“Logging road,” Mitchell said. Though it was barely a whisper, it seemed loud, and Mike imagined the words echoing down the tunnel for miles. “Probably goes back to the camp that way,” he said, pointing to his right.
“You think he took this?” Tom asked, looking at the ground. It hadn’t rained for days, and the sandy soil would not hold a track well.
“Maybe,” Mitchell said. “I would. That way heads to Tupper Lake,” he said with a nod to the left. “Stay here. I’ll check for signs.”
Mitchell stepped across the road. The way he did it reminded Tom of a man crossing train tracks, with a care for what might be coming around the bend.
“Nothing,” Mitchell said. He came back to stand in the road. Slowly he walked in the direction of Tupper Lake. He stopped twice, checking the ground and grass, then without a backward glance waved for them to follow.
The road wound through the forest for miles. At times it did not seem like a road at all where the grass grew thick, or where a rocky runoff crossed. Still, it had seen use. Wagon tracks were visible and the occasional pile of manure was recent.
They were stopped for a short rest when Mitchell turned to look back the way they’d come. Tom and Mike looked too. There was nothing to see.
“What is it?” Tom asked. Though his ears had grown sharp, they were still city ears.
“Someone coming,” Mitchell said. “Wagon.”
Movement through the trees became a horse. A buggy came behind. Four men rode in it, rifles bristling. Tom checked his pistol, flicking off the safety. Mike did the same. They stood still, letting the buggy come to them.
“That’s Uncle Chowder in the back,” Mike said, amazed. Tom grunted agreement.
Though he was glad to see Chowder, he knew who the other men must be.
“Put up your weapons,” MacDougal called. Tom saw three rifles swivel toward them.
“Dinna move!”
“Do what he says, Mike,” Tom said. “Don’t worry.”
Mike propped the Winchester against a tree, feeling suddenly naked.
“You too. Both o’ you,” MacDougal said, waving his rifle at Tom and Mitchell. “Pistols, too.”
The buggy was close then. It stopped and MacDougal hopped down followed by Chowder and the two deputies. Chowder hung back, eyeing the others, one hand hooked on his belt. He winked at Tom and Mike.
“You’re Braddock?” MacDougal said. Not waiting for an answer, he added, “And this’d be your murdering rapist of a boy,” but in a tone that Tom took to be sarcastic, as if the man didn’t believe it. Tom bristled anyway, baring his teeth in a low snarl.
“Don’t look like such to me, from the looks of ’im,” MacDougal added. “But then, we don’t get much o’ that kind up here.” He threw open his jacket, showing his badge. “Sheriff MacDougal,” he said. “Been lookin’ for you, but I expect you figured that.”
When neither Tom nor Mike answered, he shrugged and said, “You dinna look surprised to see me. Put your hands out, Laddie.”
The rifles didn’t waver. There was a long moment of silence. Mike looked to Tom, who gave him a slight nod. MacDougal pulled a pair of cuffs from a back pocket. “Hands in front,” he said. Mike watched in a trance as the steel clicked shut around his wrists.
“Sorry for this,” MacDougal said, “but it’s a thing that’s got to get done. You’ll be going back wi’ one o’ the deputies to stand before a magistrate.”
He turned to Tom and Mitchell. “An’ your part in this is done, you two. You’ve got no jurisdiction here. Anyway, I suppose you’ll be wantin’ to go back with your boy.”
Tom nodded. He might do more for Mike in the courts than in the woods, but giving up was not a thing Tom had a taste for. He swallowed it whole for now, the bitter flavor of defeat nearly gagging him.
“You still going after Tupper?” Tom asked.
“Aye. He’s an escaped murderer, if reports are to be believed, and we can’t have none o’ them mucking around in our woods, scaring tourists an’ such.”
Tom looked at Chowder. MacDougal followed his gaze.
“An’ he’s going with me. Just him, mind you. One o’ you city cops’re more trouble than I need. ’Sides, you’re too damn close to this. No telling what ye might do.”
Turning to Mitchell, he said, “Sabattis, you’re welcome to come if you like.”
Mitchell shrugged. “Guess I won’t,” he said.
They started off again, Mike riding handcuffed with MacDougal and the deputies, Tom and Chowder walking behind. Mitchell walked ahead, tracking.
