Way Of The Wolf

by E. E. Knight

  “Orders. You’re wanted for questioning.”

  “Orders? We’ll see what Major Flanagan has to say about that!”

  “He gave the orders, pard,” the harsh voice answered. “Think your days of being under his wing are over. Your little girl stuck a steak knife into Mr. Brass Ring’s neck—”

  “Oh, my God!” Mrs. Carlson gasped.

  “—a couple of hours ago,” Toland continued. “Your brother is fucked, and he knows it, and he thinks the only way out of the jam is to arrest everyone here.”

  “Can I at least tell my hired help to take care of things while I’m gone?”

  “The Breitlings? We’re supposed to arrest them, too. Where’s those two from up north, the guy who was seeing your daughter? The major wants him brought personal to his office.”

  “They left after dinner,” Frat volunteered. “David was pissed about the whole thing with Molly.”

  “Shuddup, Sambo. If I want your opinion, I’ll slap it out of you. Carlson, is he right?”

  “Yes, you searched the house, didn’t you?” Carlson said, voice still tremulous.

  “Which way did they go, and when?”

  “After dinner. They didn’t even eat with us. I think they went north, but I dunno. I’ve had other things on my mind today than watching them leave. You should leave us alone and go after them; they probably put her up to it.”

  A rattling came from above. “I got them leg irons, Sarge. Should we link ‘em up now?”

  “Yeah. Pillow, go out to the car and radio that we got the Carlsons in custody. Also put out a general call to pick up two men on horseback. One’s got a bum hand. You other two get busy with those shackles.”

  Valentine touched Gonzalez on the shoulder in the darkness, and they felt for the door. They cut across the shadowed basement, listening to the rattle of chains as the patrollers fixed the family into the leg irons. Valentine led the way up the basement steps, keeping to the edges to lessen the sound of boards creaking. They padded through the kitchen barefoot, Valentine with his repeater to his shoulder and Gonzalez with his held against his hip. Valentine paused for just a second to listen at the corner between the kitchen and the front living room, attempting to place the occupants by sound. All he could hear was a frightened crying from young Mary Carlson and the sounds of shackles being clicked closed and chains passed through steel eyes. He gestured to Gonzalez, who moved to the kitchen door of the house.

  With a quick sidestep Valentine rounded the corner, gun tight to his shoulder, a shotgun-wielding man already in his sights. “Nobody move,” he said, in a low tone. “You with the shotgun, put it on the floor, holding it by the barrel. You two with the chains, facedown on the floor!”

  As he spoke, Gonzalez opened the back door, holding the rifle in his armpit, and disappeared into the darkness.

  The patrollers, conditioned by years of practice in using their guns to bully unarmed farmers and townspeople, complied with alacrity. The Carlsons, dressed in their bedclothes, kicked the weapons away from the uniformed Quislings.

  “Okay, you with the stripes, facedown, too. Good. Spread eagle, gentlemen. I’ve got eight shots in this repeater; the man who moves gets the first one. Frat, get the guns away from them, before they get any ideas.”

  Frat began collecting pistols and shotguns. “This’ll cut it, Carlson,” Sergeant Toland said, speaking into the floor. “Before, you were just wanted for questioning. This means you’re all dead within a day or two. Not an easy death, either, if the Reapers—”

  A pistol thrust into the sergeant’s mouth cut off the imprecations. “Shut up, Sarge. When I want any of your lip, I’ll blow it off,” Frat said, cocking the revolver.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Carlson, start putting the shackles on them, hands and feet, please,” Valentine said.

  The screen door swung open, and the fourth patroller entered, his fingers laced behind his head and the muzzle of Gonzalez’s gun pressing him behind the ear.

  “Pillow here just reported the situation as being under control,” Gonzalez said. “Is it, sir?”

  “Seems to be. Where are the Breitlings?”

  “They hadn’t gotten around to them, yet,” Mr. Carlson said. “They’re probably still asleep.”

  “Mrs. Carlson, after you’ve finished, do you think you could go get them?” Valentine asked.

  “Could I get some more clothes on first?”

  “Of course.” The patrollers were now securely shackled and handcuffed. They’re scared, Valentine thought, looking at the sweat stains on the blue uniforms. He was also pretty sure that the one named Pillow had pissed himself. Scared people confuse easily.

