Ancestor (46 page)

“Last chance,” Magnus said as he gently moved the flame up and down the seven-inch Ka-Bar blade. “You’re going to tell me what I want to know. The only question is how badly you’ll be burned when you finally talk.”

“Just do it,” Clayton hissed, his eyes squeezed wrinkle-tight in anticipation of agony. “Cowards die many times before their deaths, da valiant never taste of death but once, eh?”

The quote came out of nowhere, so random it made Magnus lower the torch. “I’m shocked. You know
Julius Caesar?”

“Never met him,” Clayton said, his eyes still scrunched tight. “Kerouac said that shit to me once when we were nailing some whores down in Copper Harbor.”

Typical American. So crude. But crude or not, this old man was tougher than Magnus had suspected. Talking would just waste time unless parameters were established.

Magnus closed the torch valve and set the propane canister on the ground. He walked behind Clayton. He grabbed the old man’s right pinkie and slid the hot blade into the skin. Blood poured out, hissing against the blade. Clayton screamed as the blade dug down to the bone. Blood spurted. The smell of burned flesh filled the air. Clayton thrashed in his chair and kept screaming, but Magnus didn’t stop—he bent and twisted the pinkie as he cut, pulling it against the base knuckle. Just like bending a hot wing in half. Blood splattered to the floor as something
snapped
and a piece of gristle popped out.

Two more knife strokes through the last bits of flesh … the pinkie came right off.

Magnus walked in front of Clayton, tossing the bloody finger up and down in his palm. Tears covered Clayton’s cheeks. Blood streamed from a deep cut in his lower lip where he’d bitten through it. He didn’t look hateful or insolent or tough anymore.

He just looked old.

“You’ve got nine left,” Magnus said. “Ready to talk?”

Clayton nodded.

“Good. Who is with Sara?”

“Just … Tim Feely. Da rest are dead.”

“What about Rhumkorrf? Is he with them?”

Clayton shook his head.

“Are you
sure
, Clayton?”

The old man nodded. “He’s dead. Sara said he … blew up … like da others.”

Was the old man lying? It
was
possible that Rhumkorrf and Purinam were separated in the crash. “Tell me how the C-5 got back here.”

“They crashed on Rapleje Bay. Thick ice. A … bomb. They got out and the whole thing blew up, melted through da ice.”

That fit. If Sara had brought it down right before the bomb went off, there would be panic as everyone tried to escape. Rhumkorrf could have gotten separated. Sara had put the C-5 on the ice, then let it sink away. That filthy whore had ruined all of his careful plans, all of his meticulous work.

“Tell me where they are,” Magnus said.

Clayton did.

Magnus reached inside Clayton’s snowsuit, down to his belt, and pulled out the man’s thick ring of keys.

“You don’t mind if I borrow your ride, do you, Pops?” The Bv206 was enclosed and fairly well armored. A snowmobile was faster, but unprotected, and Sara had a Beretta.

Magnus grabbed a duffel bag and quickly stuffed it with MP5 magazines, a backup Beretta and a first-aid kit. Plastique and timers went in the bag as well, just in case Sara had created a defensible position. And what if he needed info from her? He threw in the propane torch and slung the duffel over his shoulder.

Then his eyes fell to the black canvas bag on the bottom shelf of the weapons rack. Fischer might come early, never knew … it helped to be prepared for any contingency. He took that bag as well.

Magnus walked to the door, then turned, taking one more look at the beaten old man. It was always best to leave subjects alive until you were
sure
you had correct intel, leave them in the darkness and silence so they could focus on nothing but the pain. Someone might be tough enough to resist questioning the first few minutes after losing a finger, but after two or three hours of feeling that agony and fearing what would come next? They always told the truth.

“I’m going to leave you here,” Magnus said. “I’ll come back if you forgot anything.” He reached up and flicked off the lights.

Magnus shut the door on the dark security room. He didn’t know what was keeping Andy, or if the man was even alive, but Sara Purinam and Tim Feely were just a short snowmobile ride away.

