Arkin couldn't hear her subdued response.
"So you want a fatter ass? That's what you're saying, right? You want a fatter ass?" As the man returned his attention to the gas pump, he glanced over at Morrison, seeming to zero in on the Marine Corps tattoo on Morrison's right shoulder. "Did you serve?" the man asked.
"Yes," Morrison said after a pause, in a tone that all but said no, dipshit. I got this tattoo at the county fair.
"Thank you for your service. You and all the other heroes."
Morrison sighed and turned to Arkin, his face bearing an expression Arkin knew only too well. Please don't, Arkin wanted to say.
Morrison turned back to the man. "Does it make you feel good to say that?" he asked.
"Well, I—come again?"
"What the hell do you know about me, buddy boy? For all you know, I could've been in it for myself. I could be the type of guy who uses cuss words and is mean to puppies."
"And for all we know," Arkin added from the other side of the car, "you might actually be a great guy, and not just some creep who takes out his own shitty self-esteem on his daughter."
"The point being," Morrison went on, "if you over-apply a word, it loses its meaning. And who are you to go around watering down a word like 'hero'? Wait, let me guess. You work for Webster's Dictionary. You're here on assignment, collecting middle-of-nowhere Eastern Oregon slang for the next edition. Your stupid ass attention-begging truck and double-strength redneck clothes are just part of your cover so that locals will speak to you as if you were one of their own. Am I right, or am I right?"
Morrison stood staring the man dead in the eyes. For a moment, it looked as though the man meant to take a swing at Morrison. But then Arkin saw the slightest twitch of his eyebrows—a peek through a crack in the facade at the hardly contained fear within. He turned away without a word, finished fueling up his truck with a forced nonchalance, and took off.
"Good one," Arkin said. "That ought to help keep our profile low."
"We should team up more often."
*****
They drove for several hours, the roads becoming smaller, the passage of other cars growing less and less frequent. Eventually darkness fell, and the high desert came alive with its nocturnal host of creatures. The headlights illuminated pair after pair of luminescent eyes, reflecting gold, orange, sometimes green. Some large, some small.
It had been at least half an hour since they'd passed another car by the time they turned off the now unpaved main road, onto a long dirt driveway that was so badly rutted Arkin worried they might high-center the Prius and get stuck. They took it at a crawl, eventually rounding a gradual bend around a hillock where a tiny cabin situated up on the flank of the gully came into view, illuminated by their headlights.
"Thar she blows," Arkin said. "Home sweet home."
"Or the Alamo."
Morrison parked behind the cabin, just out of sight of the driveway. They got out of the car under a canopy of stars so clear that the Milky Way was plainly visible. Morrison grabbed their gear from the trunk as Arkin picked the lock of the cabin door. It swung open with a loud squeak from its dust-contaminated hinges. The stale air smelled of ancient sunbaked pine planks and the smoke residue of a thousand fires in the wood-burning stove.
"Well, this is cozy," Morrison said, following Arkin in. "Surely cozier than where I'm going."
"You want to trade places?"
"No, you're better bait, and I'm a better shot."
"Keep telling yourself that if it makes you feel better. And speaking of bait. . . ."
Hoping to set the trap without making it too obvious, Arkin turned on his new cellphone and dialed Pratt's office voicemail. He entered his passcode and listened to another two increasingly frantic messages from the phone company attorney who was still asking after the original of the nonexistent subpoena. Then he dialed Morrison's office number and hung up after the voicemail greeting, but left the phone powered up for another few minutes before shutting it off and removing the battery. If the group was as on top of it as he expected they were, that would be enough. They'd lock onto the cell number. They'd learn the call's point of origin in remote Southeastern Oregon, consider the oddity of it, and conclude that Arkin was hiding out. He hoped they'd have good enough cellphone locating capability to zero in on the cabin. He hoped they'd dispatch their killer.
