by Mark Dawson
He smiled. “Well, yes, if you put it like that, I do. Can you?”
“Of course I can,” she said indignantly.
“Good.”
“What about you?”
“They’ve got no idea what they’re doing,” he said. “Look at them. They’ve got no security, no lookout, they don’t have their weapons with them. My guess, they’ve left them in the hut. I’m going to walk into camp and suggest that it is in their best interests to give up. If they have a different opinion, I’ll persuade them otherwise.”
“And if you can’t?”
“It’s not going to be difficult, Ellie.”
“What if it is?”
“If it is, then you go back to Truth. Take Mallory with you and head south. You’ll want to trek through the night; don’t stop. You’ll be back there tomorrow. Then you call in the cavalry. I should think I’ll still be around by then.”
She sighed and shook her head, ready to try to persuade him again that this was foolish.
“But it won’t be necessary.” He took off his jacket and laid it out across a branch. “I tell you what: if I can get them to surrender before”—he looked at his watch—“eight o’clock, you can buy me dinner when we get back into town.”
“What time is it now?”
He smiled at her. “A quarter to.”
“All right,” she relented, shaking her head with exasperation, but unable to suppress her smile. “But you don’t have to do anything crazy to ask me out.”
“No?”
“You could’ve, you know, just asked me.”
Milton took Ellie’s Glock and ejected the magazine. He nodded in satisfaction as he slotted it back home.
“You have any restraints?”
“Just these,” she said, reaching down into her bag for a collection of cable ties.
He took them. “They’ll do.” He checked his watch. “Better get a move on.” He crept through the brush to the camp. Their fire was brighter against the approaching gloom. “Keep your eyes on me.”
And, with that, he was gone.
Chapter 16
MILTON STAYED in the cover of the trees and the scrub that provided a thick fringe around the perimeter of the camp. The area was ringed with wetlands and, as darkness fell, the lake and its chain of smaller ponds erupted in a din of peeps and croaks. Milton didn’t mind at all. Anything that helped to mask his approach was welcome.
He thought about Ellie. He had surprised himself back there. He hadn’t thought too hard about women ever since he had left San Francisco, deciding once again that he wasn’t in the business of making attachments. He liked to stay on the move, flitting from place to place, and a relationship would make that kind of flexible lifestyle impossible. Normal people wanted normal lives. They wanted mortgages, regular jobs, fifty-inch televisions, and big washing machines. They wanted a dog, holidays, health insurance. They wanted kids. Milton didn’t want any of those things, and he couldn’t imagine circumstances where he would. He had been on his own long enough so that the logic that said those items—those things—were desirable was beyond him.
It made much more sense for him to be alone. He was fine with that. He didn’t want pity, nor did he pity himself. Solitude was an acceptable substitute for the program, at least it was for him, and the possibility of long stretches of time where the only person he had to speak to was himself was a form of meditation that had allowed him to understand himself better.
So why had he asked her out?
Because she was cute and sassy?
He had been thinking about her all day. He kept seeing her in different ways: lying in the tent last night, the firelight dancing in her eyes; her face up close, the freckles that you couldn’t see unless you were really looking hard; the way she eyeballed him when he hauled himself out of the lake; the way her chest filled her shirt when she worked the straps of her pack over her shoulders; and watching her from behind as they were climbing the ridge. Those images kept popping into his head, one after another, distracting him, when he needed to keep his focus clear. He dismissed them, but then he would remember the way that her hand had felt in his, the warmth of her body as he had reached down to drag her up the slippery scree. He heard her voice, too, the confident tone, the attitude that almost dared him to argue with her. The way she had said, “I’m staying right here,” as he prepared the camp for the night yesterday, the way she’d said it and the way she’d looked at him, making him think that she was inviting him to take her to his tent. He heard that again and again and wondered what would have happened if he had made a pass at her.
An FBI agent.
With his history?
What was he, crazy?
Never mind. No sense thinking about any of that now. He needed a clear head. He would address it all later, once he had taken care of business.
He stayed low, hurrying from cover to cover, breaking into the spaces between the trees and brush only when he was sure that he wasn’t observed. As he got closer, he could begin to make out scraps of conversation floating to him on the breeze. He was still too far away to pick out the words, but he could tell from the raucous, bawdy atmosphere that the four of them were drunk. Arthur Stanton was sitting on the edge of the fire, his knees hugged against his chest. They would occasionally gesture in his direction. He would smile or say something, but Milton could tell that all they had for him was ridicule. He was nothing more than their entertainment. A court jester.
He crept closer, sliding into the cover of an oak and then peering around the trunk. He was twenty feet away now. There was a large jug on the ground, and they passed it between them regularly. Milton guessed that they had a still somewhere close, and that they were passing the hours by brewing their own hooch and then getting drunk on it.
Amateurs.
They had no idea what they were doing.
That was good.
He hunkered down behind the trunk of the last large pine before the clearing. The four fugitives obviously felt comfortable enough to set a large fire, and they were gathered around it, passing around the jug of moonshine. Arthur Stanton looked miserable. He was closest to Milton. He would pass him first. He didn’t expect that to be a problem and, if there was any shooting, he was far enough away that he ought to be safe.
