Heat Lightning

by John Sandford

  “I was in Fort Lauderdale once when a British ship came in,” Virgil said, relaxing into the time-killing chatter. “The people that came off that boat were the pinkest people I ever saw. Absolutely pink, like babies’ butts. You could see them six blocks away, they glowed in the dark. I went down to a place on the beach that night, you could hear the screaming a block away, and then the sirens started up, and when I got there, here was twenty buck-naked pink British sailors in the goddamnedest brawl. . . . Man. They were throwing cops out of the club.”

  So they bullshitted through an hour, and once every fifteen minutes or so Raines would start calling names, getting a click from each.

  Raines said, “We looked you up on the Internet. Me ’n’ Knox.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Saw that thing about the shoot-out, that small-town deal, with the preacher and the dope. Sounded like a war,” Raines said.

  “It was like a war,” Virgil said. The towel on his eyes was comfortable, but not being able to see Raines was annoying. “Close as I ever want to come.”

  Raines said, “But here you are again, automatic weapons, body armor . . .”

  “Just . . . coincidence,” Virgil said. “I hope.”

  THE VIETNAMESE came in.

  Fifteen clicks, a solid, fast rhythm, and one muttered word, “Bunch,” carrying nothing but urgency.

  “It’s Bunch,” Raines said. “I don’t see shit on the monitor.” He picked up a radio and said, “That’s Bunch clicking, folks. Bunch: one click if by land, two if they’re on the water.”

  Pause: two clicks.

  Raines: “Bunch. One click if it’s likely some fishermen. Several clicks if it’s likely the Viets.”

  Pause: several clicks.

  Raines: “Click how many there are.”

  Pause, then: five slow clicks.

  Virgil had crawled into the hallway and closed the door against the light, pulled the armor over his head, patted the Velcro closures, pulled on the jacket, pulled on the head net and the shooting gloves. His eyes were good, already accustomed to the dark. He could hear Raines talking to Bunch.

  Raines: “We got five clicks. Give us several clicks if that’s correct.”

  Pause: several clicks.

  Raines: “One click if they’re still outside of your position. Several clicks if they’re past your position.”

  Pause: several clicks.

  Raines said through the door, “Bunch says they’re inside his position, but I’ve got nothing yet. We got a bad angle to the south. . . .”

  Virgil plugged in the earbud, said, “I’m going.”

  Raines said, “It could be a fake-out. A diversion.”

  “I don’t think they’ve got enough people for a diversion. Tell the other guys to hold their positions until you’re sure. I’m going out to face them.”

  Raines said, “Wait—wait. I got heat. I got heat, right along the bank, they’re two hundred yards out, they’re all together, they’re running right along the bank.”

  “I’m going,” Virgil said. “I’ll lock the door going out. Keep your piece handy.”

  HE WENT OUT the back door, moved as slowly as he could across the parking area, onto the grass, through a carpet of pine needles, along to the edge of the woods, almost to the river. When he sensed the water, he turned left, into the woods, where he ran into a tree. He couldn’t use the night-vision glasses because they’d ruin his night sight. Just have to take it slower. He moved, inches at a time, taking baby steps, one hand out in front, through the edge of the trees.

  Raines spoke in his ear. “They’re landing. They’re seventy-five yards south of you—or west, or whatever it is. I’m going to pull the guys on the land side, bring them down to the cabin. If you’ve got a problem with that, click—otherwise, go on.”

  Virgil moved deeper into the woods, felt the land going out from under him. A gully of some kind, a swale, running down toward the water. He moved down into it, felt the ground get soggy, then he was up the far side: couldn’t see anything.

  At the top of the swale, he found another tree, a big one. The position felt good, so he stopped.

  Raines: “Virgil, I’ve got you stopped. If you’re okay, give me a click.”

  Virgil found the radio talk-button and clicked it.

  Raines’s voice was calm, collected, steady: “I got a heat mass moving out of the boat, one still in it. Now I got two, okay, they spread out a little, I’ve got four heat masses moving up on the bank. They’re grouping again. They’re stopped. Bunch, you’re behind them. You’ll be shooting toward Virgil if you shoot past them—see if you can move further away from the river and toward the house. Looks like they’re gonna stay along the bank. One guy is still in the boat.”