Arkin and Morrison spent an hour going over their basic plan with respect to the most-likely scenarios. Plans of attack. Escape routes. Back up signaling methods in case either of their radios crapped out or were otherwise unavailable. Arkin, keeping a handgun, would remain in the cabin as bait—a warm body, in case whoever came had IR equipment. Morrison would keep watch, with his own IR gear and binoculars, from a hiding place among the boulders a few hundred yards up the mountainside. He'd be armed with his long-range sniper rifle.
Once everything was settled, they suited up, each putting on body armor and a radio headset. Morrison shouldered his pack and picked up his rifle.
"Bill."
"Yeah?"
"This guy winged me with a handgun from 50 yards away as I was sprinting across a narrow alley in the dark."
"Don't feel bad. Everybody gets a little bit slower and dumber at your age."
"He's good. He definitely read chapter two of the manual."
"Please. I'm the best there is."
"After me. Just be care—"
"Hey, hey, hey! Don't jinx us."
THIRTY-TWO
"Barnacle 2, radio check," Morrison said, his voice startling Arkin who had the volume of his headset turned up too high. He'd fallen asleep on the cabin's old, threadbare couch.
"Barnacle?"
"It's our operational call sign."
"Copy that, Barnacle 1. Your signal is five-by-five."
"And yours."
"Are you in position?"
"Yessir, I be. There's a metric shit-ton of IR clutter out here. Lot of little animals running around. Some bigger ones. One coyote. Two something-or-others with horns."
"Are you comfortable?"
"Up yours."
"That bad, huh?"
"I'm lying on volcanic scree, Nate. A zillion sharp little chunks of shattered basalt. And, to borrow a line from William Shakespeare, it's colder than shit out here."
"Hamlet?"
"Romeo and Juliet."
"Put on your coat."
"Thanks."
"I think, to properly play the part of bait, I should light a little fire in the stove here. Maybe read one of these paperbacks while reclined on the cozy couch."
"Bastard."
*****
A day went by without either of them seeing another human being, the highlights of the long hours being the breaks they took to cook freeze-dried beef stroganoff. On their first morning, a chill wind tore down the face of the mountain, bending the tall grass of the surrounding land, whistling around the cabin. To keep warm, Morrison had wrapped himself in a makeshift cocoon of two wool blankets and a sand-colored tarp. "I don't know how I ever had the patience for this shit when I was in the Corps," he said over the radio. Arkin didn't respond. "Nate?"
"What?"
"Did you hear what I said?"
"Was I supposed to say something?"
"Oh, that's nice. Just ignore me." Again, Arkin didn't bother to answer. "Nate, I feel like we never talk anymore."
"You sound like one of my ex-girlfriends."
"I'm just saying. It would be nice sometimes, you know, to talk about things."
"What do you want to talk about, Ms. Winfrey?"
"Our feelings."
"You're going to wear down the battery of your radio."
"Which is your dysfunctional way of saying that you aren't comfortable talking about your feelings. I hear you. Of course, our words usually just come out wrong anyway, don't they? Maybe if we expressed ourselves in song."
"Song?"
"Here, I'll be Barbra Streisand and you can be Neil Diamond." Morrison began a
slow rendition of You Don't Bring Me Flowers.
"Bill," Arkin interrupted after the first two lines.
"Yes."
"Would it make you angry if I shot you just a little bit?"
*****
The following days were gray and windy, the nights exceptionally dark. Once in a while, coyotes would cry lonely signals back and forth across the hills. But for the most part, it was dead quiet. Arkin found the silence oppressive, but didn't want to wear down his radio battery chatting up Morrison. The inactivity made it that much worse. He could hardly stand it—waiting in the dark, waiting in silence, standing still as time ticked by. The conditions were opening the door to his anxieties, and he was hard pressed to keep his concerns about Hannah from hijacking his mind to the point where he'd have trouble staying focused and ready for action. For once, it was he who broke radio silence. "So, Viggo Mortensen for the assassin," he said to Morrison. "Who plays you? Christian Bale?"
