Robert B. Parker (14 page)

“How about insect repellent,” Newman said.

Hood stood motionless. “Jesus, I’m slowing up. Yeah, of course, insect repellent. I got some in town.” He went to the kitchen and returned. “How the hell could I have forgotten that?” he said. “Here, I’m putting one in each bag.”

Newman looked at the three knapsacks laid out neatly, the three long guns to the right of each knapsack, the three pistol belts rolled and laid out to the left of each knapsack.

“The small first-aid kit in each bag contains bandages, antiseptic, some aspirin,” Hood said.

“Chris, that’s wonderful,” Janet said. “You’ve thought of everything.”

“I don’t like forgetting the bug dope,” Hood said. “I shouldn’t forget anything.”

“How about a canteen?” Newman said.

“No need,” Hood said. “The lake’s drinkable, and there’s a lot of streams, and the Saco River runs clean here. Canteen just weigh you down for nothing.”

Hood wore hiking boots, Levi’s jeans, and a tan Levi’s work shirt. As he talked he stared out the living room window toward Karl’s camp on the island a half mile away. It was nearly dark and some light showed through the trees from the cabin. Hood picked up his pistol belt and strapped it around his waist. “It would make sense if we wore these all the time. Be ready in case we’re surprised. We won’t be …” He thought for a minute, couldn’t find the right word, shrugged, and said, “You know.”

Newman picked up the other two belts. He handed one to Janet and put the other one on. “Here,” he said to Janet, “you adjust it this way. See, you slide this along then put the little hook in here.” Together they adjusted the pistol belt. The .32 looked somewhat undersized on the broad web belt.

“Pistol-packin’ momma,” Newman said.

Janet smiled. Hood stared steadily out the window at the lights on Karl’s island.

“Tomorrow,” Hood said. “Tomorrow we’ll set up a shooting spot and watch the island all the time, take turns. They have to row out there, and we should have a nice clean shot at them when they do. And remember, when we do it, then we get in the car and go. We keep all our clothes and stuff in the car. When we go we take the guns, the bedrolls, and the knapsacks, and drive away. The minute we stop shooting.”

Newman nodded. “Yeah, we got it. We went over it all driving up, Chris.”

“Does it hurt to run through it to remind us, Aaron?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

Janet said, “Why don’t we grill some steaks over the
fire? They’ve got one of those swing-out grills, built in.”

“And a few beers,” Newman said, “here in the great outdoors. I’ll get a fire going.”

“You do that,” Hood said. “I’m going to look things over a little.” He went out through the screened side door, across the small patio, and disappeared without a sound into the tall trees at the edge of the cabin clearing.

Newman got a can of Lite beer from the cooler and drank it as he built the fire. Janet came in from the kitchen with the steaks on a platter. “I put some beans on to heat,” she said. She put the steaks down beside Newman. There were tongs on the platter with the steaks. “I’d set the table,” Janet said, “but I don’t know where to eat. I wouldn’t dare disturb Chris’s table layout there. He’s got everything laid out like he’s ready for surgery.” She got a bottle of wine from the cooler and poured some into a transparent plastic cup.

Newman said, “We’ll eat off our laps, I think. Chris is fairly intense about his set-up.”

“But he’s right, Aaron. It can’t hurt to be ready.”

“Yeah, I know. At home we laughed at him lurking around in the yard at night, and goddamned if he didn’t save our lives. This is probably sensible. But don’t you feel like a horse’s ass with the gunbelt and all?”

“Yes, but I’d be a lot more scared without it.”

“True.”

The fire began to bite into the logs. Janet turned the lights off, and they sat on the floor in front of the fire as the flames began to get bigger and the shadows moved in the room. Newman got another beer.

“Like a vacation,” Newman said.

“Or a honeymoon,” Janet said.

“Except we came to kill a man,” Newman said.

“There’s no other way, Aaron.”

The smell of the beans cooking on the stovetop mingled with the woodsmoke. Newman drank some beer. “No, there isn’t. I’m glad you’re here,” he said.

“I belong here,” she said. “It is our problem. It happened to us.”

“I wish it hadn’t.”

“But it did.”

“I wish I could handle it alone.”

“But you can’t. Who could?”

“I wish I were someone who could. Chris could.”