  Raines: “Bemidji guys, you’re right on top of each other, do you see each other? Give me a click if you do.” Click. “Okay, spread out, we want a line between the west edge of the house running down to the river . . . that’s good . . . now moving forward. . . . Careful, you got Jarlait closing in along the bank. Jarlait, you might be moving too fast, take it easy.”

  Raines kept talking them through it, the Bemidji cops and Jarlait closing on Virgil, the heat signatures by the river hardly moving at all. Raines finally said, “Okay, everybody stop. I think these guys are waiting for a little light. Bemidji guys, Virgil’s about fifty yards straight ahead of you. Virgil, the four who got out of the boat are still in a group, they’re maybe fifty yards straight ahead of you. Bunch, you’re good. Wait there, or someplace close. Looks a little lighter out there . . . sun’ll be up in an hour.”

  THEY WAITED, nobody moving, soothed by Raines. “Everybody stay loose, stay loose . . .”

  Virgil first imagined that the sky was growing brighter, then admitted to himself that it wasn’t: a common deer-hunting phenomenon. Then it did get brighter, slowly, and Virgil could see the tips of trees, and then the tips of branches, and then a squirrel got pissed somewhere and started chattering, and the woods began to wake up.

  “They’re moving,” Raines said. “They’re coming in two plus two. Two are going further up the bank, two are coming right at you, Virgil. They’re closing, you’ll see them, if you can see them, in about a minute. . . . Rest of you guys, don’t shoot Virgil. Bunch, the second two are as high on the bank as you are, you’re behind them, they’re moving toward the cabin. . . . Virgil, you should see them anytime.”

  Virgil sensed movement in front of him, thumbed the radio button, said as quietly as he could, “Rudy, I’m gonna yell. Your guys may move.”

  “I think they heard you—they stopped,” Raines said in Virgil’s ear. “Christ, they’re not more than twenty-five yards away.”

  From out in front of him, a woman’s voice said quietly, “Virgil?”

  Virgil eased a little lower down the slope of the gully, thumbed the radio button so everybody could hear him, and said, “Mai—we’re looking at you on thermal imaging equipment, and on visual cameras up in the trees. We can see all of you. We’ve got you boxed, and there are a lot more of us than there are of you. Give it up or we’ll kill you.”

  There was a heavy thud as something hit the far side of Virgil’s tree, and Virgil realized in an instant what it was, and flopped down the bank and covered his eyes and the grenade went with a flash and a deafening blast, and a machine gun started up the hill and Virgil thought, Rudy, and he rolled up and a burst of automatic-weapon fire seemed to explode over his head, coming from where Jarlait should have been, and he heard somebody scream and then there was a sudden silence and he could hear Raines talking: “Rudy, he’s up above you, circling around you, back up if you can, back up, you see him, you see him?”

  More gunfire, and then Bunch shouted, “I got him, but I’m hit, I’m hit, ah, Jesus, I’m hit . . .”

  Raines said, “Virgil, you’ve got one not moving in front of you, one moving away.”

  Jarlait: “I got the one in front of Virgil, I had him dead in my sights.”

  Raines:
“We got one moving down to the water, Jarlait, if you move sideways down to the water you might be able to see them, you might have to move forward. . . . Virgil, you can move forward. . . . Paul, can you and your guys get to Rudy? Can you get to Rudy?”

  Queenen said, “I can hear him, but where’s the other guy, is he still there?”

  “He’s not moving, he may be down, I’m going to illuminate with the IR . . . okay, I can see him, he looks like he’s down, he’s on his back, if you go straight ahead you should get to Rudy. . . . Rudy, I can see Rudy waving . . . Rudy, the guy above you is moving, but not much. He’s crawling, I think, can you see him?”

  And Queenen said, “Is Rudy moving? Is Rudy crawling, I can see a guy crawling—” Rudy shouted, “No,” in the open, and Queenen opened up, ten fast shots, and Raines, his voice still cool, said, “I think you rolled him.”

  JARLAIT SHOUTED, in the open, “I can’t see them.”