  “Boy, that major is fucking things up, Carlson,” Valentine said, winking at his benefactor. “Hey, Sarge. Do you know what you’ve stumbled into?”

  “You’re a corpse, boy. You’re a corpse that happens to be walking and talking for a few more hours.”

  “Don’t think so, Sarge. Look at this,” he said, thrusting his rifle butt under Toland’s nose. “You’ve just busted in on a Twisted Cross double-secret blind operation.”

  “What the fuck is the Twisted Cross? ”Double secret‘ bullshit!“ Sergeant Toland said, unimpressed.

  “You wouldn’t know, would you? We wanted Touchet dead, but we couldn’t get at him in Illinois, because he’s bought off so many of the people around him. But why am I telling you this? He was trying to spy out the operation at Blue Mounds.”

  “Bullshit,” the sergeant responded. “Bangin‘ the Carlson girl ain’t going to accomplish that, nor giving speeches, neither.”

  “Sarge, you don’t have to believe me. But let me give you two facts. One is that you’re still alive, and the other is that all this is way over your head. Something’s gone wrong with our operation, or you wouldn’t have gotten those orders to bring these folks in. I suggest that in the future you have Madison confirm everything before doing what Major Flanagan says. Gonzalez?”

  “Yes, sir,” his scout replied.

  “We’re switching to plan Red Charlie.”

  “Er… you’re in charge, sir,” Gonzalez said. Valentine hoped the patrollers would interpret Gonzalez’s confusion for reluctance.

  “Let’s go outside and discuss it. Mr. Carlson, Frat, keep an eye on these four.”

  In the cool night air, Valentine patted Gonzalez on the back. “Good job with Pillow, Gonzo. You still haven’t lost your touch, injury or no.”

  “Sir, what’s our next move? Are we going to leave now?”

  Valentine nodded and walked down the road toward the vehicles. A dirt-covered patrol car and a delivery-van-type truck stood in the blackness. The clouds had still not dispersed.

  “Gonzo, I’m going to have to give you a lot of responsibility. Maybe it will take your mind off the pain in your arm. I want to get the Carlsons and the Breitlings out of Wisconsin. All the way to the Ozark Free Territory.”

  “We can do it.”

  “Maybe we could. But, Gonzo, it’s not going to be a we. It’s going to be a you. I’m going after Molly.”

  Gonzo’s eyes bulged with surprise. “My friend,” he said finally. “She’s probably dead already.”

  “If she is, she’s going to have some company. That asshole of an uncle, for one.”

  “What is more important, getting you and me and these people back safely, telling about what we saw behind all those skulls, or killing one Quisling? I hate to tell you your duty, but—”

  “Fuck my duty,” Valentine said. Just the words themselves could subject him to a court-martial and firing squad, but he might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb. “I’ve had too many people I care about die. Not this one, not this girl.”

  “I’ve already forgotten what you just said, sir. But you will still have to explain this if you get back. What am I supposed to do with these civilians? The prisoners? I’d have a tough time making it back to the Ozarks, just me and my horse, let alone all these people.”

  “Here’s the plan�
��” Valentine said. Gonzalez listened as his lieutenant gave his final orders.

  An hour later, everything was ready. The patrollers were locked in the feed shed, still shackled. The feed shed had the best lock and was the only all-cinder block construction on the farm. The delivery van waited with its ramp brought up and rear liftgate closed; horses were saddled and tied to the rear bumper. Inside the spacious interior, empty except for numerous eyebolts for fixing prisoners in position, were the Breitlings, Mrs. Carlson, and Mary Carlson, clutching a few blankets and some travel clothing, along with the family dog. Mr. Carlson was at the wheel, and Gonzalez rode shotgun. Both were dressed in blue patroller uniforms taken from the Quisling captives.

  Valentine and Frat stood outside the passenger door. Valentine wore the best of the uniforms and carried the identity papers of the patroller who most resembled him, the pants-wetting Pillow.

  “We meet south of the bridge outside Benton, okay, Frat?” Gonzalez asked, rolling Valentine’s map back up and returning it to the tube. Frat nodded.

