The helicopter's roar was deafening, so he didn't hear them coming through the trees. Abruptly, they emerged from the underbrush, Altick and three men he hadn't seen before. They all belonged to the state police, but Altick was the ranking officer, a captain, so Slaughter focused his attention on him. One thing about Altick, he was good at what he did, so good that no one ever made jokes about his unflattering mustache. He'd been forced to grow it after he had tried to stop a knife fight and had nearly lost his lip when two drunken cowboys turned on him. The scar was partly visible beneath the sandy bristles. He had his hat off, wiping at the sweat across his forehead. Then he put it back on, stepping down toward Slaughter, on a level with him now and just about as tall.
They tried to talk but couldn't hear and turned to watch the helicopter set down, rotors slowing, engine dying.
"Nobody told me you'd be in on this," Slaughter said.
"Well, Bodine was a friend." Altick's voice was raspy. "That's why we got on this so fast. I knew the forestry department had its helicopter out this way. The land's so dry they're checking for fires. So I asked them to look for Bodine's truck."
"The phone call said they'd found it."
Altick pointed toward the trees he'd come through, motioning for Slaughter to follow. They hiked up through the underbrush and stopped where the ground eased onto a level before sloping sharply upward again. There were fir trees, boulders, and a small streambed that wound down the slope. The pickup truck was before them, its blue paint scratched from the trees it had squeezed past, one wheel in a sinkhole, both doors open, covered with dust.
The helicopter pilot joined them. "I almost didn't find it. I was looking for it out on the range."
"What made you even think to look here?" Slaughter turned to Altick.
"Just a guess," Altick said. "I thought that Sam had maybe taken his family on a trip. That appaloosa mare of his, though. It's won half a dozen trophies. No one came around to feed it. So I knew something had happened to him. I checked all the traffic accident reports. When nothing turned up there, I figured he was out on the range in some trouble and we'd better take a look. This pilot is something. He wasn't out here half the morning before finding this."
Slaughter walked toward the pickup truck. He circled it, then glanced at where the streambed angled toward the flat-land. "Looks like Sam was in a hurry. He chose the only route that he could follow, rammed up the streambed until he couldn't go much farther, then jumped out, and ran."
"Not just him."
Slaughter squinted at Altick.
"Both doors are open, don't forget," Altick said. "We haven't touched a thing. Sam and someone else. It's my guess his wife and son were with him. Otherwise, where are they?"
Slaughter slumped against the truck. The shade in here was welcome, cooling him. He tried to think. "It could be nothing's wrong. Maybe he just drove up for the hell of it. The truck got stuck, but they were going camping, something like that, so he left it until he'd come back. Then he planned to get help to move the truck."
"Why would he leave the doors open?"
"I have no idea."
"There's something else." Altick pointed up past Slaughter.
When Slaughter turned, he saw a patch of brown and red among the fir trees. His apprehension increased as he straightened and breathed and walked up toward it. He heard someone, likely Altick, walking behind him. But he didn't look in that direction. He only stopped and kept on staring.
Sure, he thought. The freshly mangled carcass of a steer, its mutilated guts protruding, flies swarming over them. What else did you think it would be? He felt dizzy.
"When we started searching, we also found this," Altick said. "The fifth one we've had news about today."
Slaughter leaned his head against a tree. "Better make that six."
"What?"
"Bodine found one like this Thursday, but we only learned about it Friday morning." 'Jesus."
"That's not all," Slaughter said. "We've had some animal attacks in town. A man's been killed. At first we figured it was wild dogs from the hills, but now we're worried about rabies." Altick paled.
"That's right. Now you feel the way I do," Slaughter told him. "We've got trouble." He pointed toward the mountains. "What's up there?"
"Nothing. Wilderness. The forestry department lists this as a recreation area." Altick suddenly understood. "Rabies? Christ, what if people are camping up there?"
