08-A Thousand Bones, page 35
I’m sorry, Kenny.
Roland knelt and ran a finger along the wood planks of the floor. His fingertip came away with a pink-brown smudge. He stared at his fingertip, then stuck it in his mouth. It tasted only of dust and wood.
The ache was coming again, starting low in his body and moving through him like a rush of hot water. A face came to him, not one of the girls this time but the chiseled face of the woman cop he had left at the waterfall.
There had been no time to wait for the animals that night. He had time now.
But he didn’t know where she was or what she was doing.
The newspapers.
He spread them out on the floor. They were from the last three days, stolen from mailboxes, and he looked for her picture or any mention of her, but there was nothing.
It didn’t matter. There were cop tracks outside, and she would be back. It was just a matter of time.
He had to be patient.
He had to be invisible.
He gathered up the papers and the shotgun. He remembered the cookies and the pop can. He couldn’t leave any sign of himself. Back in the kitchen, he snatched up the can and the cookie wrapper. Dropping to his knees, he picked the crumbs off the floor, licking them off his cold fingers.
Confident that there was no evidence left, he stood, clutching the newspapers, looking around the kitchen. The trash can was dusted with snow. They’d know if he touched it.
He peered out the kitchen window, out at the white shed. Maybe he could hide them out there. He grabbed the shotgun and went out the back door. He was careful to walk in the prints that were already there, because he knew she had powers the others did not and would see.
He froze.
A noise.
The hum of a car engine riding on the thin, cold air. He turned, staring down the side of the cabin into a glare of sun and snow.
The engine grew louder.
Someone was coming.
There was a trash can out by the corner of the cabin. He went to it quickly, grabbed the lid, and stuffed the newspapers inside.
The engine was close now.
He dropped the lid back on the trash can, his eyes swinging out to the shed and back to the cabin door. He needed to become invisible.
And there was only one place he could go to do that.
51
It looks deserted,” Joe said.
Rafsky stood on the other side, squinting at the cabin, then taking a slow look around the yard. “Lots of prints here,” he said. “They from you guys?”
Joe came around the front of the cruiser. “Yeah, Mike and Holt were out yesterday looking around.”
Rafsky stared at the ground, maybe trying to see a print that didn’t belong. Joe looked, too, but saw nothing she could pinpoint as different. After a moment, Rafsky’s gaze moved to the cabin.
“We can wait for Mike if you want,” Joe said.
Rafsky shook his head and walked slowly to the front door, his hand dipping into his coat pocket for the .22 as he stepped to the porch. Joe followed, her hand poised over the unsnapped holster of her gun.
“You got keys?” Rafksy asked, taking the gun from its holster.
She dug into her jacket and came out with the keys no one from the Collier family had ever claimed. While Rafksy unlocked the door, she turned and watched their backs.
“Stand aside,” he said.
He shoved open the door, then flattened himself against the outside wall. She was on the other side of the door, and they waited, breath held, for any sound from inside. Nothing.
They swung inside. Joe held her gun level, gripped in both hands. Rafsky held the .22 in his left hand, unsteady.
The living room was empty, the air cold but stale with the lingering smells of death. Joe was surprised no one had been here to start cleaning things up. But she knew the Colliers’ only relatives lived down in Detroit and after the funeral had left everything in the hands of the police and a Realtor.
Rafsky checked out the bedrooms, and Joe moved slowly to the kitchen, pausing at the door.
Snow. But then she saw the broken pane on the back door. Three plates of food sat untouched on the small Formica table. She pulled her gaze from the table to the floor. The prints in the snow looked fresh, but she couldn’t be sure. She drew her radio from her belt and called to Mike. He answered quickly.
“Mike,” she said, “did you and Holt come inside the cabin yesterday?”
“Yeah,” he said.
“How did you enter?”
“I forgot the key, so I sent Holt through the kitchen. The window is busted back there.”
She saw nothing to indicate anyone else had been here.
“Everything good there?” Mike asked.
“Yes, we’re good.”
She had just started to put the radio back into her belt when she caught a glimpse of something through the window. The Ski-Doo, still under its tarp. It looked secure, covered with untouched snow. Beyond it, about fifteen feet away, she saw the shed. The door was wide open, but the angle didn’t allow her a full view of the inside.
“Rafsky.”
He came up behind her, and she pointed to the window. “The shed door,” she said.
He stepped closer to the window. Joe keyed her radio again. “Mike, did you guys go in the shed?”
“That’s affirmative.”
“Did you lock it back up?”
“That’s a negative, Joe,” he said. “Padlock was broke, and the door’s off-kilter. Doesn’t shut right, so we left it open.”
She stared at it, feeling her heart shift into a higher gear. “How far away are you?” she asked Mike.
“Seven, eight minutes.”
She stepped closer to Rafksy, and they stood at the window, cold air in their faces.
“What do you want to do?” she asked.
“Let’s take a quick look at it from the backyard,” he said. “Keep your eye on the snow in front of the door. Watch for shadows moving.”
They moved to the rear door. Rafksy pushed it open with one hand, and they waited, guns ready. Again, they heard nothing, and he motioned for her to go first.