"Matthew McConaughey."
"Please. How do you figure?"
"Whoever it is, they have to be at least almost as good-looking as me. Plus, he can put on an accent. It's a slam dunk."
"Whatever. So who plays me?"
"Wilford Brimley."
Arkin laughed for the first time in days. "Thank you. But really, how about Josh Brolin, or that Brad Pitt?"
"That Brad Pitt? You sound like my grandmother back in Hattiesburg. She prefaces people's names with that, and puts the before the names of diseases. Like 'that Myrtle Scruggs got the diabetes.'"
"And?"
"You can't put that many superstars in one movie."
"Why not?"
"Simple physics. You put too many of them on one soundstage, and they start to spontaneously combust."
"That a fact? Then what about Glengarry Glen Ross? Or Ocean's 13."
"Anomalies. And for that matter, did you know Marlon Brando was contracted to play one of the characters in Glengarry Glen Ross?"
"Which character?"
"Fluffy."
"There's no—"
"But he burst into flame the second week of filming. They had to completely drop his character from the script and then go back and re-shoot all the scenes."
*****
With all the downtime, Arkin plowed through seven of the paperbacks, all of which he'd previously read. The Sun Also Rises, We the Living, and The Right Stuff, among others. He and Morrison would switch positions shortly after dawn so that Morrison could take a sleep break. The weather remained dry but cold. In the middle of the third night, Morrison was pouring boiling water into an unappealing pouch of freeze-dried red beans and rice. "Ugh. This stuff smells like the dirty dishwaters of the Mississippi truck stop luncheonettes of my youth."
"Say again?" Arkin mumbled.
"This food."
"You woke me up to complain about your food?"
"The red beans and rice. It smells wretched."
"I told you that one was bad."
"I can't eat beef stroganoff for every meal. I'll get constipated."
"That's your problem."
"Is that it?"
"No, I don't mean that's your problem, as though you only have one. I mean that's your problem, as in it's not my problem."
"Have you ever had curry laksa soup, Nate?"
"Can't say that I have."
"Oh, it's just wonderful. A Malaysian dish. Coconut milk. Curry, of course. Chili paste, coriander. You let the base ingredients simmer all day, and all those flavors blend together."
"Please stop talking."
"Throw in some fresh shrimp, fish, maybe some bean curd puffs and bean sprouts. Then you serve it steaming hot, over noodles. It's even better the next day, after those flavors have time to intermingle."
"Wait, did you just say intermingle? And you gave me a hard time about using the word terroir?"
"Terroir is a hundred times more ridiculous than intermingle."
"Oh, sure it is. And yet somehow I can already picture you in a MARPAT apron on the Food Network, a little jar of Herbes de Provence in one hand, a Williams-Sonoma copper saucepan full of Rocky Mountain oyst—"
"Movement!"
Arkin hopped to his feet. "Where?"
"Stand by one. Okay. West-Northwest, about 20 degrees up from your position. A solo. Looks like he's coming down off the ridge, maybe making for the cabin. But I'm not for sure."
"You're not for sure?" Arkin said as he took a peek out the window, up toward the ridge. "That's the first southern expression I've heard come out of your mouth since—"
"He has a long gun."
"Heavy rifle?"
"Can't tell yet. I'll update you as needed."
"Copy."
A few minutes later, Morrison's voice came over the radio again. "He's definitely making for the cabin. Definitely carrying a rifle. Not long enough to be a Zastava M93, but still a good size. No apparent night vision gear."
"Any other targets?" he asked, strapping on a hip holster and gun.
"Negative."
"I'm going outside."
"Copy. I'm coming down."
Their preplanned strategy for neutralizing a single operative approaching on foot was to close in from two different angles, with Morrison doing his best to get behind the person and into a good position from which to shoot his legs. And as the unidentified man made his way down the mountainside toward the cabin, they slowly positioned themselves to do just that.
