When the Killing Starts Page 9

  He lowered his rifle all the way to the ground, resting the butt and holding the tip of the barrel at arm's length from him as if the whole thing were a burden.

  "Who sent you? Who are you?"

  This wasn't a time for explanations. I decided to lie. I could explain later when we were flying out together in the floatplane. "Wallace is out to get you killed," I told him. "He hates your guts because you're from a wealthy family. You've got to get away while you've got the chance."

  His lip lifted in a sneer. "Who the hell are you?" he asked contemptuously. "You talk like my mother sent you to try and scare me into going home."

  "Wallace is wanted for attempted murder." Just a small exaggeration. "And Dunphy is a psychopath. He did a year in military prison for assaulting one of his own men. I'm telling you, these are bad people."

  "And now I'm one of them," he said, and raised his rifle.

  He'd left it too late. He had to hoist it by the muzzle before he could aim it at me, and before he had it halfway up, I had my .38 out of my pocket and jammed into his face. "Move and you're gone," I said. "Now listen." His eyes rolled helplessly, and he let the rifle drop. I nodded. "Good. I'm going to leave the gun on you to remind you what you've gotten yourself into as a mercenary. People will be trying to kill you. No flowers, no flags. Just a bullet in the head if you're lucky and tossed aside for the village pigs to disembowel."

  He licked his lips. I could see that he was trembling. Good. With any luck my twenty-five grand was within reach. "This Freedom for Hire is a scam. Dunphy doesn't have an army. He's a clearinghouse for recruits. He gets the hiring pay. It's an embarrassment to him if anybody comes back to claim it. On top of which you're rich and he's not. I'm warning you, you're dead if you go with them."

  He still said nothing, and I lowered the gun. "Now I can get you out of this. All you have to do is come back here tonight. Sneak out of camp and join me here. Clear your throat quietly and I'll hear you. I'll get you out, and if you still want to play soldier, you can join the regular army. Okay?"

  He nodded so quickly that I knew it was the fear in him making the decision. So I added the clincher. "And don't think you can go back and get the rest of them on your side. If you say you saw a man in here and didn't stop him, they'll say you were too chicken to bring me in. And if I'm caught, I'll tell them about this meeting."

  His lips were dry, but he nodded again and whispered, "Okay."

  I handed him his rifle, and he backed away, watching me fearfully. I was the first real threat he had ever encountered.

  EIGHT

  I lay hidden, listening for the sounds of men coming back into the bush, wondering whether Michaels was more afraid of me than he was of Wallace. My meeting with him hadn't been as clean as I would have liked. I had expected anger. Well-adjusted young men don't skip out on their family to go and kill people. But I hadn't expected the hatred he showed for his mother. It was warped, and I didn't know which way he would bend under pressure, whether the new resentments he was building up against Wallace would be enough to make him duck out and come with me or whether he would see me as a hireling of his mother's and hang me out to dry. All I could do was to lie low and wait. It was tense.

  The only sounds I could hear were encouraging—shots and whistle blasts from farther down the lake, as if the men were off practicing their attacks in other areas. But I knew Wallace was smart. Even if Michaels had told him about me, he might carry on, lulling me so I would be off guard if he sneaked back with the kid at night.

  Eventually I relaxed enough to pull out some of my dog biscuits and gnaw on them. They were some nationally advertised brand that promised to keep your pet young forever. The makers had been generous with the beef flavor, and they went down not badly, although my dentist wouldn't have liked the strain they put on my teeth and they did make me thirsty.

  Around dusk I heard the men returning to their camp. Fortunately, Wallace had kept them using the paddles, so they still didn't know they had problems with their outboard motors. That was my ace in the hole if things fell apart later.

  I heard them splashing ashore on the rocks at the north end of the lake, and then there was a command, from Dunphy, judging by the crisp English intonation, and a chorus of shouts, and they all hurled themselves into the water. Good training. They had worked all day and were looking forward to a rest and some chow, but he had sent them swimming, in their clothes, I guessed, from the speed with which they hit the lake. Dunphy was a professional. He was teaching them about the real world of patrols and attacks and perpetual discomfort. I listened while they spent ten noisy minutes in the water before doubling back to their messing area, chanting all the way.