Slaughter's forehead throbbed. "Let's assume wild dogs are what did this. Bodine saw them on the range. He chased them into these foothills."
"I'd better get the helicopter looking for them." Altick turned, scrambling down the hillside, followed by the pilot.
"And for anybody else up there. Check the lakes, the likely camping spots." Slaughter hurried after Altick. "Look, I know this is your jurisdiction, but we'd better work together on this. Leave a man to watch the carcass and the pickup truck. Get some other men out here with rifles. Have them search the hills as far as they can go today."
They reached the bottom, Altick turning toward him, and for just a moment Slaughter thought that Altick would be angry, that Altick would tell him not to interfere, to keep his opinions to himself. But Altick only nodded, saying, "I'll go you one better. Dogs. We'll get some bloodhounds out here. We'll pick up Bodine's trail."
TEN
"Warren!"
She heard him screaming and ran from the living room to the kitchen. Staring out the screen door, she saw him racing through the backyard toward her.
"Warren!"
He was clutching his hand. She saw the blood, the mangled flesh, and she was pushing at the screen door, rushing out to meet him.
He kept screaming.
"Warren! Tell me what it is that happened!"
She was holding him, the blood across her sleeve now. She could feel his frantic tears drop off his cheek to wet her blouse.
He just kept screaming.
"Warren! Please! You've got to-"
"It's the glass!"
"But-"
"Broken glass!"
"You've got to show me, Warren!"
She stared at him, at the blood. She wasn't certain what to do. She knew she had to stop the blood. But what had caused it? How bad was the cut?
She tried to lead him. "Show me, Warren."
He pointed toward the backyard. She squinted past the backyard toward the metal barrel in the old man's yard across the lane. She saw the blood across the rim, and she was running. "Oh, my God."
The blood covered everything, the rusty cans, the broken glass, the ashes from the garbage fires that the old man used to set before the town denied him permission. Warren must have climbed up on this cinder block and reached in there for something, but he lost his balance, and he cut himself.
She swung around. Warren was clutching his hand, running toward the back door, and she called to him, but he was in the house already. She scrambled toward him, across the lane and past the bushes, the back door getting larger as she reached it, fumbling at the handle, charging in. She saw the blood across the floor, and she was racing down the hallway toward the bathroom, but he wasn't in there. Where? She doubled back. He sat in his bedroom, crying, blood across the sheets. She hurried to grab him, wrapping a sheet around his hand and guiding him into the bathroom. "No!"
"I have to wash it. I have to see how bad it is." "Don't touch it!"
Warren kept crying as she freed the bloody sheet and pushed his hand down into the sink. She turned the tap on. He wailed again.
Too hot. She turned the other tap, and now the water felt lukewarm, and she was brushing at the bleeding flesh. She saw the wound, but blood kept oozing out, and she was brushing at it, freeing all the dirt and black clots, and Lord, the hand was mangled. Deep and wide and jagged. Oh, my baby, she was thinking as she felt his weight against him, and she knew before she looked that he had fainted.
ELEVEN
Warren smelled something strange, something like the powder that his mot
her put inside the washer when she did the clothes. His eyes fluttered. He winced from the light all around him, and he saw the strange man in the white coat leaning close. He started wailing.
"Warren, it's all right."
His mother's voice. His father close beside her. They looked angry.
"Mommy, I-"
"It's all right, Warren. Please don't be afraid. You're with a doctor."
Back now to the man, his white coat flecked with red spots down his arm. The man was holding something like a plastic pill that he had broken open, and the strange smell seemed to come from it. Warren kept on crying. This man was much younger, thinner, than the doctor he always went to, and the freckles on his face looked like the blood specks on the white coat, and Warren couldn't stop from crying.
"Ssshhh, it's all right, son. We're here now. You're just fine."
Then Warren slowly understood that they had him on a table, that his hand felt numb and awkward. He was raising it. The hand was like a white club, bandaged so he couldn't even see or move his fingers.