She slipped outside, her eyes sweeping down the back wall of the cabin, then out to the endless rolls of snow that stretched into the trees. Nothing.
Rafsky edged out behind her, staying against the cabin as he took a quick look around. “No prints going out to the trees,” he said. “Nothing unusual here.”
“I think I can get a look inside the shed from over there,” she said, nodding toward the corner of the cabin.
“Stay against the house,” Rafsky said.
She moved carefully, stepping over a snow shovel and passing the high stack of firewood. When she got to the corner of the cabin, she was only about ten feet from the shed’s open door. She had a good angle to see inside. It was empty.
She heard a sigh of relief and looked back at Rafsky. He was watching the trees that formed the far perimeter of the yard, the .22 at his side. He reached for the back door of the cabin to go inside.
Joe was about to follow him when she noticed a trash can sitting just beyond the firewood pile. The lid was tilted, something sticking out from under it. She holstered her gun and went to it.
Crumpled newspapers. Echo Bay Banners. She pulled at one of the corners to check the date. Yesterday.
“Raf—”
Something heavy and hard came down from above her, knocking her forward. But she didn’t fall. A hand came around her neck, and something jabbed into her back.
“Don’t you move,” he whispered. “There’s a shotgun in your back.”
Rafsky’s face was drawn tight with fear. He took two steps away from the door, struggling to keep the .22 level.
Roland pulled her farther out into the yard, the barrel of the shotgun digging into the nylon of her jacket. Right at her spine.
Her mind spun. Where had he come from?
Her eyes shot to the roof of the cabin over the back door. The snow was disturbed, icicles on the eaves broken. Oh, God, why hadn’t she looked up?
“Drop the shotgun, Trader,” Rafsky said.
“Fuck you,” Roland said. “You drop that little piss-ass thing, and I’ll let you walk out of here. All I want is her.”
Rafsky started sidestepping slowly, but Roland turned Joe with him, using her body as a shield.
“Drop it!” Rafsky said.
Roland suddenly let go of her collar, his hand groping under her jacket. He grabbed her radio first and stuffed it into his pocket. He yanked her revolver from the holster and threw his shotgun to the ground. His arm slipped quickly around Joe’s neck in a choke hold. The barrel of her .38 jammed hard into her face, just under her eye.
Rafsky edged closer. “No way you’re walking out of here,” he said. “Let her go. Now.”
“You’re hurt, old man!” Roland shouted. “You should’ve died at the waterfall. You want to live now, you walk away. No one will ever know.”
“Drop your weapon, or you’re a dead man,” Rafsky said.
Joe stared at Rafsky’s .22, at the tiny dark hole of the barrel. It was moving, from her face to behind her and then back again. Panic filled her chest, her head washed with cold images. The waterfall. The rope. Small bones in a red glove. She forced it all away, trying to think, and suddenly something came. She turned her head slightly to Roland, into the press of the steel barrel.
“You’re not supposed to do it this way,” she said.
“What?” Roland said.
“You’re not supposed to kill me this way,” she said.
Rafsky yelled something else.
Roland’s head shot back toward him. “Shut up!” he screamed.
Then Roland’s face was close to her again. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m the warrior,” she said. “You’re supposed to fight me.”
Roland leaned closer. She could feel the prick of his wiry beard, smell his sour breath.
“I know what you are,” she said.
The cold gun barrel shifted against her cheek, and for a second she thought he might go for the idea of fighting her. But then he laughed softly, and the gun dug deeper into her cheek.
“You’ve wasted your time, bitch,” he said. “There is no warrior, and there is no spirit. There is just me and you, and you will make me eternal.”
Roland’s hand tightened around her neck. “You got three seconds, old man!” he yelled to Rafsky.
Joe tried to grab deeper breaths, forcing herself to stay calm and think. Rafsky was edging closer. She knew every step he took lent more accuracy to the small gun, but still his left arm wasn’t steady.
She knew he would never take the shot. It was up to her. She could drop to the ground. Roland would not be able to hold her dead weight, and he would be pulled down with her. Then he would either shoot her or let go and take aim at Rafsky. And in that one second before he could find his target, Rafsky could get a shot off.
Her eyes went to the shotgun near her feet. She would have to go for it when she dropped, roll back and fire it. She thought about the waterfall and how long it had taken her to draw her gun then. Three full blasts of Roland’s shotgun, and she still hadn’t been able to get her weapon out of the holster.
She shut her eyes, straining to hear anything above Rafsky’s voice, praying for the sound of Mike’s cruiser.
Nothing.
She looked back at Rafsky, at the .22 shaking in his left hand.
One shot. That was all they had.
She tried to draw Rafsky’s eyes to her, hoping he would understand what she was going to do. But he wasn’t looking at her. He was talking to Roland, repeating the commands to drop his weapon, his eyes fixed with fear.
“I’ll shoot her right there!” Roland screamed. She flinched in pain as he jammed the gun into her cheek.
She steadied herself with another deep breath and looked back at Rafsky one last time. This time, their eyes met.
She glanced to the ground.
He gave her a tiny, almost indiscernible nod.
She dropped.