"Talk to me," Arkin radioed in a whisper.
"Target is about 200 meters west-northwest of your position, still closing on the cabin."
"And the gun?"
"I can't get a clear view. It's strapped tight across his back."
"Copy."
"Nate, he just crouched down. Stand by."
"Is he setting up to shoot?"
"Hold on." Arkin held on, listening hard to the overbearing silence. "He's just crouching. Gun is still on his back. He's either looking at the cabin or the car. I see a good approach for you. If you shift to your right, you'll be behind a shallow ridgeline, just below his line of sight, almost all the way to his position. Do you see what I'm talking about?
"Roger."
"Make your move, and I'll keep eyes on. That approach should get you almost parallel to his position before you'd have to break cover."
Arkin began his shift to the right, and gradually made his way up the hill behind the ridge Morrison had pointed out. At the same time, Morrison continued his descent behind the man, pausing periodically to try to get a better look at what the man was up to and precisely how he was armed. After three such pauses, it looked as though the man was eyeballing the Prius, but Morrison still hadn't had any luck getting a good look at the rifle. When he got to within one hundred yards of the man, he dropped into a good firing position and took another look—this time through the night vision scope of his rifle. He could see Arkin now approaching from the man's left, his handgun drawn and aimed, his every step silent and sure. A vengeful predator, ready to shoot. Shifting his gaze back to the man, Morrison saw that the rifle was finally in clear view. It was nothing but an old bolt-action hunting rifle. It didn't even have a scope on it.
"Nate, wave off. Wave off."
"Copy." Arkin lowered his gun and took a deep breath.
*****
Arkin and Morrison sat still in the dark, waiting for their hearts to quit pounding. Waiting for the man to leave. When he finally did, disappearing, on foot, around the long bend of the driveway, they broke cover and rendezvoused in the spot where the man had been crouching. "And a good time was had by all," Morrison said, offering Arkin his canteen.
"Must have been poacher," Arkin said.
"Why do you think that?"
"He was worried about the car. Probably worried it was a BLM game officer."
"In a Prius?"
"In a white car that, in this darkness, he probably couldn't see well enough to determine the make or model of." Arkin kicked at the dirt. "Let's get out of here."
&
nbsp; Morrison looked mildly surprised. "You sure you don't want to give it one more day?"
"If anyone was coming, they'd be here by now. It's only a long day's drive from Vancouver."
"Maybe he wasn't in Vancouver when you sent your clever signal. Maybe he was starting from somewhere farther away. Or maybe the group's footwork isn't always as quick as we've come to expect."
"Or maybe they didn't even pick up on the phone call. Whatever the case, I don't have time to sit around. I can't take it. Let's get the hell out of here."
"Eugene?"
"Eugene."
THIRTY-THREE
Several hours later, they were driving south on U.S. 97, along the eastern flank of the Cascade Mountain Range, with the high, glaciated summit of some old, extinct shield volcano—maybe Mount Thielsen or Diamond Peak—flashing between gaps in the trees ahead of them. "I have to confess something," Arkin said.
"If it's that you shave your testicles, I already suspected as much. You hardcore bike riders all get a little weird with the whole body hair remov—"
"I found Sheffield."
Morrison licked his lips. "Roland Sheffield?"
"He's alive. The Eugene fax number. It's his house."
"Huh. Well. Good to know, Nate. So you saw him, then?"
"No. But it's definitely his house."
"So he's involved."
"On some level."
"What do you mean, 'on some level'? He's the man."
"I can't. . . ." Arkin shook his head.
"Holy shit, Nate."
"He and his wife were as good as family to Hannah and me. I know him. There's just no way—"
"Bless your heart. Listen to yourself. You're starting to sound like one of those terrified souls who refuse to face the flaws of their religious beliefs. Where is logical Nate when we need him?"
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