the radio if Trusov gets up from that bed. You got that?"

  The tech dipped his chin, returning the X-ray photo to its envelope. Coates pulled an earplug from his shirt pocket and pushed it into his ear. The plug was in fact the entire radio, manufactured by Motorola, with receiver, antenna, battery, and speaker all in a package no larger than the tip of a finger. Coates led Gray out the van door. The night was still, the Montana night sky vast and painted. The Robinson house was a smudge in the distance, black on black. Six other law enforcement personnel waited at the back of the vehicle. The detective pulled his revolver from under his coat. "We're going in."

  "Terrific." Gray's voice was flat.

  Gray flipped the M-40 A1's safety off. He followed the detective along the road toward the house. An FBI agent followed, carrying a set of picks on a steel ring. He clasped the picks together so they would not jingle. A quarter mile down the road was a sedan with three FBI agents standing near it, barely visible in the starlight. Other agents and sheriff's deputies were a hundred yards behind the house.

  The three men neared the house. A slash of light was visible under venetian blinds at the kitchen window, the same light seen as a heat source on the monitor. At the picket fence Gray ran his free hand up and down the gate pickets and over the latch. He nodded at Coates. There were no booby traps attached to the gate. They pushed it open slowly. The gate did not squeak. They moved along a concrete walkway between planter beds of orange and red marigolds that stunk even at night.

  The FBI agent took the lead and stepped onto the porch. He knelt at the door and worked his picks. Ten seconds later he nodded. Gray and Coates removed their shoes. Gray slowly twisted the knob. He nudged the door open three inches, then reached behind it to check the inside knob. He pushed the door open a fraction further, and reached inside further, checking for string triggers.

  When the door was open fully, Gray led Coates inside. He moved slowly to avoid sound and to carefully survey the house. Each step was deliberated before taken. Gray's eyes searched the walls and the rugs and the furniture. The living room was dark except for light coming from the kitchen. Mrs. Robinson's collection of porcelain dolls—dozens of them—stared from a display case. A Wurlitzer organ was in one corner, with open sheet music on its stand. The room smelled of a dog, probably on vacation with the Robinsons.

  Coates tapped Gray on the shoulder to stop him, then put his lips at Gray's ear. The detective whispered, "The earplug just said he's still lying on the bed. Hasn't moved."

  Gray's hand ran over the riser and the first step to the second floor. He began up, checking the banister rail and pickets and the steps as he climbed. He paused on each step, listening and feeling. Gray led Coates into the second-story hallway. Gray slid his stockinged feet along soundlessly.

  When they reached the closed bedroom door, the detective tapped his earplug and gave the thumbs-up. The tech had just reported Trusov was still asleep.

  Gray put his hand around the knob. As slowly as he could and still be moving, he turned the kn
ob.

  Coates lifted his thumb again, keeping his fingers around the flashlight handle. Still asleep. His pistol was at his ear. His teeth were bared.

  Gray turned the knob. The bolt freed itself from the door frame. He inched the door open and slipped his hand inside to feel the interior knob. He slid his hand up and down the inside of the door as far as he could reach in up to his elbow. Nothing. No traps. He nodded at the detective.

  Coates clicked on the flashlight and rushed the door. He swept into the room yelling, "Hands up, asshole. You're under arrest."

  Gray followed, the bore of his rifle instantly pointing at the bed. He almost slipped on the damp floor.

  The detective aimed the flashlight. "Goddamnit." He pointed the beam up and down the body. "Goddamnit to hell." The beam found the face on the pillow. "It's that hippie."

  Andy Ellison lay on the bed, fully clothed, his throat laid open ear to ear. Blood was pooled on the floor in several places. Trusov had slit his throat, then dragged him to the bed.

  Coates stepped to the wall to throw the light switch. Nothing happened. He pointed the flashlight at the overhead socket. The bulb was missing. He returned his flashlight's beam to the body on the bed. Blood had further dyed Ellison's tie-dyed shirt. A deer rifle leaned against the wall near the bed. A framed charcoal drawing of a bearded, severe family patriarch from the nineteenth century hung on one wall.