Roland’s arm tightened like a vise, and the gun flew away from her head as he struggled to catch his balance in the snow. And suddenly, he let go of her.
She fell to her hands and knees.
A shot popped, splitting the air above her head.
Then a second bang. Louder. From her .38.
She rolled in the snow. A third shot splintered the wood of the cabin.
A fourth zipped over her head.
She groped for the shotgun. She snatched it up, trying to twist onto her back so she could fire it. But she saw nothing but blinding sun-glazed snow and a splatter of blood.
She scrambled to her knees, looking first to make sure Rafsky was not hit, then to the snow that stretched out in front of her. Roland was running away, stumbling through the drifts toward the trees.
Rafsky was at her side, extending his arm and taking aim for another shot. He fired.
The shot zinged into the trees. Roland kept running.
Joe struggled to her feet and lifted the shotgun to her shoulder, her heart pounding so hard she could barely focus on the sights. She pulled the trigger.
The explosion was deafening, the recoil jarring every bone in her body. She saw Roland dip forward and stumble, but he didn’t fall.
She started after him, but the single yelp of a siren stopped her. She spun toward the cabin. Doors slammed. Anxious male voices.
“Joe!” Mike called. “Joe! Where are you?”
“In the backyard!” she screamed. “Hurry!”
She turned back to the trees. Roland slipped into the shadows. Gone.
She took a step.
“Frye, wait!” Rafsky said. “Call for backup. I can have fifty officers here in fifteen minutes.”
“He’ll be gone in fifteen minutes!” she yelled. “I won’t let that happen again. No one else dies. You hear me, no one!”
She broke into a run.
52
His footprints were easy to follow. Deep punctures in the snow, speckled with blood. They hadn’t even reached the trees when Joe stopped, looking down.
This was where Roland had been when she had fired the shotgun. The prints here were sloppy, the snow splashed with a bright smear of blood. But there was a clear red path that would make it easy for them to follow safely.
The four of them advanced, quickly but cautiously slipping in and out of the trees, guns level and moving, their eyes never leaving the red trail that was leading them deeper into the woods.
Joe carried the shotgun, feeling naked without her own weapon but glad she had something in her hand that could blow Roland Trader in half if he stepped out in front of her.
She glanced to her left at Mike. His step was steady, his arms steeled out in front of him, fear, adrenaline, and anger etched on his face.
Holt was to her right. His movements were jerky, the raw panic on his face obvious with every flick of his eyes up into the trees. She had the thought that she should send him back to the cabin, but she knew he wouldn’t go.
Rafsky was behind them, slowed by his wounds and something else she suspected was anger at her for not calling backup. She knew that was as wrong as allowing Holt to continue this hunt, but it didn’t seem to matter right now. Nothing mattered but catching him.
The trees thickened, the bare branches casting long, thin shadows across the pillowed white ground. Roland’s footprints had grown sluggish, the blood widening into pink slush. She could see where he had dropped to his hands and knees and crawled before finding his footing again and stumbling on.
A sound.
She stopped, holding up a hand to signal the others. A stream. She felt a spike of panic. If he managed to get in the water, they would lose the trail.
“Hurry,” she said.
They drew closer together, quickening their steps, following the red trail until it came to an end at the bank of a half-frozen stream. From the cover of the trees, she could see that the snow on the other side was smooth and undisturbed. There was no sign of Roland’s prints anywhere.
“Damn it,” she said.
Mike eased away from her, staying in the trees as cover as he made his way downstream. Joe strained to see anything on the other bank. But her head was tripping with the sounds of the water and Roland’s face over her as he tied the hoist to her feet.
“Joe?”
It was Holt, his voice directionless in the trees and muffled by the sound of the water. She had lost track of him and she couldn’t tell where he was.
“Joe?” he said again. “I think I see his tracks.”
Mike rushed past her toward the sound of Holt’s voice, and she followed him. The ground was rocky and slippery, and she had to go slowly, using the tree trunks to keep her balance. Mike stopped. As she pulled up next to him behind a tree, she spotted Holt. He was upstream, standing under some low branches, pointing across the water with his gun. Her eyes shot beyond Holt to a patch of bloody snow that disappeared behind a large rock on a low bluff. She realized suddenly Holt couldn’t see the bloody snow from where he was, and he was too exposed.
“Holt!” she screamed. “Take—”
A gunshot severed her warning. Holt dropped to his knees.
“No!” she screamed.
Another shot ripped into the tree she was behind, splintering bark and zinging up into the branches. Her chest was so tight she couldn’t breathe.
Holt. God, no. Not Holt.
She had to get to him. But she knew she couldn’t. No one could get to him without being a target.
Oh, God, why had she let this happen?
“Joe,” Mike hissed. “Take a breath. Concentrate.”
She nodded and pulled in some air, taking a quick look at the rock. When she turned back, Rafsky was next to her, face wet and pale, his breathing labored.
“He’s fired four shots,” Rafsky said. “That leaves him two.”
“Any chance he has another weapon besides Joe’s revolver?” Mike asked.
“I don’t think so,” Joe said.
Mike’s eyes came back to her. “I’ll draw his fire to use up those last two shots,” he said.
