Deadfall (44 page)

“So what now?”

“Go to the cabin.”

Phil looked around, sighed. “How far is that?”

“Couple hours, maybe, but I gotta do something first.”

Hutch rose. His legs felt unstable, and he took a step back. The grassy slope almost sent him tumbling. He gripped the concrete to steady himself. He surveyed the area, turning a complete circle, and pointed northeast to where the woods picked up again. It was in the opposite direction of the cabin. However, it was only a couple hundred yards out of the way and would allow him to reach the valley below without staying in the open. Besides the cover the woods provided, it would also supply his greatest need.

“Got those arrows?” he asked Phil.

“Right here.” Phil stood, groaning at the effort. He handed Hutch four arrows, the one Julian had returned and three he had found in the dirt.

Hutch started for the woods, cutting diagonally down and across the slope.

Twenty minutes later
Hutch had found what he wanted: a sevenfoot- tall birch sapling, roughly three inches wide at its base. He bent it, then stomped down on it until it snapped. He used a broadhead to sever the remaining strands. The wood was soft. Perfect.

“That for your knee and your ankle?” Phil asked. “To take the pressure off?”

“Not off of my leg.”

“Then what?”

Hutch knelt on the cushy loam of the woods floor. He laid down his arrows and sapling and withdrew the map. Staying in the woods meant continuing northeast for over a mile before arcing back toward the cabin. He looked at his watch. He believed they had twenty minutes before Declan's satellite would once again become available to him. If they hurried, that was enough time to cross the open valley floor to the forest beyond, saving them probably forty-five minutes. In their situation those extra minutes could mean the difference between living and dying, and right now he was thinking about Dillon's safety. He wanted to get to the boy as quickly as he could. The cabin was merely a destination, not necessarily the safe haven Dillon or Laura presumed it was.With Declan roaming the area—with eyes in the sky to boot—no place was safe.

He held up three arrows to Phil. “Carry these for me?”

Phil accepted them, pointed at one more still on the ground. “That one?”

Hutch stashed the map and stood, branch in one hand, arrow in the other. “This one I need,” he said. “I'll work on the way.”

“Work on what?”

“You'll see. Let's go.”

They headed for the open valley floor. Despite his injuries, Hutch began to jog. “Hurry. We have to be back under the trees before Declan's satellite sees us.”

62

Declan had lost
the motorbike.

The old Jeep just could not keep up on such heavy terrain. The Hummer maybe, but no sense whining about that now. The bike had stayed in the valley, heading toward the Fond du Lac River, miles to the south. He had expected them to turn into the woods, along which they had traveled a long way; but they had not. Their decision had worked for them, since it had allowed them to travel faster than Declan dared push the Jeep.

He slowed the vehicle and stopped.They were facing south. Before them, the land sloped for miles to the river. On the other side of the water it began to rise again in a series of rolling, ever-rising hills.

“They got away,” Cortland said stupidly. “What are we gonna do?”

“We'll find 'em.” He looked at his watch. “In fact, any minute now we'll know exactly where they are. Whether we can get close enough to stop them in their tracks is another matter.”

From the backseat Julian said, “I'm hungry, Dec. I thought we were going into town to get some food.”

Declan turned in his seat to look back at his brother. “You think too much about your stomach . . . and not enough about what we talked about.” He raised his eyebrows.

Julian looked away, out the window and into the woods.

The Slacker's notification of the satellite's availability chimed: the first three bars of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony.

“There we go,” Declan said. He leaned over to retrieve the satellite control from the glove compartment. He fiddled with it, watching the screen intently. He spun a control wheel, and the satellite's cameras pulled back to reveal square miles of territory instead of square yards. He said, “Oh yeah. They think they're pretty smart.”

“Where are they? What'd they do?” Cortland rose on her knees and leaned toward him, trying to catch a glimpse of the monitor.

“They circled back around. About a mile, mile and a half up, another valley meets this one on the left, angling northeast. This forest we're next to is a big pie shape. They're on the other side, not quite equal to us.” He pointed into the woods as though they were right there within reach.