  Virgil moved. The light was coming up fast, and he went forward, and Raines said in his ear, “Virgil, I can’t tell if the guy in front of you is down, but he’s not moving at all. The other one is down at the water.”

  Virgil moved again, fast dodging moves from tree to tree. Raines called, “You’re right on top of him, he’s just downhill.”

  Virgil saw the body: Phem, with a rifle. He was lying on his back, looking sightlessly at the brightening sky, the last he would ever have seen; his chest had been torn to pieces.

  Virgil could hear Mai’s voice, calling out to somebody, the tone urgent, well ahead, but couldn’t make out what she was saying. Vietnamese?

  Queenen: “Okay, the first guy’s dead. . . . Larry, watch me, I’m moving over to the left, you see me? Watch right up the hill there . . . I’m gonna make a move here.”

  A few seconds, then Queenen: “Okay, the second guy is dead. Rudy, where are you?”

  Raines called: “They’re moving, they’re on the water . . . they’re moving fast . . .”

  Virgil heard somebody crashing along the riverbank, assumed it was Jarlait, and then a long burst of automatic-weapon fire, interspersed with tracers, chewed up the riverbank and cut back into the woods and he went down.

  Raines: “Louis, are you okay?”

  “I’m okay. Jesus, they almost shot me.” His breath was hoarse through the walkie-talkie; another old guy.

  Another long burst, then another, and Virgil realized that somebody—Mai? —was loading magazines and hosing down the woods as thoroughly as possible, keeping them stepping and jiving until they could get down the river, in the boat, to wherever their vehicle was.

  He left Phem and hurried forward through the trees, crashing around, knowing he was noisy, and another burst slashed and ricocheted around him, and he went down again, and somebody shouted, “Man,” and then, on the radio, “That last one . . . I’m bleeding, but I don’t think it’s too bad.”

  Virgil thought, Shit, turned back to help out, then heard Jarlait yell to the wounded man, “I see you. I’m coming your way, don’t shoot me, I’m coming your way.”

  Virgil turned and jogged through the woods, fifty yards, a hundred yards, Raines calling into his ear, “I’m gonna lose you in a minute, Virgil, they’re already off my screens . . . I’m losing you . . .”

  Virgil ran another fifty yards, to a muddy little point, risked a move to the water. The morning fog hung two or three feet deep over the water, wisps here and there, and Virgil saw only a flash of them, three or four hundred yards away, heading into the Canadian side, around another bend in the river; they disappeared in a quarter second, behind a screen of willows. No sound—they were using a trolling motor. He put his aim point a foot high, where he thought they’d gone, and dumped the whole magazine at them. When he ran dry, he kicked the empty mag out, jammed in another, and dumped thirty more rounds into the trees about where the boat should have been.

  He thumbed the radio and shouted, “I’m coming back, watch me, I’m running back.”

  When he got back to the house, Jarlait was there, standing over McDonald, as one of the trucks backed across the yard toward them. Jarlait looked at Virgil and said, “Rudy’s hit in the back. He’s hurt. This guy’s got a bad cut on his scalp, but not too bad. Needs some stitches.”

  VIRGIL SAID, “So what are you up to?”

  “What?”

  He nodded down to a canoe, rolled up on the bank. “There’s a chance I hit them, or one of them. I’m going after them.”

  “Let’s go,” Jarlait said. “Fuckin’ Vietcong.”

  27

  THE CANOE was an old red Peter Pond, rolled upside down with two plastic-and-aluminum paddles and moldy orange kapok life jackets stowed under the thwarts. Virgil twisted it upright, frantic with haste, chanting, “C’mon, c’mon,” and they threw it in the river, and clambered aboard with their weapons and Virgil’s backpack.

  Whiting had backed the truck down to McDonald and was helping the wounded man into the truck; McDonald had a scalp gash that must’ve come from a wood splinter. Queenen saw them manhandling the canoe to the river and shouted, “Virgil, that’s Canada,” and Virgil saw Raines spinning out of the driveway in the other truck, running to the hospital with Bunch, and Virgil ignored Queenen and said to Jarlait, “If we roll, that armor will pull you under. Grab one of those life jackets,” and Jarlait grunted, “Ain’t gonna roll,” and they were off. . . .