“How the hell you find us?” Tom asked. “I couldn’t even find myself in these damn woods.”
Chowder chuckled. “A good guess and some luck. The sheriff found the boats on the lake. He had a report of all the shooting and checked it out,” Chowder said. “A clever enough fella for local law, by the way.”
Tom shrugged. He wasn’t in the mood to hear how good the sheriff was just then.
“Found the spot where you went into the woods after Tupper,” Chowder went on. “He figured you’d be going more or less for Tupper Lake, so he tried to head you off. MacDougal knew about that logging camp. His cousin’s the foreman. MacDougal thought there was a chance you might have been there. We were there this morning. They told us about you,” Chowder said.
Tom nodded. “So you were trying to get ahead of us?”
“Something like that. MacDougal figured it might be easier than trying to catch up to you. Oh!” Chowder said, suddenly remembering, “Mary gave me this.” Chowder handed the swatch of cloth to Tom.
“Hmph. Damn near forgot about this. Seems years since I found it.” Tom said, turning it over in his hand, imagining the man who’d worn it. “Listen, Chowder, be careful with this one. He’s dangerous. Tell you the truth, it might be more than one man. Mitchell, our guide, he says the man who shot at us back at Forked Lake was right-handed. Tupper’s left-handed.”
Chowder shook his head. “Wait a minute. Who the hell shot at you?”
“Same man killed our last guide,” Tom said. “Might’ve been Tupper. Might not. We never saw him.”
Chowder frowned. “You’ve been havin’ all the fun without me again,” he said, wagging a finger at him.
Tom smiled. “Not exactly. Listen, I’ve got to have a talk with MacDougal.”
Chowder grinned and said, “He knows there might be another man. Told me he found evidence of a second man near where Mike and the girl had their little tryst.”
Tom looked surprised. “How in hell?”
“Seems that was a popular spot with the help,” Chowder said. “One o’ the maids told him. Mike’s girl told her she was going to take him there. Besides,” he added with a nod of his head toward where MacDougal walked with Mitchell, the two deep in conversation, “I think he knows most o’ that by now.”
Tom nodded. “Maybe MacDougal’s okay,” he allowed. It made Tom feel a little better, knowing MacDougal wasn’t the buffoon he’d feared he’d be. Still, Tom was afraid to fully voice his fear to Chowder, afraid of sounding weak to his old friend.
He needn’t have worried. Chowder knew Tom better than to ever think him weak. He understood Tom’s concern.
“Don’t worry,” Chowder said, trying to make light of Tom’s warning. “That’s what we do, catch the dangerous ones.”
“Yeah I know, I know. But this one—you didn’t see what happened to our other guide,” Tom said, looking straight at Chowder, catching his eye. “The man who wore this shirt,” he said, holding up the cloth as if it might poison him, “is capable of anything. Don’t take chances. If you see him, shoot him. And watch your back.”
“But he’s worth more to you alive, I mean to Mike and all.”
“Well sure, but so are you.”
Chowder chuckled. “Hell, Tommy, the bad guys haven’t killed me yet. Too much of a damn, stubborn Irishman.”
Tom wasn’t laughing.
The wagon stopped ahead. Tom and Chowder caugh
t up. Mitchell had disappeared. They heard him in a thick patch of beech. He emerged in a minute and waved.
“Gone off the road here,” he said, pointing to signs neither Tom nor Chowder could see. The rest grunted as if they could read the trail as clearly as Mitchell.
MacDougal, Chowder, and one of the deputies split off once they shouldered their packs. Mitchell, Tom, and the second deputy rode with Mike in the wagon.
Tom put his hand out to Chowder. “See ya,” he said. Chowder grinned in reply and turned to follow MacDougal. Tom watched him check his pistol as he disappeared into the trees.
Twenty-Six
This is a horrible place for a man to die.
—DAVID HENDERSON
“We’ll stop at Long Lake,” the deputy said, once he’d clucked to the horse. “Mind if we stay with you, Mitchell?”
“Plenty of room,” Mitchell said.
They hit the road to Long Lake in about a half mile. It wasn’t much different than the logging road, a little more rutted, a little less rocky. Nothing moved on the road. In fact they didn’t see another soul.