“All right.” He started to set the Slacker device in his lap and stopped. “What's this?”

“What? What?”

He squinted at the screen. “Those two guys. Those two hunters who got away when Uncle Andrew checked out. They're right there. Heading into the woods.” He smiled at Cortland. “Can you believe this thing? Two guys get away an hour ago and I find 'em.” He snapped his fingers. “Two more get away fifteen minutes ago, and I find 'em.”

He snapped his fingers again. “If those idiots hadn't activated the proximity targeting limiter, I'd have them now. Can you imagine this thing fully functioning?”

He watched the screen. “And you know something . . .” His thumbs moved over the controls. “Those two and these two are heading in the same direction. Follow one and then the other.” His thumbs moved. “And you find . . . a cabin.” He smiled at Cort again and turned in his seat to show Julian his pleasure.

He produced a walkie-talkie. Keyed it. “Bad? Bad, pick up.”

“He's taking a leak, Dec.What's up?” It was Kyrill.

“Okay, listen. Those two guys? The ones you were looking for?”

“Yeah? The hunters.”

“They're heading for a cabin due east by southeast.” Declan looked at Cort. “That's how you say it, isn't it?”

She shrugged. Of course.

Kyrill: “Okay . . . ?”

“Listen . . .” Declan panned over the area, giving Kyrill landmarks by which to navigate: a jutting ridge, a large grove of yellowing birches, the convergence of two streams. At last he said, “You got all that?”

Kyrill: “East by southeast?”

Declan rolled his eyes. “Will you just
go
?”

Kyrill: “Which way is that?”

Dec made an unsure face at Cortland. “You know where the town is from where you are?”

Kyrill: “Yeah. I can almost see it.”

“That's twelve o'clock. Head toward ten o'clock.”

Kyrill: “Got it. How far?”

“Five miles.”

Kyrill: “Gotcha.”

“We'll see you soon. But, Kyrill?”

Kyrill: “Yeah.”

“Don't wait for me. Get over there and take care of everybody, you understand?”

“Wipe 'em out,” Kyrill said matter-of-factly.

“Declan!” Julian said from the backseat.

“Exactly,” Declan said into the walkie-talkie. “Everybody you see.

We can draw from the herd as we need later. These guys are more trouble than they're worth. Just take care of them.”

Kyrill: “Dec? Did you get the food?”

“What's with you guys? We'll eat later.” He dropped the walkietalkie into his pocket. “
Teenagers!
”

“Hey!” Cortland protested.

He looked at the monitor, then pushed the device under his leg. He put the transmission into drive and said, “This ought to be fun.” He cranked the wheel left and drove into the woods. The Jeep bounded over fallen trees and small bushes, but thanks to the cushion of the constantly falling foliage, it wasn't as bad as Declan had expected. He swerved around trees; branches squealed against the car. Before long they emerged on the other side. He snatched up the device and looked.

“They're heading right for us,” he said, “but I'm about to lose the sat.” He peered around, thinking. A glance back at Slacker's monitor confirmed the satellite had orbited out of range. He jammed the transmission into reverse and slowly backed into the foliage.

“What's going on?” Julian asked.

“Shhh” was all Declan offered.

Julian turned the window crank a full revolution.The glass lowered and he listened. Wind in the trees, the idling engine, nothing more. “Declan, don't do this. The satellite works, and you got plenty of footage for the game. Let's just go home. Let's—”

“They're coming,” Cort whispered.

Like a bee swooping in, the dirt bike's whine reached their ears and quickly rose in volume.

With the transmission in park, Declan gunned the engine. He gripped the shifter and leaned toward the windshield.

Julian bobbed his head around, trying to see past Cort.

The motorcycle, bearing the man and woman, came over the hill. Declan waited . . . waited . . . Then he wrenched the shifter down. There was the grinding sound of a robot clearing its metal throat, and the tranny clunked into gear. The Jeep leaped forward, up and over some ground obstacle.The faces of the bike's riders turned in surprise seconds before the Jeep broadsided them. They rose and went down, tumbling—man and woman in separate directions, away from the bike, which fractured into pieces that spun off in every direction.