  “Mr. Carlson, if I can’t get your daughter, I’m going to leave one hell of a trail of dead Quislings,” Valentine said. “They’ll come after me with everything they’ve got. Should make it a little easier for you.”

  “No one’s asking you to do this, son,” Mr. Carlson said from the driver’s seat. “Molly’s probably already dead. Maybe she used the knife on herself after killing Touchet.” Carlson’s lips trembled as he spoke.

  “I don’t think she’d give up that easy, Alan. If she’s alive, I’m going to get her back. I’m coming back with your daughter, or not at all.” He turned to Gonzalez and shook his friend’s good hand. “Gonzo, I know you can do this,” Valentine said quietly. “You’ve got the brains and the skills. Just keep them moving. Eat the horses one by one if it helps. When you get back, tell them everything you remember, even if it doesn’t seem important. They’ve also got to get a Cat or two up here to find out what’s going on at Blue Mounds. One other thing: Get Frat into the Hunters, or at least have him posted as an Aspirant. He’ll make a better Wolf than either of us, at least someday. Take every buckchit I’ve got and draw it to get the Carlsons started. I’ve got some friends in a little place called Weening.“

  Valentine racked his mind, searching for another suggestion to increase Gonzalez’s chances. There was always one more order to give, one more contingency to consider.

  “I will do it, all of it, sir. Vaya con Dios, jefe. And I’ll be praying for you, sir. Every day.”

  “Back to praying, Gonzalez? I thought your mother was in charge of that.”

  “She’s in charge of my soul. I’ll take care of yours.”

  “You’re going to have plenty to take care of in the next couple of weeks without my soul thrown in. But thank you anyway; I’m honored.”

  Carlson started up the truck, and Valentine hopped to the ground. Gonzalez gave a little salute from his perch. “Good luck, Lieutenant.”

  “Send my respects to the Zulus, Gonzo!”

  The truck rolled off into the darkened west. Hours to go before daylight.

  “Okay, Frat. You and me now. I wish I had learned how to drive better.”

  “It’s okay, Lieutenant,” Frat said, moving around to the driver’s side. “I know the way, so it’s just as well.”

  “You can call me David, bud. Drive slow and careful. Keep the headlights off.”

  “I know, I know. You told me. Where to?”

  Valentine checked the contents of his pack and a spare feedbag, which held extra restraints and a few packets from the Carlsons’ kitchen. “Your uncle’s house. You can tell me everything you remember about it on the way.”

  Frat covered the twenty miles in just over an hour, switching to tractor trails and cattle paths as he drew close to Monroe. The roads were empty, and the night seemed to be waiting for the curtain to go up on the last act of the play. The radio squawked occasionally, reporting from the patrols looking for two men on horseback. Valentine mentally prepared himself for a tragic ending to the drama. As Frat drove, leaning far forward as if the extra foot and a half of viewing distance made a difference, Valentine applied a hacksaw to the double-barreled shotgun, taking off the barrels from the edge of the wooden grip onward. He then filled the pockets on its leather sling-bandolier with buckshot shells. A second pump-action shotgun lay on the wooden backseat of the car.

  “Okay, we’re in the fields behind his house. It’s right beyond that line of trees there,” Frat informed him. “We’ve stayed over here a few times, back when he had a wife.”

  “Whatever happened to her?” Valentine asked.

  “Don’t know. Nobody does. One day she was just gone, and we learned not to ask.”

  “So he’s not much for answering questions, then?” Valentine stepped out of the car and took the pump-action shotgun, pocketing shells into his stolen uniform. “I’ll try to change that. Keep the scattergun handy, Frat. Don’t be afraid to use it, and pull out if something comes after you. Keep alert.”

  “I will, sir. You be careful.”

  Valentine walked silently up to the line of trees, listening and smelling for the guard dogs. Their scent seemed to be everywhere across the lawn. Perhaps they were around front.

  The extravagant house had bright security lights mounted high up just under the roof, angled out to bathe the lawn in white light. Their brilliance threw the surrounding terrain into harsh, black-and-white relief, blazing white wherever the lights touched and utter black in the shadows. Valentine whistled softly.