  They slanted upstream, paddling hard, Virgil aiming to land a couple of hundred yards north of where he’d seen the jon boat disappear. If they were caught on the open river, they were dead.

  They crossed in two minutes or so. Jarlait jumped out of the front of the boat, splashed across a muddy margin, and pulled the canoe in. Virgil stepped out into the shallow water and lifted the stern with a grab loop as Jarlait lifted the bow, and they dropped it fully on shore. A muddy game trail led back into the trees, and they took it for thirty feet, and somebody said in Virgil’s ear, “Virgil, the local cops are coming in.”

  Virgil lifted the radio to his face and said, “Keep them off the place until we get back. . . . Don’t be impolite, but tell them that the crime scene is all over the place and we need to get a crime-scene crew in there.”

  Jarlait said into his radio, “You guys shut up unless you see these people and then tell us. But shut up.” To Virgil, he said off-radio, “Let’s go.”

  THE CANADIAN SIDE was a snarling mass of brush, and they walked away from the river to get out of it. Virgil said quietly, “That topo map showed a road straight west of here—they’ve probably got a car back in the trees. Gotta hurry.”

  They ran due west, quietly as they could, but with some inevitable breaking of sticks and rustling of leaves, and after two hundred yards or so, saw the road ahead. With Virgil now leading, they turned south, parallel to the road, inside the tree line, and ran another hundred and fifty yards, where a field opened out in front of them. They could see nothing across the field, and Jarlait asked, “Are you sure they’re this far down?”

  “Yeah, a little further yet. There might be farm tracks between those fields right down to the trees.”

  He started off again, back toward the river now, running in the trees, off the edge of the field. They spooked an owl out of a tree, and it lifted out in absolute silence and flew ahead of them for fifty yards, like a gray football, then sailed left through the trees.

  At the end of the field, they turned south again, and Jarlait, breathing heavily, said, “I gotta slow down a minute. I can taste my guts.”

  “Gotta slow down anyway—we’re close now.”

  They moved slowly after that, stopping every few feet to listen, moving tree to tree, one at a time, covering each other, back toward the water.

  If he’d missed them completely, Virgil thought, and if the car had been right down at the water, it was possible that they were gone. On the other hand, if he’d hit them, it was possible that they were lying dead or dying down at the waterline.

  When they got to the river, they squatted
ten yards apart and listened, and then began moving along the waterline, both crouched, stopping to kneel, to look, one of them always behind a tree. A hundred yards farther along the bank, Virgil saw the tail end of the jon boat. They’d dragged the bow out of the water, but there was no sign of anyone.

  Virgil clicked once on the radio to get Jarlait’s attention, mouthed, “Boat,” and jabbed his finger at it, and Jarlait nodded and moved forward and farther away from the water, giving Virgil room to wedge up next to the boat.

  They were in a block of trees, Virgil realized—trees that might run out to the road. The field they’d seen was now actually behind them. No sign of a truck or a car track.

  They moved a step at a time, until Virgil was right on top of the boat. When he was sure it was clear, he duckwalked down to it and saw the blood right away. He risked the radio and said, quietly, “Blood trail.”

  Jarlait, now fifteen yards farther in, looked over at him and nodded.

  THE BLOOD looked like rust stains on the summer weeds and brush. There wasn’t much, but enough that whoever was shot had a problem. The blood was clean and dark red, which meant the injured man was probably bleeding from a limb but hadn’t been gut- or lung-shot. Still, they’d need a hospital, or at least a doctor—something to tell the Canadians if Mai and the second man were already gone.

  Virgil went to his hands and knees and crawled along the blood trail, grateful for the gloves; Jarlait worked parallel to him. They were a hundred and fifty or two hundred yards from the road again, Virgil thought, but he didn’t know how far from wherever the Viets had left a vehicle. He could see no openings in the treetops, so it must be some distance out.

  He picked up a little speed, risked going to his feet, while Jarlait ghosted along to his right. The trees thinned a little, the underbrush got thicker. There were still occasionally drops and smears of blood, but as the plant life got softer, less woody, Mai’s trail became clearer.