“I wonder,” Janet said. “I wonder if he doesn’t need an audience to see how good he is. I wonder if he doesn’t need a cause to serve, or a crowd to please.”

Newman shrugged. “There’s guys that could.”

“And there’s guys that couldn’t do this,” Janet said. “Guys that would just fold up and do what they were told. You can’t be perfect, Aaron.”

“I’d like to be better at this.”

“You are being the best you can be. You’ve been a good father and a good husband and a good writer for a long time now. You’ve always handled everything you had to. You’re handling this. Don’t muck it up by wanting to be something else. I wouldn’t trade you for Chris.”

Newman was silent, sitting close to her, not touching.
Chris is none of those things
, he thought looking at the fire.
Chris was a lousy husband and a bad father. He never was able to handle it when the kids were sick or the money was short or the plumbing broke. All he could do was fight. All he’s good at is violence
.

“When the going got tough, Chris bailed out,” Newman said.

“What?”

“When it got tough at home. When it wasn’t fun having kids or wife, Chris would go to the health club or the bars or the gym or hunting. He was tough in fighting, but he wasn’t tough in hanging in there.”

Janet looked at him. “God, Aaron. I think you’re maturing,” she said.

“Well it’s true,” he said, “there’s more than one kind of toughness.”

She nodded, smiling slightly.

“The thing is, we’re in something here that requires a particular kind. I don’t know if I’ve got it.”

“I do,” Janet said. “I’ve got it.”

There were five of them in the boat as they rowed across to the island with the mist still lingering lightly over the lake and the sun slanting very sharply in from the east. Adolph Karl sat in the stern wearing a plaid shirt and new green polyester pants. Beside him, his son Richie, twenty-eight. His son Marty, twenty-six, sat in the bow seat with Frank Marriott. Gordy Tate rowed.

“It’s them,” Janet said, looking through the binoculars. “Two of them are the ones that tied me up.” She handed the glasses to Newman. He looked.

“That’s Karl in the stern,” he said. “In the plaid shirt.”

The Springfield was lying across a shooting rest that Hood had built in the fork of a small white oak at the lake edge, thirty yards from their cabin. Hood adjusted the scope.

“Goddamn,” he said.

“What?” Newman was whispering, although the boat was a quarter of a mile away.

“Karl’s on the wrong side. The guy with the yellow jacket on is between me and him.”

“Shoot both of them,” Janet said.

“Let me see,” Newman said. His throat was very tight and he had trouble getting his voice out. The boat was halfway across. Hood stepped aside and Newman peered through the scope. There was no fixed sight on the barrel, and the scope was like looking through a telescope. It was as if there were no gun. He could see part of Karl’s checkered shirt and the back of his head. More and less of him came into view as both he and Richie moved as they talked and Tate rowed.

“We could hit him,” Newman whispered. “There will never be another chance as good. We could hit him and get in the car and be on the road and they wouldn’t even know where the shot came from. By the time they rowed to shore we’d be gone.”

“Let me see,” Hood said. Newman stepped aside.

“We can do it,” Newman said.

“Do it, Chris,” Janet said. “Do it now.”

Hood stared through the scope.

“For crissake, Chris, shoot,” Newman said.

Hood held the rifle carefully in its shooting rest, his cheek against the stock, his hand curled around the curved pistol grip line of the stock, his forefinger on the trigger. His left arm was almost fully extended, steadying the rifle in its rest. He inhaled once, let out the air, and then was perfectly still.

Newman said silently,
Shoot, shoot, shoot, shoot
. Somewhere on the lake a fish broke. Hood inhaled, and relaxed his grip on the rifle. He straightened.

“No good,” he said. “Too risky. We’ll have to try for a better shot.”

Newman felt his eyes fill with tears. “Jesus Christ,” he said.

Janet Newman pushed past Hood and crouched over the rifle. She looked through the sight. Newman could see the rowboat disappear behind the dock. Janet stood up. She didn’t say anything. She walked back toward the house. Newman followed her. Hood picked up the binoculars and began to study Karl’s island.

In the house Newman smashed his hand down on the table where the packs and weapons were laid out. The rifles jounced. “Fuck,” he said. His voice was shaking. “We could have done it and been gone. It could have been over now. Son of a bitch.” He hit the table again.