  One of the great black rottweilers appeared from around the garage corner. Valentine reached into his feed bag and placed a few strips of meat on the flat of his parang. He whistled again. The dog growled and took a few steps closer. Valentine stayed very still, offering the meat from the brush at the edge of the woods.

  “Good dog, good dog,” Valentine said soothingly. The dog licked its chops and padded forward. Valentine lowered the blade to the grass, and the dog began eating. Flanagan obviously used the dogs only for show; a real guard dog would be trained not to take food from anyone but its keeper. Having made friends, Valentine stood for a moment patting the hopeful-looking dog.

  Valentine watched the sleeping house for a few moments then jogged across the lawn to the back door. The rottweiler trotted along happily. The second hound, curled up on the mat at the door fast asleep, startled at their approach. Seeing the other dog, it came forward to greet the late-night visitor. Valentine issued more tidbits to the dogs and began feeling along the top of the windowsill to the left of the door for the key Frat said was hidden there. He found it, placed on a small nail hammered into the top of the windowsill.

  The key fit the dead bolt on the back door, but Valentine was able to open the door only an inch or two. A heavy chain across the inside of the door barred further progress. He reached into his bag of tricks for the rusty crowbar from the patrol car’s trunk, fixed it to the chain near its mounting on the doorjamb, and pulled. The chain parted with a loud ting.

  Valentine entered the kitchen behind the business end of the shotgun. The tabletop was a mess of dirty dishes and paperwork. The main light over the table was still on, bathing the littered octagonal surface in a puddle of yellow. A heavy electric typewriter sat before a chair, a cold mug of coffee next to it, nestled like a small brown pond in a forest of empty beer bottles. A raspy snoring echoed from the living room.

  He looked at the typed report on the table, flipping to the second page. Apparently it was a statement by the one patroller standing sentry outside Touchet’s VIP suite door at the New Universal Church building. A paragraph caught Valentine’s eye.

  When the cook entered with Mr. Touchet’s nightcap of coffee, I heard him scream. I drew my gun and entered the bedroom. Mr. Touchet was facedown on the bed, nude except for a pair of socks. The young woman was trying to force up the window of the bedroom, not knowing that it was nailed shut. As I entered, she smashed it with an ashtray but I was ab
le to restrain her.

  After she was handcuffed and held down by the cook, I examined Mr. Touchet for a pulse. He was dead. He had a steak knife handle sticking out of the back of his head right were the neck meets the skull. His back was coated with some kind of oil and he lay on a towel. There was very little blood on the towel. Mr. Touchet’s brass ring had been removed from his finger and was placed around the handle of the knife.

  The young woman was screaming obscenities at us, so I hit her. She had not been injured by Mr. Touchet; the bruise on her face was from me.

  Valentine walked to the living room and looked in. Virgil Ames lay stretched out on a leather sofa, sunglasses finally off, pistol belt looped around his arm. The air around him smelled of beer breath and stale flatulence. Beyond, in the glass turret-room, he could make out Maj. Michael Flanagan. The major slept in his chair, phone in his lap, widespread feet propped up on his desk.

  The prowling Wolf shifted the shotgun to his left hand and took up the parang. No making friends with this dog, he thought, putting the wedge-shaped point just above Virgil’s Adam’s apple. At the swift inward thrust, the late Virgil Ames opened his eyes. Valentine wiped his knife on the rich leather sofa and moved toward the office.

  Major Flanagan woke when the blued steel of the shotgun barrel poked him between the eyes. As Flanagan sputtered into surprised wakefulness, Valentine changed the angle of the shotgun barrel, pointing it between Flanagan’s outstretched legs.

  “You wanted to see me, Major?” he asked.

  “What the—?… Virgil!” Flanagan shouted.

  “Dead, sir,” Valentine reported. “Better speak up, or you’ll be joining him in five seconds. Tell me, is Molly Carlson still alive?”

  “virgil!” Flanagan cried.

  Valentine stuck the shotgun toward Flanagan’s screaming mouth. “Major, your screaming is not doing you any good, and it’s giving me a headache, so cut it out. Or I might cut your tongue out and have you write down your answers.”

  “Fuck you, Saint Croix. We don’t just have Molly, we’ve got all the Carlsons, as of eleven this evening. If you back out of here and never let me see your face again, they might live. You might even live.”