Bad Men (2003) (42 page)

He’s dead now, Powell told himself. There’s something holding him in place—soft sand, maybe, or rocks, or even the remains of a boat—but he’s dead for sure. Whatever is anchoring him there, it sure as hell isn’t free will.

At that moment, Powell became aware of a presence to his rear. He looked back to see a boy watching him from the shore. The boy’s clothing looked dated, and the waves worshiped at his bare feet. His skin was pale and he held his hand to his throat, as if remembering some ancient hurt. Powell was about to speak to him when the dead man in the sea raised his head, a sharp clicking noise in his throat alerting the gunman to the movement. Powell slowly turned to face him, then rocked back on his heels, trying to steady himself against the twin impacts of shock and water. It was the dummy, but not the dummy. The distortion in his face—the drooping mouth, the too-wide eyes, the sheer strangeness of his features’ composition—was now gone, and the man before him was, well, handsome, and his eyes gleamed with newfound intelligence.

Powell fumbled for a new clip, but the coldness and the damp caused his fingers to betray him and the clip slipped from his grasp and dropped into the sea with a soft splash. He looked down to follow its progress, then raised his eyes in time to see a huge wave rising up behind the dead man who stood before him. It lifted him off his feet and propelled him at speed toward Powell, his body riding the crest, carried forward like a piece of driftwood before it slammed into the gunman. Powell screamed as he felt the point of the arrow enter his chest, the dead man’s arms enveloping him, his face pressed hard against Powell’s, his mouth twisted into a smile.

The wave broke over them and they disappeared beneath the sea.

Carl Lubey’s home was already engulfed in flames by the time Macy reached it. She had seen the smoke rising and had smelled it on the wind, which caused her to speed up her progress toward the house. She made a couple of halfhearted efforts to get close to the front door, then gave up as the heat forced her back. Her main concern was the possibility that the fire might reach the forest, but Lubey had cleared his land of trees in order to allow space for his garden, thereby creating a natural firebreak. With luck, the break, combined with the heavily falling snow, would be enough to contain the conflagration. But somebody needed to be told about it, just in case.

Macy took the radio from her belt and tried, for the third time since she’d left her vehicle, to raise someone on the system. On the first two occasions, the radio had been dead, clicking emptily just like the ignition in the car. Now, as she stood within sight of Lubey’s burning home, she could hear static. She brought the handset close to her mouth and spoke.

“This is Macy. Do you read me? Over.”

She tried again, using her call sign. “This is six-nine-one. Over.”

Static, nothing more. She was about to replace the handset when its tone changed. Slowly, she raised the radio to her ear and listened.

It wasn’t static now. Perhaps it had never been. It seemed to her that what she was hearing was an irregular hissing sound, like someone constantly adjusting escaping gas. She listened harder, and thought she distinguished patterns and pauses, a kind of cadence.

Not static, and not hissing.

But whispers.

At the edge of the forest, Moloch and his men watched the sky glow above the tips of the trees. Their flashlights were dead and now, as they paused before the distant conflagration, Dexter took the opportunity to change the batteries, using the spares in his pack. Nothing happened. The flashlight remained dark.

“Those batteries were fresh from the store,” said Dexter. Scarfe tried changing the batteries in his own flashlight, and found that it too remained dead.

“Bad batch,” he said. “Looks like we’re shit out of luck.”

He took his Zippo from the pocket of his jacket, lit it, then held it close to the map. His finger pointed to details.

“I figure we’re here. Best I can reckon it, Carl’s house is over there.”

He raised his hand and pointed toward the flames.

“Since his place is the only one in that section of the island, that means—”

Dexter finished the sentence for him.

“That either we got a forest fire, which don’t seem likely, or right now Lubey’s house is just about the warmest place to be on this island. Explains why he didn’t make it to the rendezvous. A man’s likely to be distracted if his house is burning down around his ears.”

“People will come,” said Scarfe. “The cops run the fire department. Dupree will be here soon.”