  Gray put his hand across Ellison's forehead. It was still warm. "He's only been dead fifteen or twenty minutes."

  Coates brought his gun hand to his forehead, pressing the back of his hand against his head. "That sensor didn't detect the heat of a man sleeping but of a man permanently cooling." He added sourly, "He might've been a puke dope grower, but he didn't deserve this."

  Gray's nose came up. He sniffed, then suddenly pushed Coates toward the door. Too late.

  Fire spilled from above the doorway to the wood floor, where it splashed into the room. The wall where the charcoal portrait hung shimmered as if liquid, then licks of fire curled through the wallpaper. An instant later the wall was a sheet of fire.

  Gray pushed Coates's shoulders as they fled the bedroom. In the hallway fire gushed from a heating vent like a blowtorch, spreading quickly along the hall and slopping down the stairs, black smoke twisting away and ebbing against the ceiling. Lace curtains disappeared in a flash of fire. Above the second bedroom door the hatch to the attic had been left partly open. The sound of a dull burst came from the attic, then flames spewed down through the hatch, a red and yellow torrent of fire. The two men splashed through puddles of flame. Gray's pants legs caught, and he swatted them. When another muffled rupture sounded, the bathroom instantly filled with flames, billowing and surging, then rushing out into the hall.

  Wallpaper peeled and curled, then caught on fire. The ceiling was abruptly made of flame rather than wood, a dome of fire above them. The old house popped and hissed and groaned. The fire sounded like a locomotive.

  They reached the stairs. The steps crawled with flames. Gray fought for breath, and his throat and lungs seemed parboiling. The air was black with acrid smoke. Gray blindly led Coates down the stairs, feeling the fire work on his pants legs. Flames swirled and coiled, reaching for them. They tumbled down the stairs, a huge hand of fire reaching down after them.

  Gray and Coates sprinted through the main room and out the door, leaving the blaze behind. Gray sucked the cool air into his lungs and swatted at his pants legs.

  Coates bent over, hands on his knees, gulping air. He wiped his face with his sleeve. He formed the words slowly. "Christ, that was nasty."

  Gray squeezed his eyes closed. His pants and shirt radiated heat as if just taken from a clothes dryer. Behind him the second story of the Robinson house was fully on fire with flames pouring out of windows that had been shattered by heat. The FBI locksmith was running toward them, and several law-enforcement cars were speeding along the road toward the house.

  "We could've been killed," Coates said. He swatted embers from his jacket sleeve.

  Gray shook his head. "Trusov was toying with us."

  "He was playing a game? Why?"

  "Trusov is a predator. A cat. And a cat plays with its mouse before it kills it."

  Owen Gray sat under the antlers in the dining room. The Marine Corps sniper rifle was on the table. He was installing an Army-issue MILE—a multiple integrated laser engagement system—on the barrel. The MILE was slightly larger than a cigarette pack, and it fit on the front of the barrel just behind the sight. Also on the table was a scope mount extension that would raise the scope an inch to allow the shooter to peer over the MILE. The installation and instruction booklet was held open by a Crescent wrench placed across its pages. Gray worked slowly, occasionally turning pages in the booklet. He was unfamiliar with the laser system designed to put a dime-size red dot on the target's forehead.

  Coates returned from the telephone. "The FBI has determined how Trusov booby-trapped the house in Butte."

  Gray looked up from the weapon.

  "He removed light bulbs from their sockets, then connected the electrical wires above the bulbs. He did so for all the lights on that fuse, essentially making one long filament from the fuse box. When I threw the light switch on in the bedroom the fuse should have blown."

  "So why didn't it?"

  "Because Trusov had removed the fuse and stuck a penny in the fuse box. With no fuse to blow, the electrical wires overheated in just a few seconds. Trusov had also been in the attic, where he placed eight or nine plastic containers of gasoline right on the exposed wires. When the wires caught fire so did the gasoline. Our Russian is a smart boy."