Nearly an hour later they stopped to let the horse water at a little stream. Nobody spoke. Mike sat in the wagon, his head down. Tom cast one glance at him, then at Mitchell. Neither met his gaze. Tom had become more and more uneasy since parting with Chowder. He’d said nothing to Mitchell or Mike. In fact they rode in almost total silence. When they stopped, Tom got down and paced, looking back down the road from the direction they’d come. Mitchell watched him from the back of the buggy, his shotgun across his knees.
“You know, Dad,” Mike said, breaking the silence, “Mom will be there when I get back. It’s not like I’ll be alone.”
Tom turned to him, cocking his head to one side. Mitchell watched them both.
“Besides, we can prove I didn’t kill Lettie. That’s gotta be clear to everybody, once they hear about what happened at Forked Lake.”
Tom slowly shook his head. “What you know and I know might not be so clear to a judge up here, Mike. We have to be sure. You’ll need a good lawyer, a proper investigation.”
“Sure, but Mom can take care of that, and we can get help from the Durants, right?”
“I suppose Mike, but—”
“Just go, Dad. Go back and catch him. I’ll be all right.” Tom and Mitchell and the deputy, too, looked at Mike. “I won’t really be cleared until Tupper is caught, anyway,” Mike added.
Tom didn’t say anything. He dropped his head in thought and kicked at the dirt.
“Damnit, Mike, I want to go with you!” he said finally. “It’s my place to be with you,” he added, almost as if trying to convince himself.
“I’m not a boy,” Mike said.
Tom stopped his pacing and looked straight at him. A grim smile crept across Tom’s face, a light kindled in his eyes. “No, you’re not. Haven’t been for some time, though I’ve been late to see it.”
Mike smiled back. “Go!” he said.
Without a word, the sheriff handed Tom his rifle. Tom looked at Mike as he hefted the Winchester in one hand. “I’ll be back,” he said at last.
“I know,” Mike answered.
Tom and Mitchell watched as the wagon rumbled away. Mike turned once and waved, raising both hands to do it. Tom waved back, almost shouting for them to stop. Sending Mike back alone hurt like nothing he could remember. It put him in mind of amputees during the war, and how they’d complain of the pain in their lost limbs. For the first time he thought he knew what they meant.
Tom and Mitchell turned and walked back. They were miles behind, with little hope of catching up. Neither of them mentioned that or even gave it a thought. They didn’t need hope. They had everything they needed.
For the next two hours they alternately jogged and walked, going quickly along the hard-packed road, nearly as fast as the wagon had gone, so that they were approaching where the sheriff and Chowder had split off. The sun was dipping below the treetops by then, the cool of the forest creeping out from under the trees.
Then, miles off, they heard shooting, heavy firing, booming, echoing. They stopped, frozen by the sound, counting the shots that slowed quickly, sputtering, then dying. Tom and Mitchell looked once at each other and broke again into a trot. Another report rolled across the trees, followed by a long silence and then a second shot. Neither Tom nor Mitchell slowed as the forest settled into uneasy silence.
Mike and the deputy arrived at Mitchell’s house late that night. It seemed to materialize out of the fabric of the night, a lighter patch of dark with edges and corners. No lights were on. No dog barked as they rode up. The buggy rattled into the yard.
There was a rustling and the noise of hooves in the yard in back.
“Damn deer after Mitchell’s corn,” the deputy said. “Can’t shoot enough of ’em.”
They walked into the darkened kitchen through the unlocked back door. The deputy struck a match and lit a lamp that he’d gotten from the back of the buggy, his face cast for a moment in yellow relief.
“Anybody home?” The deputy called. “Hello?”
Mike sat at a table in the center of the kitchen. He stared at the steel around his wrists. “Say, Vern,” Mike said. “Can’t we take the cuffs off for now? I give you my word I won’t leave the house.”
Vern seemed sympathetic, but said, “Waaall, ah don’ know. MacDougal tol’ me ta keep a tight rein, you bein’ a runner an’ all.”
Mike tried not to show how he felt about that. He had half a mind to throttle Vern a little till he changed his mind, or whatever passed for a mind in his case. But in a reasonable tone he said, “I got ya. I’m your responsibility.”
