Ancestor (39 page)

“Sara, wake up, eh?”

Her eyes fluttered open to see Clayton’s salt-and-pepper stubbly face hovering over her own. He was sitting on the bed. Tim looked down at her as well, a crutch under his left arm, his right hand holding a half-eaten chicken leg. Color had returned to his face. While his stitches still looked like shit, some of the swelling underneath had receded.

Sara sat up, reveling in the simple blessing of Not Being Cold. “What happened? Am I naked?”

“You passed out,” Tim said. “Clayton put you into the truck, then he drove us to his house. We both undressed you, your clothes were damp. Clayton was a complete gentleman, but I tweaked your nips.”

“Like hell you did,” Clayton said.

Sara rubbed her eyes. She looked over at Clayton. Her Beretta was stuffed into the waist of his thick snow pants.

“You staring at da gun? I
hope
so, because if you’re staring at my thing, Colding might get mad at me, eh?” He pulled out the Beretta and offered it to her butt-first. “You promise not to point it at me anymore?”

Sara nodded and took the gun. At least there was one person she knew she could trust.

Clayton seemed more than happy to be rid of the pistol. “Tim told me about da bomb. I knew that Magnus was a greasy pig fucker rolled in crap-corn, but I didn’t think he’d go that far. Where da hell did you land?”

“Rapleje Bay,” Sara said. “On the ice.”

“No shit?”

“No shit.”

“And it’s just sitting there?”

“I think most of it melted through when the bomb went off.”

“I doubt that,” Clayton said. “Too fuckin’ big. I’ll swing up there and check it out as soon as I can. Magnus could be snowmobiling around anytime now. None of da trails go by Rapleje Bay. If he sticks to da trails, we should be okay, even if da plane is showing a little.”

Sara nodded. “Then what? What the hell do we do, Clayton?”

“We have to get you off da island. The cows are at Sven’s. If Magnus finds out, he’ll come looking for survivors. Phones are down, but you can’t keep a thing like that a secret for long.”

Sara remembered the monster that had slid out of the cow’s ruptured belly. “We have to tell Sven to stay away from the cows.”

“Stay away from cows?” Clayton said. “How can a cow be dangerous?”

“Not the cows,” Tim said. “What’s growing inside them.”

“And what’s inside of them?”

“Monsters,” Sara said.

“Oh,” Clayton said. “Well, that just fucking clears up everything, then.”

“It should be okay,” Tim said. “The cows have no IV feeding, so the fetuses are starving. From what we’ve seen, the cows are just going to die and the fetuses will die along with them.”

Sara shook her head. “No, that thing came out and
attacked
Cappy.”

“The cow’s belly was already torn open,” Tim said. “The baby wouldn’t have lived long, anyway.”

Clayton looked from Tim to Sara. “A monster came out of a cow, bit Cappy, and
then
what happened?”

“It almost bit Cappy’s arm off, so I shot it.”

“Well, fuck me,” Clayton said. “I think I’ll tell Sven to stay away from da cows.”

Tim tore off another bite of chicken, then talked with a full mouth. “At this point, best to err on the side of caution. Without the nutrition supplement the fetuses can’t live long. As long as no one goes near the cows, the cows die, fetuses die, done deal. It’ll be fine.”

Clayton scratched his stubble. It made a sandpapery sound. “I’ll tell Sven, but it doesn’t change da fact we have to get you off da island. I think I can keep da cows and da crash a secret for a day or two, maybe long enough to get my son out here with da boat and get you two back to da mainland. I’ll tell Colding; hopefully he can keep Magnus busy.”

At the sound of Colding’s name, Sara felt a pang of loneliness, but also one of suspicion. “No. We can’t tell Colding.”

Clayton’s eyes squinted a little and he put a hand on Sara’s shoulder. “Are you
sure
you don’t want to tell him? He’s awfully worried about you.”

Sara
wanted
to tell Colding, wanted him here this very second, but that just wasn’t the smart thing to do. “P. J. sent us up in a plane loaded with a bomb, yet he stayed on the ground.”

Tim opened his mouth to say something, paused, then took another bite of chicken leg. Deep down inside, Sara
knew
Colding would do anything for her, but the facts and her emotions didn’t mix … and three dead friends made for one hell of a fact.

A fresh gust of wind made the bedroom window rattle slightly. Outside, a few fluffy snowflakes moved from left to right.