  Coates sat across from Gray and lifted the bottle of beer he had been nursing. He resumed peeling the label off with his thumbnail. His half-filled glass was near his elbow. A tray of cold cuts and a dish of apples were also on the table. He sipped the beer.

  "The FBI has learned that his name was Andy Ellison, the one Trusov killed in the booby-trapped house," the detective said. "Why do you suppose the Russian went to all the trouble to pick him up in the helicopter and take him along for the ride, when all Trusov was going to do was slit his throat? Any warm body would've worked to draw us into that house."

  Gray replied, "A sniper works anonymously, seldom with an audience, except his spotter. Maybe Trusov needed an audience for his cleverness, even some poor fellow he was going to murder."

  Coates nodded. "Yeah, maybe."

  "Or perhaps the Russian just wanted to talk, to unburden himself a little."

  "He doesn't strike me as the talky type."

  Gray said quietly, "We all need someone we can let go a little with, even snipers."

  Behind Coates, Adrian Wade tapped at her computer keyboard. Lights in the room were low, but her hands and documents and notes were under an orb of illumination from a nightstand light. The fire on the grate was crackling.

  Coates looked across the table at his friend. "You can let go with me, Owen. Are you holding up all right?"

  Gray lowered the rifle to the table near several tubes of camouflage grease paint. He glanced over at Adrian, then back to the detective. "No, I'm not."

  "You getting any sleep?"

  "Not much." Gray's voice was the ghost of a whisper. "And I'm not keeping my food down." He wiped his upper lip with a finger. "A couple of times out in the woods I've found myself bent over, heaving away. My stomach feels like some farmer is turning it over with a mule and plow. I look back now, Pete, and I don't know how I did two tours in Vietnam."

  "We older guys can't take it."

  "I'm terrified." Gray let out a long breath. "My children have been orphans once and I'm afraid of leaving them orphans again. And I'm afraid for myself. I don't want a bullet to find me. I'm so frightened I'm having trouble swallowing."

  Adrian Wade flicked off her light and rose from her desk. She walked over, her hands at the small of her back as she twisted out a kink in her muscles. She sat next to Coates, then lif
ted an apple from the basket.

  She must have been listening, because she said, "You don't need to be afraid yet, Owen."

  "The mad Russian isn't after you, so perhaps you aren't the best judge of whether I should be afraid." He smiled quickly to take offense from his words.

  She brought the apple to her mouth, but instead of biting into it, she said, "Nikolai Trusov wants one thing in this life, and that is to re-create the day you shot him. Brick by brick, board by board, he is reconstructing that day."

  "Do you think he wanted Owen to return to Idaho?" Coates asked. "Was that part of his plan?"

  "He had Owen's high school yearbook, and so he knew Owen came from Hobart. So Trusov might have guessed Owen would return to Idaho. But I suspect that the precise location where Owen went after Trusov chased him from Manhattan didn't matter to the Russian as long as it was wilderness. Trusov needs wilderness as part of his plan."

  She took a tiny bite of the apple, more a gesture, and went on. "Look at what he has done so far." She brought up her other hand to count off with her fingers. "First, he has chased you from the city into the wilderness. Idaho isn't Elephant Valley but it's still bush and forest. Second, he has forced you to return to your old profession of sniping. Third, he has stolen your Vietnam weapon, and he is going to insist you use it, not some other rifle."

  "What's he going to do with my old Winchester?" Gray asked.

  "He is going to somehow present it to you. And that's what I mean when I say you don't need to be afraid yet. That day in November 1970 won't be fully re-created and he won't begin the duel until you are using your Marine Corps sniper rifle. That's why he stole it from the museum. And fifth, we know that he is carrying with him a Mosin-Nagant sniper rifle, the one he used in Vietnam, or one identical to it."

  Gray stared at the sniper rifle.

  "Trusov would import tropical birds and bamboo and potted palms if he could. But he is going to settle for what he can get."

  "Does Trusov have any more rules I ought to know about?" Gray asked.