  It was half an hour later that they returned to their hooches. I guess they'd been given permission to light a fire and dry their clothes, because I soon caught a smell of woodsmoke and was able to pick out a glow in the treetops around their campsite. There was some laughter and the occasional half shout of men at horseplay, but these died away within an hour, and then the glow vanished, and they settled down for the night.

  I crept out from under the branches and eased back to the spot where I had met Michaels earlier. I wished Sam had been there with me to warn me when anyone came close, but I did the best I could, straining my ears for noises as I sat and nursed my rifle with my back to a tree.

  The hours dragged by, filled with the slow, quiet sounds of the bush, the trailing of a porcupine and the scurry of smaller creatures and the low woofing of a horned owl. Out on the lake the loons were calling. Their lonely yodeling is the eeriest sound in the north, and I felt my hair rise as I sat there, willing Michaels to arrive and my long wait to be over. I was too close to the camp, much too close for comfort.

  I checked my watch at a little after three, deciding that if he had not shown by five I would use the last of the darkness to head south off this lake. I had tried, and if he didn't show, I had failed. Hanging around wouldn't help.

  About an hour later I heard the sounds of a man in the bush, the low crackle of sticks underfoot, each crunch slow and separate as the walker eased forward, trying to be silent. I raised myself into a crouch, ready to dive away if somebody flashed a light on me. I had the safety off my rifle, ready to slam off a couple of quick shots if I had to, keeping their heads down while I ducked away into the wood. The sounds seemed to come from one man's progress, but I wasn't sure.

  They grew closer, the crunch underfoot mingled with the swishing of branches as the jack pines tugged at clothing and sprang free. Then, finally, I heard a low, gentle humph, a man clearing his throat.

  I warbled a tiny low-pitched whistle three times, then waited, and a man's voice said, "Over here." It was Michaels. I eased out through the tangle, making very little noise, enough to alert a trained man but not enough to make him fire. Then the voice came again. "Where are you? We haven't got all night." It was the right imperious tone to make me certain he was alone. He sounded scared. He wanted to get out.

  I squirmed further, and when he spoke, I was almost under his elbow. He said, "I'm over here, let's go."

  I lay silent for a half minute longer until I was sure there was nobody with him, then whispered, "Come this way," and wriggled past him toward the branches where I had hidden my canoe. He swore softly but dropped to his hands and knees and followed, and within a minute we found the canoe. "To your right," I whispered, and took the front end, staying low, although the branches were less thick here and I could stand almost erect without getting snagged.

  He hadn't done much canoeing. That was obvious, even in the dark, from the way he handled his end, so when we got to the water, I held the stern on the shore and told him, "Get in the bow, grab a paddle, and sit still till I'm in."

  He clumped in, almost falling, swearing as he rocked but doing it softly. He was acting scared, and that was good. It would make him easier to handle. Then I put my rifle aboard and stepped over the stern. One dig with the paddle and we were offshore. Michaels was a clumsy
paddler, changing arms constantly, not trusting me to keep us on course. It would almost have been easier to tell him to ship his paddle and forget it, but I didn't want to argue. Voices carry like bell notes over the water.

  We made it to the south end of the lake in the glimmer of the false dawn. I ran us ashore up onto the duff that stretched to the water's edge, and Michaels stepped out and towed me in, lifting the bow and running the canoe half its length out of the water. I picked up my rifle and came forward, stepping ashore at the water's edge. Michaels pulled the canoe farther on shore, then straightened up and laughed softly.

  "Made it," he said, and stuck out his hand.

  I took it but not enthusiastically. We still had a day and a night to stay out of sight. Then we had to hope his ex-buddies weren't looking for us on Lac Laroche when Robinson arrived. If they were, we'd have to let him go without us, and it would take two weeks to get out of the bush on our own, even without resistance from Wallace and Dunphy. We hadn't made it yet. Not in my terms.