Milton held Ellie’s Glock in a loose grip, composing himself, running through his plan one final time so that it was clear in his mind.
First impressions were going to be crucially important. He needed those boys to be in no doubt that he would shoot them if they didn’t do what he told them to do.
He took a deep breath. He looked back up the slope, into the tree line. Ellie and Mallory were hidden amidst the foliage and he couldn’t see them. He hoped that Ellie could shoot the rifle, but, if she couldn’t, it was too late to worry about now.
He took another breath, stood, stepped around the tree trunk, and walked to the campfire with a confident, authoritative gait.
Three of them had their backs to him. The other one, a weasily, buck-toothed man who looked like he was a hundred and fifty pounds dripping wet, saw him coming. His face changed from drunken confusion to fear. “Hey, hey,” he called out to the others, stabbing his finger at Milton even as he tried to scramble backwards. “Look!”
The others turned.
Milton raised the pistol and aimed it right at them.
“Don’t do anything stupid,” he said, his voice level and even.
One of the young men had bleached blond hair and tattoos down both arms. “What you say?” he said.
“Lie face down on the ground, hands behind your head.”
The man got to his feet, opening and closing his fists. “Ain’t gonna happen, partner. There’s four of us and one of you. How you think that’s going to play out?”
Milton aimed a fraction above the man’s head and pulled the trigger. The pistol barked and the sound of the shot reverberated back at them from the cliff face. The round whistled a few inches above his bleached hair. He jumped f
rom the shock of it.
“There might be four of you, but you’ve been foolish and left your weapons inside.”
“You ain’t going to shoot us,” he said, although his tone did not suggest much confidence.
One of the others, pasty white with a shock of red hair, had started to get to his feet. Milton slowed the pace of his advance, keeping all of them within easy range.
Milton switched his aim, going low, and squeezed the trigger again.
The bullet thudded into the ground in front of the man’s feet.
He jumped back, stumbling into the fire.
The one with the red hair bolted for the hut.
There came a loud crack from up the slope as Ellie fired the rifle. The round landed between the man and the door of the hut, sending up a small detonation of pebbles and rocky shards. He stopped suddenly, losing his balance and skidding down onto his behind.
“Let me set this out for you so you know what’s going on. There’s a sniper up the hill. Probably has one of you in her sights right now. You try to run again and you might find your head gets blown clean off your shoulders. And I’ll shoot you, too. I can take all four of you before you get ten feet in my direction. The game’s up, boys. It’d be better for you if you figure it out now.”
Milton heard the scramble behind him and caught the flash of motion in the corner of his eye. It was Arthur. He spared him a quick glance, his gun arm held steady and aimed at the bleached blond man’s head. The boy ran for the entrance to the mine, his feet sliding on the loose scree.
“Who are you?” the blond man asked.
“My name is Milton,” he said. “And you’re all coming with me.”
THE BLOND MAN did as Milton instructed, lying flat on the ground, face down, and lacing his fingers behind his head. It was obvious that he was in charge because the other three quickly followed his example. Milton took Ellie’s cable ties from his pocket and fastened their wrists behind their backs, one at a time.
There came the sound of a frantic descent down the slope, and Milton paused cautiously, his pistol waiting, until he saw Mallory crash through the underbrush, a small avalanche of pebbles and scree following down after her. Ellie came behind her, the rifle held muzzle down.
“Good shot,” Milton said.
“They give you any trouble?”
“Not really. They’re drunk. They just needed to see we were serious.”
“She’s desperate,” she said, gesturing at Mallory. “She saw him run. It was all I could do to get her to wait until you had them cuffed.”
The girl was halfway to the entrance of the mine.
“Keep the rifle on them. All right?”
“I’ve got it. Go.”
Milton jogged after the girl. “Mallory,” he called out. “Wait.”
She ignored him, slipping and sliding down the wet steps and into the dark mouth of the mine.
Milton followed. The opening was rough-hewn and dripping with moisture. He descended carefully, feeling the slickness through the soles of his shoes.
The tunnel was about six feet square, cut into a reddish brown rock. Along the ground was a shallow river of water, running from somewhere in the interior of the mine and draining into a natural vent behind the entrance. It was unlit, and Milton saw Mallory’s back just as she disappeared into the darkness.
“Arty,” he heard her call out. “It’s me.”
He stepped out carefully. If he tripped and turned an ankle, broke something…
“Arty!”
“Mall?”
There was a flash of sudden light as a flashlight was snapped on. The beam swung across the walls of the corridor, sparking against his eyes. He blinked to clear them, and when he did, he saw that Arthur Stanton was holding the flashlight, aiming it straight up at the roof. He was at the far end of the tunnel, up against a thick concrete block wall that was topped with a grated opening. Moisture seeped through the cracks in the concrete, and Milton presumed that it had been placed there to hold back a body of water.
Mallory hurried forwards to her brother.
“Jeez,” he said. “Jeez, Mallory. It’s sure good to see you.”
He bundled her into his arms, the beam of light swinging around. Milton walked another two paces and paused, aware that the boy was liable to be frightened by someone he didn’t know, especially since that someone had a pistol.