"He's still suffering from shock. He'll take a while to get adjusted," he heard the doctor saying.
Someone dried his eyes. His mother. She was smiling. So she wasn't angry, after all.
"Warren, can you tell us how it happened?"
He turned toward the doctor, trying to remember what the plan was.
"Yes, the glass," he told them slowly.
"In the barrel?"
"Yes, I cut myself."
His father clenched his fist. "I'm going to sue that old man."
"Harry. Please, not here," his mother said.
So I got away with it, Warren thought.
"Warren, let me tell you what I did for you," the doctor said. "You have to make sure you keep the bandage on. I sewed you up. I gave you stitches. Do you understand that?"
"Yes, like Mommy when she makes a dress."
They smiled a little.
"Something like that," the doctor said. "You were cut too deeply to let the wound heal on its own. I took some string like this, except it wasn't string. It's more like what we used to call a piece of catgut, and I sewed the cut together."
"Will the string stay in there?"
"No. A week or so from now, I'll take the stitches out, and you'll be like before, although you'll maybe have a scar," the doctor said. "But you've got a lot of growing to do, and most of the scar will disappear. What you've got to understand is that you can't put much weight on your hand. If you try to pick up heavy things or make a fist or anything like that, you'll risk the chance of pulling out the stitches too soon. Take things easy. Let your mother or your father do the lifting for you."
"Will they make my bed for me?"
"You bet we will," his father said. "And I'll still pay your full allowance."
Warren grinned then. Yes, he'd gotten away with it, and he was wiping at his tears, trying to sit up.
"Here, let me help you." His mother held him.
"He's going to be all right, I think," the doctor said. "Take him home. Here are pills for when the local anesthetic wears off. Call me if there's any trouble. But I think that all you'll have to do is bring him in a week from Monday."
"What about the bandage?"
"Change it every night. The first few times you ought to soak the bandage before it's removed. I don't want any dried blood tearing at those stitches."
"Dressing?"
"Anything you have around the house. First-aid cream is fine. I gave him an anti-tetanus injection. I don't see any problems coming up."
"Thank you."
"I'm just pleased that you got him here so quickly. He was bleeding quite a lot."
More talk, but Warren didn't listen. He looked around the room, at the cabinets and shiny metal objects, and abruptly he was dizzy. He almost toppled off the table.
"Here, young man. I think we'd better get you home."
Despite an itching, burning pain along his hand, Warren couldn't stop from feeling happy. He had gotten away with it. All night long, he'd tried to figure how to hide the bite. His hand had swollen so much that it scared him. At breakfast time, his mother had come in to wake him, but he'd snuggled in the sheets as if he wanted to keep sleeping. He had stayed there until he knew that she would surely come to wake him. So he'd listened until he heard her in the living room, and he had managed then to dress himself. The pain had been so bad that he shook. He had slipped and smeared some blood across his sleeve. But he had figured what to do by that time, and he'd snuck outside to reach the barrel over there. The worst part had been leaning in to let some blood drip onto the glass. When he had pulled the bloody rag off, he had seen the swollen throbbing ugly cut, caked with dirty blood. He'd shivered, reaching down to touch his hand against a broken bottle. That had been his plan at least. But he had lost his balance, and the cut had burst, not from the glass but from the pressure. He had never felt such shrieking pain. He couldn't stop his screaming.
TWELVE
"Okay then, sure, why not?"
And Slaughter turned up onto the loggers' road. "I've heard so much about this place I guess it's time I had a look myself."
He hadn't planned to do this until tomorrow, but he didn't like the thought of Dunlap's staying any longer than was necessary. It was fine for Parsons to instruct him to be friendly. "Give him all the help he needs." Parsons had been clear on that. But Parsons didn't have to babysit this man. Parsons didn't know about the trouble that was going on.