Clayton stood up. “If that’s da way you want it, fine with me. Another storm is coming in tonight, supposed to hit us pretty hard. Don’t know if Gary can get out here in that weather. You two better stay here tonight, get some real rest. Tomorrow I’ll hide you in da old town, eh? Right now, I’ve got to fix da phone lines so Sven can call out if he needs me. Grab some dry clothes out of my closet, eat whatever you want out of da fridge. But keep
quiet
. Anyone knocks, just don’t answer.”

He patted Sara on the shoulder and walked out of the bedroom. She pushed back the covers and sat up. Tim pretended not to look as he rummaged through Clayton’s dresser. He tossed her a flannel shirt and jeans, which she quickly put on.

“Sara,” Tim said. “Is this who I think it is?” He was staring at a framed picture on top of Clayton’s dresser.

She stood up and looked. “I’ll be damned.”

In the picture, Marilyn Monroe and a much younger Clayton Detweiler were sharing a passionate kiss.

CLAYTON WALKED INTO the security room to find Colding sitting at the desk, steadily flipping through the monitor channels the way someone would work a TV remote if there was nothing to watch.

“Hey there, Clayton,” Colding said. “Come to share a fart or two with me?”

“No gas today. And I ain’t here to see you. Da phone lines are down. Computer will tell me where da breaks are.”

Colding stood and moved away from the desk. “Be my guest.” He walked to the weapons rack and grabbed one of the Berettas, then sat at the edge of the desk and started breaking down the pistol.

Clayton sat and used the mouse to initiate the phone line integrity program. A progress bar started to fill. He was alone with Colding. There were no cameras in the security room, at least none that Clayton knew of. And if there were, where would they be watched? All the Big Brother monitoring was done from this room. Ironically, the security room was probably the only safe place to talk in the entire mansion.

Maybe he could feel it out, see if Colding was to be trusted. “No word from Sara yet?”

Colding’s lip curled up in a brief snarl, but the expression disappeared immediately. “Nothing yet.” His hands kept removing parts from the pistol, cleaning them with a rag, oiling, polishing, turning. “Magnus has put in new codes and locked me out of the transmitter. I can’t call Danté to find out what’s going on.”

Bad going to worse. “Why would Magnus change da codes?”

Colding shrugged. “He says security is compromised. He wants to be the only one receiving or sending messages.” Colding’s fingers worked the weapon. This was Clayton’s chance to tell him … but Sara’s and Tim’s lives hung in the balance.

“Colding, I …” His voice trailed off.

Colding’s hands stopped. He looked up. “You what?”

Before Clayton could speak, the computer beeped loudly—the
integrity check had finished. In that instant, Clayton’s resolve broke. He’d stick to the plan.

“Nothing,” he said, and turned back to the computer.

The screen showed four breaks in the landlines—one near his house, one close to the Harveys’ place, and two on the line leading from Sven’s. Clayton printed the repair map, then left the security room.

SARA GNAWED ON a block of cheese in between gulps from a glass of milk. How could she be hungry at a time like this? She didn’t care. Eating gave her hands something to do, even if she couldn’t turn off her brain, couldn’t turn off the thoughts of her dead friends.

She and Tim walked around Clayton’s house, looking at framed black-and-white pictures and faded Polaroids that would have made any paparazzi green with envy.

“Amazing,” Tim said. “Here he is drinking with Frank Sinatra.”

Sure enough, a black-and-white of Old Blue Eyes holding a half-filled tumbler up to the camera, an incredibly young Clayton Detweiler doing the same with a bottle of Budweiser. To the right of that picture, another black-and-white with an even more famous face.

“Holy shit,” Tim said. “Here he is fishing with friggin’ President Reagan. And fuck me running, this is Brigitte Bardot back in the
day
. Hot as hell and playing piggyback with Clayton? What is he in this picture, twenty-five?”

Tim kept babbling, but Sara wasn’t paying attention anymore. Her thoughts had already drifted away to a darker place, a place where she would know what it felt like to put a bullet in Magnus Paglione’s brain.

CLAYTON PATIENTLY RODE the Nuge’s zebra-striped lift bucket up to the top of the wooden telephone pole. He was about a quarter mile northeast of the watchtower and the jammer tower. As he rose, he watched the new storm already taking shape. Dull gray-black clouds the color of sour chocolate milk filled the sky, steadily increasing in size and number, choking out the light. The wind had grown steadily all morning, and now was pushing around ten miles an hour.