“I don’t think so,” said Moloch, interrupting for the first time. He regarded Scarfe for a moment, until the smaller man’s mouth gaped in understanding and he looked away.

Moloch traced his finger across the woods on the map.

“We keep going, then take a look at what’s going on from cover. We need Lubey’s truck if we’re going to get out of here ahead of the cops. The fire will be our marker.”

Dupree was looking to the east, where a faint red glow hovered above the trees. Larry Amerling stood beside him. The old postmaster’s house was nearest the station and he had heard the gunfire. Dupree had almost turned his gun on him, for Braun had headed into the forest only moments before and Dupree had been about to follow him when the postmaster had intervened. Amerling took a look at the body of the woman in the generator room. He emerged pale and gulping cold air.

“We need to get some men over to that fire,” said Dupree, “but there’s at least one armed man out there, and probably more.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Something he told me before the lights went out. I want you to go and get Frank Macomber and as many of the fire crew as you can round up. The phones are out, so you’ll have to do it door-to-door. Make sure Frank brings a gun. Then I want you to come back here and try to contact someone on the radio. If you don’t get any results within the next half hour, then start sending up distress flares from the dock. We need to keep people indoors and off the streets as well.”

Already Dupree could see some of those who lived off Island Avenue approaching the station house to inquire about the power cuts. Among them was big Earl Kruhm, who had a good head on his shoulders.

“Earl can take care of that,” said Amerling. “Nobody’s going to argue with him.”

“Talk to him,” said Dupree. “Make sure he understands that folks could be in danger if they don’t stay indoors. It shouldn’t be too hard to convince them, what with the blizzard and all. And, Larry, tell Frank and the firemen to stay out of the forest as much as they can, you hear? Make sure they keep to the trails.”

Amerling nodded and went to get his car. He came back minutes later, just as Dupree was filling his pockets with shotgun shells.

“Joe, my car won’t start. It’s dead.”

Dupree looked at him, almost in irritation, then took the keys to Engine 14 from a hook in his office and tried to start the truck. It turned over with a click.

“No radios, no phones, no cars, no power,” he said.

“No help,” said Amerling.

“It’s begun, hasn’t it?”

“I guess so.”

“I felt it out at the Site, but I didn’t tell you. I don’t know why. I guess I didn’t want to worry you.”

Amerling managed a twisted smile. “Wouldn’t have made a difference anyway, but thanks for sparing my feelings.”

“Macy’s out there,” said Dupree. “She was headed for Carl Lubey’s place before that fire started.”

He felt a rush of concern for the young woman. He hoped that she hadn’t taken it into her head to do something stupid when she’d seen the fire. At least she didn’t seem like the type for futile heroics. He put out of his mind the terrible possibility that the fire and Macy might be connected, and that she might be hurt, or worse.

“We stick to the plan,” he told Amerling. “Go door-to-door. They’re going to have to head for that fire on foot and do what they can once they get there.”

He hefted the shotgun onto his shoulder and started for the door.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going after the dead woman’s partner. After that, I’m heading for Marianne Elliot’s place. I think she’s in serious trouble.”

Amerling watched him go, but he didn’t say what was on his mind.

I think we’re all in serious trouble.

Time melted.

Scarfe felt it more acutely than the rest. They should have been at Lubey’s house by now, but instead they were still walking through the woods, and the glow of the fire was no longer always visible to them. Even Moloch seemed to realize it. He paused and stared around him, momentarily confused.

“We’re lost,” said Scarfe.

“No,” said Moloch. “We’re still on the trail.”

“Then the path is going in circles.”

“Powell should have caught up by now,” said Dexter.

Moloch nodded. “Head back down the trail, see if he’s on his way.”

Dexter left at speed and Moloch drew the map from inside his jacket. Scarfe, after a moment’s hesitation, joined him in examining it, while Shepherd leaned against a tree and said nothing.

“We got on the trail about here,” said Scarfe, indicating with a finger, “and Lubey’s place is here. That’s fifteen minutes on a good day, twenty or more in weather like this.”