Declan braked hard and jumped out of the vehicle.

“Declan!” Julian screamed. He scrambled to open the door, spilled out onto the ground, rose and ran after Declan. “Stop!”

Cortland came around from the other side. The three of them stopped at once. The bodies sprawled in the meadow, bloody humps of clothing and hair.

The downed man recovered first. He pushed himself up, slowly. Hands and feet in the grass, trying to unbend at the hips, trying to stand tall. Finally he did. Blood dripped from his face. He looked dazed. He squinted at the three, reached his hand over his shoulder, fumbled at a backpack. His fingers hooked on the strap over his shoulder, and he slipped it off his arm. Same movements on the other side, and the pack was in his hand. He stumbled back a step, glared again at them. He opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. He looked toward the woman, concern carving deep lines into his brow, at the corners of his eyes. She rolled over in the grass, moaned. He returned his eyes to the bag . . . finding the zipper.

“I don't think so,” Declan said. He raised his fist, clutching a black pistol.

Julian grabbed it. Declan maneuvered away.The pistol cracked out a sharp report.

The man went down. He dropped to his knees, then forward onto his face—the small part of his face the bullet hadn't ripped away.

A breeze caught the cloud of dust and smoke, blowing it over Declan, Cort, and Julian. Granules of sand washed over the Jeep with the sound of tiny shells in a surf.The smell of ozone and ash gave way to the tangy metallic odor of blood.

The boy wretched.

Cortland clapped her hand over her mouth. She shoved Julian. Through her fingers, she said in a muffled voice, “If you're going to puke again, go over there.”

He stumbled toward the trees. He stood bent at the waist, hands on his knees, heaving air in, out, in, out.

“Terry!”

The woman was standing—sort of. She could not quite find her legs or spine. She wavered and staggered. Blood trickled from her scalp, over her forehead, into an eyebrow, and along the bridge of her nose. The effect, Declan thought, was that of a split face, symbolically separating the person she would have been, had he not entered her world, from this pathetic, wretched creature before him.

She staggered toward the corpse Declan had just made of this Terry person. Squinting at it, she stopped, swaying, as if her time up here had made her part tree. She wiped at her eyes and appeared unsure of the body before her. Lifting in jittery movements, her eyes found Declan and her mouth moved, emitting noises. At first, nothing intelligible came out, just a wail, like an incantation that would lay him low. In this context, the blood on her face was war paint.

Declan got an image for an advertisement. Black-and-white. A woman screaming in rage, a smoking crater behind her, a severed hand grasping at nothing beside it. Only the blood on her face colored: bright red.
Something rendered by comic book king Frank Miller,
Declan thought. But the woman in the game ad would require more muscles; her clothes needed to be ripped in strategic places to reveal that she was as tough as any man and as sexy as any woman.

Declan made a conscious effort to commit this image to memory —both the stylized Frank Miller drawing and the real woman. Mud or blood—probably both—smeared her right temple and matted her hair on that side. Grass was stuck in it. Her left forearm sported a blue-green-yellow bruise from elbow to wrist. Oh, and a touch he may not have considered on his own: she had lost one shoe. Her foot was bare, muddy, and lacerated; it was a wonderful counterpoint to the casual leather slip-on on the other foot. Of course, in the ad, the woman would have to be less muddy: on this woman, on Laura, the mud caked much of her pants and jacket, obscuring the textures and curves that would make the illustration intriguing.

“You insane . . . madman . . .”

Declan anticipated a display of rage of epic proportions, but it lost power quickly.

Laura fell to her knees. She kept her eyes on Declan.Tears washed away the bloody-muddy stuff, and Declan thought that would never do for the advertisement. Spent, defeated, she said, “Tom . . .Tom . . .”

She waved a hand at the body. “Terry . . .
why
?” She hung her head. Hair on the unmatted side spilled down like a veil. “Why?”

“It always comes to that, doesn't it?” Declan said. “Can't things just happen? Can't we just experience life—the good, the bad—without always questioning the reason?” He shook his head. “You never heard that ‘curiosity killed the cat'?”