A fallen tree had snapped the line. He had to repair it to connect Sven to the mansion. But as soon as he repaired that break, Sven might call the mansion, try to get Tim Feely out to check on the cows. And that was just
because the cows were
sick—
if Sven found out there were baby monsters brewing in those big bellies, he’d go straight to Magnus. Keeping that info from Sven was a shitty thing to do, but the fact of the matter was that two lives hung on Clayton’s every decision.

The lift bucket reached the top. He had no choice—he
had
to keep Sven in the dark until Tim and Sara were off the island. Clayton connected his orange handset and punched in Sven’s number.

THE PHONE RANG. Mookie barked at it. Mookie barked at everything.

“Shut up, girl,” Sven said as he walked to the phone. “Yah, Sven here.”

“Sven, it’s Clayton.” Clayton’s voice sounded scratchy and far-off.

“Clayton, those cows are awfully sick, eh? And they’re getting worse fast. Who’s coming out to help me?”

“Listen, Sven, there’s a problem. Genada is up to no good. Can you just stay out of da barn for a day or so, until this storm passes us over?”

What the hell was that old coot rambling on about? Was this another one of Clayton’s tall tales?

“No, Clayton, I can’t
stay out of da barn
. I have to take care of my herd, eh?”

There was a pause, no noise but the scratchy connection and maybe some wind on Clayton’s end.

“Sven, listen to me, eh? Just trust me on this one.”

Clayton clearly didn’t understand the state of the strays, or what it meant to be responsible for the safety and welfare of those animals. “Know what, Clayton? How about you just fix da phones.”

“Genada is up to no good, I tell ya.”

“Well, Genada signs my paycheck every other week.
You
don’t. Now fix da phones or I’m driving up to da mansion myself.”

Sven heard muttered cursing, and what sounded like someone kicking the inside of a big plastic bucket.

“Sven, you remember when your wife died?”

The question stunned him. What the hell did that have to do with anything? “Of course I remember, Clayton. What’s your goddamn point?”

“Remember how I took care of things for you? When you were … grieving?”

Sven’s big, calloused hand tightened on the plastic handset.
Grieving
. That was one way to describe it. Lying in bed and crying, not eating for a
week, unable to lift a finger to help himself … that was more accurate. Clayton had taken care of everything.

“Clayton Detweiler, are you trying to tell me that I
owe you?”

“Yah, and I’m cashing in. Just sit tight. Stay away from da barn, Sven.”

What a tit-for-tat son of a bitch. Whatever this was, it was a very big deal to Clayton. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

“I want to, Sven, but I can’t.”

Wasn’t that just perfect? Clayton didn’t pull shit like this, ever. Had to be something major. “I’ll wait until da storm blows over, but that’s it. Tomorrow morning, one way or another, someone is coming out here.”

A pause. “Well, that’ll have to do. I’ll talk to you before then.”

Sven hung up and looked out the window, troubled thoughts whirling through his mind like the nasty winds taking shape outside. He’d known Clayton for, oh, thirty years now. Sven nodded—he could wait, wait until the storm had passed. After that, however, he had to fulfill his obligations.

Sven rolled his neck. He heard and felt his old bones crack. The job was tiring enough even without any of this added stress. He felt exhausted. He looked down at Mookie, who looked back, fluffy tail suddenly swishing across the floor.

“You ready for a nap with da old man, girl?”

Mookie barked, then ran for the bedroom. Sven followed. Mookie spun in circles at the foot of the bed. Sven didn’t bother undressing, just climbed on top of the blankets and lay down on his side. Mookie jumped onto the bed and curled into her favorite spot, nestled in the crook of Sven’s legs.

Both of them fell asleep in seconds.

CLAYTON REALIZED HE hadn’t actually done a head count on the cows from the plane. Maybe all of them didn’t make it to Sven’s. The Harveys’ place was fairly close to the crash site; perhaps some cows had wandered there. If James found a stray and simply snowmobiled to the mansion to find out what was going on …

Clayton punched in the Harveys’ number. Stephanie answered on the second ring.

“Hello?”

“Stephanie, Clayton here.”

“Oh,
Clayton!
Are you going to stop by today? I could whip up those
brownies you like so much I’ll put on some coffee and we can all sit down and—”