“It has to be close. Maybe we passed it.”

But when they looked up, the light from the fire was still ahead of them.

“Makes no sense,” said Scarfe. He looked to Shepherd for support, but Shepherd was not looking at him. He was staring into the forest, his hands shielding his eyes. Moloch called his name.

“I thought I saw something,” said Shepherd. “Out there.”

He pointed into the depths of the woods. Scarfe squinted, but could see nothing. The snow was blowing in his face, making it difficult to distinguish even the shapes of the more distant trees. He could smell smoke, though.

“It’s the fire,” he said. “Maybe you saw smoke.”

No, thought Shepherd, not smoke. He was about to say more when Dexter returned from his brief reconnaissance.

“There’s no sign of him,” he told Moloch.

Moloch kicked at the newly fallen snow. “If he’s lost, he’ll find his way back to the boat.”

“If he’s lost,” echoed Dexter.

“You think a dummy with an arrow through him took him? Fuck him. If he got washed away, so much more money for the rest of you. We keep going.”

They shouldered their weapons and followed Moloch deeper into the forest.

Marianne was still shaken by her encounter with the new female cop. She had been afraid that the woman would make her follow her to the station house, that something in her face or behavior had revealed the truth of her situation. She could see it in the cop’s face. Why else would she have come after her?

She knows I’m running. She knows I’ve been bad. She’ll make me go with her and I’ll break down and tell them everything and they’ll take Danny away and I’ll go to jail for stealing the money and—

Marianne forced herself to stay calm. She fumbled with the car key a couple of times before she managed to fit it into the ignition, and watched in the mirror as the cop seemed to pause and consider her once again. Then the key clicked into place and the engine purred into life. Marianne was maybe a little too heavy on the gas as she drove away, but the cop appeared content to let her go. She relaxed a little when she saw the Explorer move down toward the ferry, until the enormity of the situation she was dealing with came back to her, and she gripped the wheel so tightly that the veins stood out on her hands, the knuckles blanching beneath the skin.

She had been so distracted these last few days that she hadn’t bothered to watch anything on TV except light comedies, and her absence from the market meant that she hadn’t picked up a newspaper since the previous weekend. Something terrible had happened and now
he
was free, because he would not allow others to punish her on his behalf. No, he would want to do it himself. If they were in Maine, then he was with them. They had found her, and Moloch was probably already on his way to the island. Maybe he even had men here already, waiting for her. She would get back to Bonnie’s and find Danny crying, in the grip of strangers, and Bonnie and Richie hurt or dead. There would be nothing for her to do but comfort her son while they sat and waited for Moloch to come. She thought again of her sister, Patricia, and her useless husband, whom she suspected of cheating on her yet with whom she continued to stay because, despite it all, she loved him and felt that there was still something worthwhile and decent within him. Perhaps she was right, for when she had told them both of her plan to run, and reminded them that if she ran, then they would have to run too, they had accepted it with equanimity, and Bill had held his wife’s hand and told his sister-in-law that they would support her in any way they could. True, Bill had lost his job, and there was nothing to keep them where they were, but Marianne could still not disguise her surprise at his reaction. The memory of it made her ashamed, for she knew in the quiet dark places of her heart that they were both dead, and that they had died because of her. Yet part of her suspected that they were not the reason that Moloch had found her. Bill didn’t know her exact location, and Patricia would never tell.

Marianne wiped away mucus and tears with the heel of her hand.

Patricia would never tell. She would die before she told.

Jesus, Pat, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I was so scared of him. I thought I had no other choice. He hurt me, and he was starting to hurt Danny. I should have killed him, but I’d have gone to jail and I’d never have seen Danny grow up. But now, if I could go back, I would murder him. I would take a knife to him in his sleep and stab him until the blood dripped through the mattress to the floor beneath. I would cut him again and again for all that he had done to us. I would tear him apart with the blade until his face was unrecognizable. I would do all of this to protect Danny, except—