  "I just hope you're right," I said. And then I heard the sound that told me he wasn't, the ripping silk sound of an outboard motor starting up at the north end of the lake, close to the camp.

  Michaels swore. "They've missed me," he said.

  I glanced at him. His face was just becoming visible in the growing light. He looked the same as he had the day before, spoiled and rich and expressionless. He didn't have any fear showing, and I didn't think he was that courageous. It made me wonder.

  "Why would they head down here right away?" I asked him. "Have you set them up?"

  "Shit, you're paranoid," he said, and his tone was huffy, but there was no fear in it. And there should have been unless he had lied to me. I frowned and glanced around quickly. I didn't trust him, not now.

  "Why are they heading down this way?" I asked again. And this time I raised the muzzle of my rifle and nudged him under the chin. "Have you set this up?"

  "For God's sake! Why would I do that?" It was a liar's answer.

  "For kicks," I guessed out loud. And then I heard the sound I'd been waiting for, the dying splutter of the outboard, followed by a man's voice cursing and then the faint put-put-putting of someone tugging at the motor, trying to start it.

  Michaels had learned something from Wallace. He ducked sideways and batted the muzzle of the rifle away. But he hadn't learned enough. I let the muzzle swing away but followed through on it, completing the motion so that the butt came up and caught him under the rib cage, hard. Michaels fell backward, arms and legs convulsing as he struggled for air. I turned back to the shore, staring up the lake to where the rhythmic splash of paddles was drowning out the splutter of the motor not starting. I must have listened for almost a minute before Michaels got his breath back in a sudden howl of inrushing air. I prodded him with my toe. "Stay put or you get seconds," I said, and he let himself go limp.

  The movement of my head let me catch another sound off the water, the quiet splashing of another inflatable boat, much closer than the first one, only three hundred yards out, pulling toward me from the direction of a rocky point to the west side of the lake. I'd been set up. These men knew where I was, and they were coming to get me, making a military exercise of it, something they could crown with the pleasure of taking a real live prisoner and then interrogating him. I had to get away, fast.

  I turned and stuck my rifle muzzle under Michaels's chin. "Are they all out there? Or are some of them in the bush?"

  He had trouble speaking, and the first words he managed were "Don't shoot. Please. I had no choice. They'd have torn me apart."

  "Who's out there? How many boatloads?"

  "On this lake, two," he said. "The other boatload went down the west lake."

  "Stay where you are or I'll knock your head off."

  I turned and knelt down on the pine needles, bringing my rifle up to the aiming position. I was torn. I couldn't shoot the men. This wasn't war, even though I would become an instant casualty when they found me. I had to slow them down and escape. That was all I could do. The foremost boat was coming at me fast, as the men in it strained at their paddles. It was only about two hundred and fifty yards from shore. But it was bow on, and that gave me my break. I lined up carefully and shot out the float on the starboard side. The boat spilled sideways as my heavy round tore through all the flotation chambers. Men tumbled into the water, yelling with alarm, and then, as the reaction came and the drag of the down side pulled the boat sideways, I put a second round through the other side, collapsing all but the bow and stern compartments. The water was filled with struggling men, but I was safe. They would hang on to the remaining chambers, and soon the other rubber boat would pick them up. They would be wet but safe, and I could escape while they made their way to shore. I stood up, proud of my shooting, and turned back to Michaels when Wallace's voice said, "Nice shootin', asshole. Now what?"

  I spun to face him, but he was too clever to be visible. "Drop the rifle," he said, and I did it, knowing he could kill me in a second, long before I could place him and snap off a shot. I had no choice. This was a time for waiting, not fighting.

  "Good," he said when I had let the rifle fall. His voice was almost playful, making the word sound as if it had about eight ohs in it. "Now take two steps forward an' put your hands up on your head."

  I did that, too, and then he stepped out from behind the thickest tree around, an old white pine that would have soaked up all the force of my.308 even if I'd fired at him. He was wearing camouflage fatigues and a cap and carrying one of the assault rifles I'd seen among his men. He kept it on me while he jerked his head at Michaels. "On your feet, kid."