Arthur saw him and recoiled. “Who’s that, Mall?”
“It’s Mr. Milton,” she said. “He’s a friend.”
“Hello, Arthur,” Milton said, smiling.
“It’s Arty,” he said, still dubious. “No one calls me Arthur no more.”
“All right then, Arty. Are you okay?”
“I’m good,” he said, looking back at his sister for confirmation.
“You’re better now,” she said. “Why don’t you give Mr. Milton your flashlight?”
“Okay.”
He did. Milton took it and flashed it around the tunnel. The water was deeper here, running around the uppers of his boots, and the block wall behind them had been defaced with graffiti. There was nothing else of interest.
Milton led the way outside again, Mallory following with her brother’s hand holding hers tightly. The sun was low in the sky, the fading light shining into their eyes as they emerged. Milton let them pass him. They started in the direction of the camp as he shoved Ellie’s pistol into the waistband of his trousers. Two shots fired, that was all, three if you counted the rifle. No one hurt. It had been a simple enough thing to subdue them. But Milton couldn’t relax. He was experienced enough to know that when things were too good to be true, they usually were. He would only be comfortable when he had delivered them to Lester Grogan back in Truth.
And they had a long day ahead of them tomorrow before he could do that.
MILTON TOLD Mallory and Arty to stay with Ellie and then left them to conduct a careful survey of the camp.
He found four dirt bikes just inside the woods, propped up one against the other. The tracks suggested that they got in and out of the camp by riding along the beach to the east. Milton supposed that there was an easier path in that direction that would allow them to climb the ridge and then give access to the old railroad tracks that crisscrossed the terrain beyond. It would be a reasonable ride to reach civilisation from here, but that was to their advantage. They would be able to traverse the ridges and valleys a lot more quickly than a pursuer in a jeep.
Milton returned to the camp and approached the larger of the two cabins. It was the one that the lake had surrounded, water gently lapping up against the wooden piles that had been sunk into the ground. He splashed through the water and went inside. One wall abutted the rock of the cliff face that stretched overhead. The other three walls were constructed from corner-notched logs, and the roof, panels of corrugated steel, was supported by log rafters. It was dry inside, the water below the raised level of the floor. There were four bedrolls, and an array of empty beer bottles lined the north wall. Milton moved inside and idly flicked the nearest bedroll with the toe of his boot. This was their accommodation, then. He noted that there were only four bedrolls. It didn’t look like Arthur Stanton shared the hut with them. That didn’t surprise him at all.
He went back outside and approached the second cabin. It was dilapidated and looked like it had been constructed years before. A bank of sand had gathered up to the height of his knee against the walls, and there was evidence that it had been shovelled away from the door. A network of roots had also been cleared away, the remnants still bearing the jagged edges from the serrated blade that had been used for the task. He went inside. Milton saw a ripped canvas cot along the south wall, a fifty-year-old military stove along the east wall, and a folding chair along the north wall. An assortment of cooking utensils and pots were arranged around the stove. There was trap-rigging wire, ammunition, firewood, cans and tools scattered about the floor.
There were three shotguns propped against the wall, and, hanging fro
m a single nail, was a lightweight compound bow and a quiver of arrows. Two handleless shovels were near the entrance. A small shelf held more boxes of ammunition and a combat knife.
The carcass of a big roe deer had been hung from a hook that was screwed into a roof beam. Milton inspected it, rotating it left and right. It looked fresh. Tins of beans and dried food were stacked up across two shelves. Large paper bags were full of vegetables and other groceries.
Milton went over and looked at the cot. It was in bad shape, the tear almost all the way across. If Arthur had been sleeping here, in what was obviously the food and gear store, then it couldn’t possibly have been comfortable. And, he thought, if that deer wasn’t dressed soon, it was going to start to smell pretty awful.
He went outside, turned, and looked back at the lake and the huts. The sun was dipping down to the horizon. Milton did not wear a watch, so he held up his hand before his face, testing how many fingers he could fit beneath the edge of the sun and the start of the horizon. Each finger meant fifteen minutes until sunset, and he could manage three. Forty-five minutes left.
Mallory and Arty were sitting near the water’s edge. Ellie was standing over the four men, the rifle steady in her cradled arms.
“How are they?”
“Plenty of threats,” she said, “but nothing to back it up.”
“Who’s who?”
She pointed at them one after the other. “Blondie is Michael Callow. Red is Tom Chandler. The skinny one is Eric Sellar. Black hair, Reggie Sturgess. They’ve given the bureau a lot of trouble.”
“And you can claim the credit for bringing them in,” he said.
“Hardly.”
“It’s got nothing to do with me. It’s all on you.”
“We’ll see,” she said, handing him his rifle. He returned her Glock to her.
Milton was about to say that as soon as they got back to Truth he would be off again, headed west, a job well done. But then he remembered that they were going to have dinner, and he allowed himself a moment to reflect upon whether he might be able to change his plans, just a little, to see what happened. He had no itinerary. He was as flexible as he wanted to be. What harm was there in a little delay?