There wasn't much that Slaughter had to do in town, regardless. He could sit and wait for calls to come in on the police station's two-way radio. Or he could drive out, troubleshooting on the streets. But hell, the compound wasn't even ten miles down the road from Bodine's place, halfway from the ranch to town, and he was out here, going past it. He might just as well drive up and get this nuisance finished. Slaughter saw the road and made his choice, and this would help take Dunlap's mind away from what was happening in town.
Slaughter knew the turnoff, although as he had said he'd never taken time to go up it. There had never been a need to, never been an interest. Back in the sixties, he'd seen freaks enough to last a lifetime. They could smoke dope up here until they couldn't tell their ass from grass for all he cared.
He angled up the loggers' road, if "road" was what it could still be called. No one had come up here for some time. There were bushes in the ruts, pine needles, fallen leaves, young trees growing in the mound between the ruts, and branches dipping down from all the large trees on each side. The place was shadowy, cool, yet strangely humid. Slaughter suddenly was worried that, if he got stuck, he wouldn't have the room to turn around, that backing down would be a problem, given all the ruts and bends, and several times he had to squeeze around some young trees that he couldn't just drive over, narrowly avoiding large trees at the side. He wished he hadn't been impulsive. Hell, I need a Jeep to get up in here. Why'd I do this? But he had no choice now, and he eased his foot off the gas pedal, slowing, bumping, working up this god-forsaken lane to nowhere. "What kind of place is this to build a commune anyhow?"
"I asked myself that several times," Dunlap said.
Slaughter glanced at him. "Not too happy where they sent you, huh?"
"I've had a little trouble. But I'm working on it. This is what you'd call my penance."
"I can see that from the way your hands are shaking." "It's a bumpy ride." "But wouldn't a beer go good now?" Dunlap stared at him. "I said I'm working on it." "Hey, I don't mean to rile you. I'm just making conversation."
Dunlap's stern gaze weakened. "All right, I apologize."
"It's my fault. I was mixing in your business."
"But the fact is, you're right. I shouldn't be so jumpy when somebody says the truth. You really like it here?"
"Love it."
"I find that baffling."
"It's simple. Back east in Detroit, things got out of hand. I got so I couldn't keep control. My wife divorced me. I was fed up with my work."
&nbs
p; "You were a cop?"
"That's right, and finally I simply quit. I didn't know what else to do. I couldn't keep doing what I had, however. So I spread a map out on my kitchen table, and I asked myself where I'd rather be."
"And you chose here?" Dunlap looked incredulous.
"Sure. Because I'd never been here. I was having daydreams. Mountains. Horses running free. I'd never really seen those things, never been around them. What they represented were the things I wanted, though. I knew that much. So I came here."
"Just like that."
"I left the next day, and I loved it. Oh, I had some hard times at the start. I tried my hand at raising horses, but I made a mess of it. The next thing I was in police work again. But I was talking earlier about control, and that's the point. My life here is exactly what I want to make of it. Things aren't so complicated that I have to give in to them. I have freedom."
Slaughter looked ahead and eased the cruiser past a clump of bushes. He didn't see the pothole just beyond them and felt the cruiser jolt down into it. "Now it's me I'm being personal about. I'd better watch it."
Dunlap rubbed his forehead. "I think I'll soon be divorced as well."
"Who wants it? Her or you?"
"Oh, she's the one who'll do it, I suppose."
"Is that why you drink so much?"
"It's that obvious, is it? No, I started drinking long before. It could be I caused the problem with her. But you know, a person has ambitions in his work. He wants to prove how really good he is, and I just never lived up to my expectations."
"Or you maybe liked the booze so much that it distracted you."
Dunlap shrugged. "The chicken or the egg. What difference does it make? I ended here. No matter how it happened, I know where it got me. Nowhere. Nothing personal."
"Well, why not just give in then? Maybe settle in a place like this?"
Dunlap started laughing.
"No, I mean it," Slaughter told him. "Things could be a whole lot worse. Sometimes we end up exactly where we should be."
"Or deserve to be."
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