GARY DETWEILER HAD never seen conditions like this. A hard wind kicked up ten-foot swells. Chunks of ice floated everywhere. Although there probably wasn’t a chunk large enough to hurt the
Otto II
, he sure as hell didn’t want to find out while doing twenty knots.

Once he had the island in sight he turned off his running lights, navigating with GPS and a pair of night-vision goggles. Thick clouds hid the stars and kept the moon to a faint glow, but it was enough illumination for the goggles to show his way in varying shades of neon green.

The closer he got to the harbor, the thicker the ice became. Baseball-sized chunks collected like tightly packed flotsam, making the water look like an undulating solid, rising with each wave, dipping with each trough. The
Otto II
cut through the surface, leaving behind it a path of clear water that lasted only seconds before the churning ice chunks closed in again.

Chunky waves splashed against the pylons at the harbor’s entrance. Actually, they splashed against twenty feet of lumpy, solid ice that spread out from the pylons. Gary shook his head in amazement. If this cold continued, the harbor entrance might very well freeze shut in a day or so. After that, the whole harbor would ice over in a matter of hours. That very thing had happened back in the winter of ’68, or so his father told him.

Gary pulled back on the throttle, reducing speed and—more important—reducing noise. The wind was loud enough to hide the engine gurgle, unless someone was waiting for him on the dock. The
Otto II
slid through the icy harbor entrance. Beyond the walls, the waves dropped to three feet. He could barely believe his eyes—like the pylons, the shore and dock had extended with a good thirty feet of rough ice. Waves constantly tossed water and fresh chunks onto this frozen, growing shoreline.

And beyond it? A psycho with a gun. Correction,
guns
, and a lot of them. But that didn’t matter. Gary’s father needed him. Those people needed him. All he had to do was get on the island, make it to the church, then bring them back. Once in the boat and away from the island, they’d be safe.

He couldn’t actually dock. The ice was probably too thick there, but it would be thinner out where it met open water. Somewhere in the middle, it would be solid enough to support his weight. He moved the throttle forward, just a bit, increasing speed. The boat crushed the leading edge of ice with a noticeable crackling sound. That sound quickly turned to a definitive crunch, then to a grind as the boat slowed, pushing up sheets of half-inch-thick ice as it went. Finally, fifteen feet from the dock, the
Otto II
stopped.

Gary killed the motor, leaving him alone with the howl of the wind and the steady, Styrofoam-squeaking sound of wave-driven ice grinding against wave-driven ice. He pulled on an orange life jacket. Without it, if he fell through into the frigid water he’d stand little chance of surviving long enough to get back inside the boat’s heated cabin.

He grabbed a gaff pole and walked to the bow, testing the tip against the ice. It seemed thick enough to hold his weight.

Keeping his weight on the bow, Gary swung one leg over the edge, pressed his foot against the ice, and pushed. It held. He put his other foot down, but kept his chest and both arms in the boat. He pushed harder, making the surface carry more of his weight. Still the ice held. Waves splashed water and ice chunks at his feet. He swallowed hard and slowly transferred his weight, keeping his hands on the bow railing in case his feet suddenly plunged through.

The ice held.

He slid one foot at a time over the ice, taking care to spread his weight across both feet. The danger zone was likely only the next few yards—at the dock the ice had to be at least six inches thick, strong enough to support a dozen men.

Ten feet from the boat, the ice cracked under his left foot. Water gurgled up through the thin fissures.

Gary stood motionless, waiting in that infinite forever just before the ice would give way. Still it held. He slid his left foot forward, past the watery cracks. After a few more sliding steps, he knew he was safe and strode cautiously toward the dock.

During the day, the snow-covered island might have been a thing of beauty, but in the dark, through the night-vision glasses, it looked like a green-tinted nuclear wasteland. Wind drove wisps of powder across the beach. Snow-covered pine trees looked like heavy monsters trapped in thick green-white goo.