The stove clattered as the deputy got a fire going. A puff of smoke blew back into the room where it rolled to the ceiling, scenting the place in a way that had Mike thinking of his parents’ kitchen when he was a boy.
“But MacDougal’s not here,” he went on, “and…”
There were footsteps on the stairs somewhere off in the darkened house. Mrs. Sabattis emerged from the gloom into the light of the kitchen, wearing a long nightshirt and slippers. She looked once around the room, staring for an instant at the deputy and Mike, where her eyes flickered over the glint of the handcuffs. She shooed the deputy away from the stove.
“I’ll get some water,” he said, fetching a bucket from under the sink. More footsteps could be heard, a pair of them.
“Anyway Vern, MacDougal’s not here,” Mike continued. “I’d take it as a personal favor if…” Mike stopped and turned. Rebecca came running.
“Mikey!”
She jumped into his lap, knocking him back and almost upsetting the chair. Mike hugged her as best he could with his shackled hands. She gripped his neck in a fierce hug.
“You little ginger snap! I’ve missed you!” he said, amazed at himself for saying it, because he’d never thought he’d miss the little pest.
“Ew! Your face is scratchy,” she said, pulling away, “and you smell bad! You need a bubble bath!”
Mike laughed and let her slip to the floor.
“Mom!”
Mary came down the stairs behind Rebecca, her thoughts doing somersaults. She didn’t know what to expect. What she hoped was that Tupper’s body was in the back of a wagon, covered with a sheet. Thinking of Tupper, she prayed that Tom and Mike were unhurt. For a horrible moment she imagined all sorts of things, but she put them out of her head almost as quickly as they sprang up. Those things were unthinkable.
She yearned to see Tom and Mike again, to hold them and know they were back. Anything else wasn’t worth thinking. Little butterflies were let loose in her belly and made her head feel light. Mary set her jaw when she got to the bottom of the stairs, ready for whatever might come. But she wasn’t ready for what she saw.
Mike seemed to have aged years. His face looked drawn, burned by the sun, and blotched with insect bites. A spotty growth of beard gave him a grizzled look. There were dark circles under his eyes and his clo
thes were dirty and torn. She tried to hide her shock, but she wasn’t sure she did.
The pans clattered on the stove. The deputy went to fetch water. Mary stood for a moment, her hand going to her mouth in shock. She held her arms out to Mike, but as she did, Rebecca turned away from him with a trembling mouth and tears running down her cheeks. She ran and clung to Mary’s leg, stopping her as Mike stood. Mary didn’t see the cuffs at first. Rebecca’s tears distracted her. She though perhaps Rebecca was so happy to see Mike that she’d been overcome. That notion died when she saw the glint of steel, the short length of chain.
Chowder had let MacDougal do the tracking, not that he had much choice. He could not fathom how anything could be tracked through the dense undergrowth in these forests. In many places he couldn’t even see the ground, it was so thick with ferns or grasses or other sorts of low-growing things he didn’t have a name for. The going was rough and exhausting. Where they passed through areas that had been logged it was worse. The limbs and branches left by the loggers formed an impenetrable tangle on the ground. New growth of birch and poplar and beech formed thickets only slightly less dense than hedges. Thorny blackberry tore at their clothes.
Chowder was grateful the trail stuck mostly to the logging roads in those areas. It seemed not even Tupper wanted to fight through if he didn’t have to.
The sun became an orange glow behind the trees as the afternoon wore on. Chowder couldn’t tell for sure if it had set, but it was close. It had been hours since he’d parted with Tom and Mike. He wondered how long it would take them to make it back to Long Lake. He hadn’t told Tom that Mary was there, figuring he’d enjoy the surprise. He grinned. Mary had been quite a catch, and he’d always been more than a little jealous of Tommy for doing the catching.
Shaking Tom and Mary out of his thoughts, Chowder watched the thickets and dense patches of young spruce where the shadows were starting to gather. The light was changing by the minute, and even the open areas were becoming fuzzy. MacDougal hadn’t slowed. In fact, the sheriff had only stopped for a few minutes in the hours of tramping they’d done. Chowder was beginning to wonder if they’d stop at all. He couldn’t imagine how they’d track by lamplight.
The Empire of Shadows Page 32