“There’s nothing to be done,” Janet Newman said. “We’ll have to wait for the next chance, but this time you or I will have to do it. We’ll have to stop waiting for Chris to do it. We’ll shoot as soon as we can.”

The rowboat went back and forth two more times that day, but Karl wasn’t in it. It went to and from the island three times the next day, without Karl. The third time it returned to the island it was powered by an outboard motor. The next morning a second boat with an outboard went out to the island. And at eight-five that morning both boats pulled away from the dock, went around the far side of the island, and headed down the lake.

Hood came in from his post at the rifle stand, hurrying.

“Grab the packs,” he said, “they’re running.”

Newman and Janet each picked up a pack by the straps, and a long gun, and followed Hood out of the cabin and down toward the canoe. On the lake, a quarter of a mile away, the two rowboats moved slowly east, driven by the small outboard engines.

Janet Newman sat on the floor in the middle of the canoe. Newman took the bow paddle, Hood the stern. The canoe moved out from the dock and turned east after the two rowboats. It was eight-thirty in the morning, the sun was up and shining in their eyes, skipping brightly off the water of the lake. There was no wind. The canoe went around a small point and the dock was out of sight. White oak and red maple pushed down close to the water; many had fallen in where the banks had eroded and given way. There was nothing alive in sight except the two rowboats ahead of them in the sun.

“We’ll stay close to the shore,” Hood said, “like we’re just canoeing.”

“Can we stay with them, paddling?” Janet said.

“Yeah,” Hood said. “The outboards are only little ones. They’re not going to leave us.”

“Lake’s not that big,” Newman said.

“But there’s an outlet,” Hood said. “According to my map the ponds connect and there’s access to the Saco River.”

“So we could be in for a long trip,” Janet said.

“If we have to trail them for long they’ll get suspicious,” Newman said.

Hood didn’t say anything. The canoe moved easily in the water. Behind them something broke in the water. They could hear the splash. A loon dived between them and the outboards. The sun moved higher. Newman could feel the sweat begin to break on his forehead and the muscles starting to loosen. Hood guided the canoe easily. Newman was a strong paddle in the bow.

“Chris,” Newman said. “What the hell did you mean, ‘they’re running’?”

“They’re moving out,” Hood said.

“But they aren’t running from us, specifically. That is, there’s nothing as far as they know chasing them.”

“No. They weren’t hurrying. They weren’t running. It was just an expression.”

A painted turtle slipped off a semisubmerged log and hung motionless in the water, only its head exposed as the canoe passed. Hood guided the canoe out farther from the lake shore. In close the shore was thick with the snags of fallen timber. There were slick black branches just below the surface.

The packs and the long guns were on the floor of the canoe.

“We’re going to run out of lake pretty soon,” Newman said. The lake water was the color of strong tea. Looking down Newman could see swarms of fry moving below the eddy of his paddle. Janet Newman had the field glasses on the two rowboats. “They’re turning,” she said.

The two boats moved slowly in an arc to the left and moved at right angles to the east end of the lake shore.

“We’ll keep paddling along the shoreline,” Hood said. “If they keep going around the edge of the lake like that we can see them and we can cut across and catch up if we have to. This way it doesn’t look like we’re following them and we’re still keeping them in sight.” Hood wore a gray woolen shirt with the sleeves rolled up past the elbows, denim pants, and hiking boots. Newman had on a blue woolen shirt with the sleeves rolled, cream-colored corduroy pants, and hiking boots. They continued to paddle along the shoreline, slowly curving north.

The sun was almost straight overhead when Janet
said, “They’re landing.” Hood and Newman let the canoe drift as they looked back and across the lake. The two boats were near shore, and they could make out one of the men wading ashore.

“The great big one has gotten out,” Janet said, watching through the binoculars. “He’s pulling both boats up onto a little beach.”

As they drifted, the canoe paddles laid across the gunnels of the canoe, they watched the two rowboats across the lake empty. There were the same five people. Karl, his two sons, and Tate and Marriott.

“They each have a pack,” Janet said. “And rifles. The packs are a lot larger than ours. They have, what are they called, packboards.”

The five men walked away from the boats and into the woods.

“What now?” Newman said.