Gary felt for the lump on his left side, under the snowsuit—the gun’s firmness gave him comfort. He walked to the shed at the base of the dock. His Ski-Doo snowmobile would quickly cover the one-mile trip to the ghost town. Walking would be quieter, more discreet, but Magnus Paglione was out there and Gary didn’t feel like getting into a footrace for his life. Somehow he suspected a former special forces killer was in better shape than a stoner beach bum.

He kicked through a snowdrift blocking the shed and slid inside. The Ski-Doo motor gurgled and died on the first two tries. On the third, it roared to life.

He tossed the life jacket aside. If he had to run or hide, fluorescent orange wasn’t the best color. Gary drove out onto the trail, moving slow, trying to keep the engine as quiet as possible. He kept the lights off, using the night-vision goggles to guide his way. The Ski-Doo glided through the inch or two of snow that had accumulated since the road had last been plowed. Dark woods rose up on both sides like canyon walls.

In just over three minutes, Gary saw the church tower through the trees. He took off the goggles. He unzipped his snowsuit, pulled out a flashlight, pointed it at the tower and flashed twice.

SARA AND TIM sat huddled together under three blankets that did little to ward off the cold wind blowing through the bell-tower turret. When Sara saw the double flash come from the dark path leading to the harbor, it seemed unbelievable at first, somehow fake. The second double flash, however, made it real.

“No fucking way,” Tim said.

“Way,” Sara said. She lifted her own flashlight, a clumsy maneuver thanks to Clayton’s thick mittens, and gave two answering flashes. She set the flashlight down and picked up the binoculars, sweeping the dimly lit town square.

GARY SAW THE two flashes. He had to be careful. Could be Magnus up there, tricking Gary into coming in. He patted the gun again, just to be sure it was there. This was crazy,
really
fucking crazy—he was a barfly boat driver who dealt a little pot on the side, not some action star like Uncle Clint.

Gary put the flashlight away and put the night-vision goggles back on.
No way to really know who was in that turret. Setting up for a fast getaway would be smart. He turned his Ski-Doo around, leaving it just past the edge of town with the nose pointed back down the road. He slid off the sled. Now or never. His dad needed him. One quick walk to the church and back, and it would be all but over.

He reached the edge of town before he saw movement.

SARA LOWERED THE binoculars. “What the hell is that?”

“What the hell is what?” Tim reached for the binoculars, but Sara slapped his hand away. She looked through them again. Down there in the darkness, something was moving. Something
big
. Lurking around in the trees at the outskirts of the small town.

“Oh no,” she said quietly. “Oh my God, no.”

GARY FROZE. HE half hoped there was something wrong with the night-vision goggles, but he knew they were working just fine. At the edge of town, near the lodge, less than a hundred feet away … a … bear? No, the head was too big.
Way
too big. Through the goggles, the thing’s black-patched white fur glowed an unearthly pale green. Something on its back kept popping up and down.

It opened its eyes wide. Gary knew this because the night vision suddenly showed two glowing white-green spots in the middle of that big head.

It was
looking
at him, mouth half open, long, pointed teeth glowing like wet emeralds.

“RUN, YOU IDIOT,” Sara whispered. “Goddamit, don’t you see them?” The man stayed perfectly still, staring at the shadowy something near the corner of the lodge. He obviously didn’t see the others—Sara offhandedly estimated at least twenty—closing in on him from all sides of town.

“Sara,” Tim hissed. “What the hell, come on.”

She handed him the binoculars and pointed. “Tell me I’m crazy. Tell me those aren’t what I think they are.”

Tim stared for only a second. “Oh fuck me running. No way.”

That wasn’t what Sara wanted to hear. She started scanning the town, the horizon, looking for something she could use to help the man.

WIND WHISTLED THROUGH the snow-covered pines. Gary slowly took off a mitten, keeping his eyes focused on the bear-thing by the lodge. If he didn’t get Sara and Tim out now, they’d be trapped for days. He didn’t know exactly what the animal was, but it was just an
animal
. He was a human with a gun.