  Michaels struggled to his feet, moving painfully. Wallace laughed. "That was dumb, what you did. You gotta expect a man to use the butt."

  Michaels said nothing. He bent to pick up my .308. Wallace ignored him, turning back to me. He was smiling, but it was a mask, the face of a Klansman giving the order to lynch someone. "You must think you're pretty good, boy." I kept silent, and he moved closer. It was my best chance—let him talk himself off guard and grab his rifle. "Yeah, you figure you can walk in an' talk one o' my guys into desertion. Is that what they taught you in the marines?"

  Suddenly he fired off a three-round burst into the ground at my feet. He missed by inches and laughed when I started.

  "Next time the feet," he said. "Then you can lie there an' worry while the guys come ashore. Seems to me they could be pissed at you, boy, getting 'em all wet. Might wanna dry their boots."

  I said nothing, watching the tilt on the muzzle of his rifle, waiting to jump if he aimed at my legs. He was out of my reach, and all I could do was try to evade his shots. It was undignified, but I believed him. He would blow my feet off next shot unless I dodged. Saving my feet took priority over saving my face.

  He fired again, but I was out of the way, and he laughed again. "Hell, boy, you quite a dancer."

  I had moved far enough that I could see Michaels. I had hoped he might cool Wallace down, that his city sensibilities weren't ready to see me mutilated for Wallace's amusement. But he was standing with my rifle under his arm with a grin on his face, glad to be revenged for the thump in the gut I'd given him. I'd have to look somewhere else for help.

  Out on the lake there was a lot of shouting going on. I guessed the inflated dinghy had reached the one I'd blasted. They would pick up the survivors and head for shore. I was certain they would all want to warm up by putting their boots to me.

  I tried my last hope. "You don't think I'm doing this out of love for the little bastard, do you?" I asked. "His mother's paying me ten grand for getting him out. If you let me take him, it's yours."

  Wallace laughed and fired another burst, but wild, not even trying to scare me, "She is like hell, boy," he said. "She's offering' twenny-five grand. Can't you get nothin' straight?"

  I didn't say anything, but I was wondering where he had got his figures from. Did Michaels know what the price for his return would be? And i
f so, how? And why had he told Wallace? Was he going to buy his way out of his situation after the gang of them had dealt with me?

  "If you say so," I said. Not contradicting him but not agreeing. "All you have to do is let him out. I'll take him back, you collect the money, I'll give you all of it."

  "Hell, boy, don't worry your head 'bout that," he said.

  "I'll get the money. Me an' young Jason, we unnerstan' one another."

  I waited to see if he was going to come closer, but he didn't. He was being too careful, even stepping back a pace as he raised the barrel of his gun to cover me at knee level. "B'lieve I'll aim a little higher. How's the knee sound?"

  I did all I could. I shouted, "Get him," and dived aside, but he only laughed and stood his ground, swinging his aim to cover me. Then there was the crash of a shot, and I drew myself up automatically on the ground, making myself small waiting for Wallace's second shot. Only he wasn't in charge anymore. His rifle went flying out of his grasp as he yowled in pain and rolled on the ground, clutching his right hand. I dived for the rifle and held it on Michaels, who was standing staring at Wallace with his mouth open.

  "Drop it," I shouted.

  He dropped the gun, and I waved the muzzle of the bullpup at him until he had edged back to where I could pick up my own rifle. I needed it. I was bluffing with the bullpup. I hadn't checked it but guessed it had blown up, maybe from an overcharged round, and that the action was useless, it had shattered, injuring Wallace. But now, with my own rifle in one hand, I glanced at the assault rifle and saw it was like new except for a smear of blood on the stock. Then I heard the most welcome sound of the morning. George Horn's slow Indian voice saying, "I gotta find myself a good lawyer."

  He was back in the trees, about thirty yards off, carrying his family's hunting rifle, a worn old weapon so beat up that the barrel shone like stainless steel. Sam was standing at his heel.