Hunters (26 page)

Rutledge leaned down and rubbed the dog
behind the ears. The thick tail slammed rhythmically against the
floor. "And it's how I got old Pinch up here for the first time,
isn't it, boy? Tied him up in a basket, and once he got up here he
loved it."

"Aren't you ever afraid he'll slip on the
stairs?" said Megan.

"Nope, and neither is he." He patted the dog
again. "You're too dumb to be scared, aren't you, Pinch? Just dumb
confidence. Never expects to fall, so he never does." Rutledge's
face lit up as though he had just realized something. "Not a bad
way to live your life, is it? Wish I could start over again and
keep that in mind. Well, seen enough? Although there isn't a whole
lot to see on a day like this." He clucked disparagingly with his
tongue. "And those windows...you ready?"

Ned nodded bravely. He thought that
descending would be a lot worse than coming up. He would have to
look down, and he couldn't close his eyes and take the risk of
slipping. If he just focused on the steps, and tried not to look at
what was beyond or beneath them, he thought he could make it. Like
Rutledge had said, don't expect to fall, and you won't.

"Go ahead," Rutledge said. "I'll close the
door."

Ned moved to the trap, but Megan was there
ahead of him, and he let her slip past and slowly start down. He
knew that she had preceded him so that he would have a cushion
between himself and the abyss. He could watch her back and the
steps and nothing else, and he was so grateful to her that he
thought he would have hugged her if he could have reached her. But
when he started down, he knew that hugging her was not an option.
It would mean taking his hand off the railing, and that he could
never do.

So he walked, a step at a time, both hands on
the steel rails. The steps and the bright red back of Megan's
jacket seemed to become so small as to be inconsequential in the
vastness of what lay beneath him. He was on a safe boat no longer,
but was tossed into an ocean whose depth was infinite, and he was
stepping on top of the water, with only his faith to bear him up, a
faith that was rapidly slipping away.

Then he felt a soft pressure on the back of
his left leg that pushed it off the lip of the step. His right foot
slipped on the wet wood, and he felt himself falling backward, and
for an instant he knew that he would keep falling, that the steps
were falling with him, the steps, the tower, Megan, the world.

But his back struck hard against the edges of
the wooden stairs, and something huge and black scuttled past him,
and he knew that the dog had tripped him in its urgency to pass
him, and that he was lying on the stairs on his back, his arms
outstretched, holding on to the railings. He was not going to
fall.

"Ned?"

He saw Megan coming toward him, saw her move
lightly aside so that the dog could get by her.

"I'm all right," he said, and his voice was a
tight croak that had to tell both her and Rutledge how scared Ned
was.

"Damn you, Pinchot!" the old man called, but
the dog paid no heed. Ned heard his sharp claws crackling on the
steps as he continued down. "You okay, Ned? That was a rough fall.
Dog's got no sense sometimes." Rutledge was right behind Ned now.
He could see him if he put his head back.

"Bruise or two, probably," Ned said, and
gingerly pulled himself to a sitting position on the steps. He
looked straight ahead, through the steps, past the stanchions, and
out at the gray, snowing sky. "Just give me a minute," he said, "to
get my breath."
And my courage
, he thought.

Finally Ned stood up, as slowly and carefully
as he could manage. By then, Pinchot had come back up the stairs,
apparently to see what was delaying his master, and he stood on the
small platform below the flight of steps Ned was on. The dog's tail
was wagging, his eyes were bright and happy, and Ned knew he could
not blame him for the mishap. "We're coming, boy," Ned said, and
began to walk.

He felt as though he were treading on eggs
all the way down, but he did not slip again, and took the last few
steps with a jaunty, false bravado he did not feel. As his feet
sank into the snow at the bottom and Megan put her arm around his
waist, he was giddy with relief. "Made it," he said to her so that
Rutledge could not hear, and she smiled like a mother whose son has
just come down the sliding board for the first time.

"I'd be willing to bet," Rutledge said as he
joined them and led the way to the cabin, "that you won't have to
be up there at all the few days you're here. You won't be able to
see diddly, and the risk of forest fires is nil with all this snow.
In fact," he concluded ominously, scowling up at the sky, "you
might be snowed in by tomorrow morning."

"Let it snow, let it snow," Megan half-sang,
then laughed. "We've got plenty of food."

"Well, even if you run out, there's lots of
canned stuff in the cabin. You won't starve. Come on, I'll help you
bring in your gear."

It took two trips from the Blazer to the
cabin to carry in all the food, clothes, and other gear Megan had
thought essential. When everything was stowed away, Hal Rutledge
looked around the cabin.

"I envy you," he said. "Nothing I'd like
better to do than to hole up here with a stack of wood, a couple of
Kenneth Roberts novels, and, uh..." He smiled at Megan. "Well, it's
a grand place to be snowed in, I'll leave it at that."

"I don't know," Ned said, "Florida sounds
pretty good right now."

"Oh, I'll have fun. I go down there with a
couple of friends. We're all widowers, and we have a good
time."

"No wealthy widows down there?" Megan
said.

Rutledge chuckled. "Not looking. Nobody could
ever take the place of my Amy. Pinchot here's all the permanent
companionship I want now." He cupped the dog's massive head with
his hands. "And I know
he'd
darn well rather stay here than
go to the kennel, especially since the runs are going to be snowed
over, huh, boy?"

"Why not let him stay then?" Ned wasn't crazy
about dogs, but he knew that Megan liked them, and her face lit up
at his suggestion.

"That would be great! Why not, Mr. Rutledge?
He'd sure like it here better than any old kennel, wouldn't you,
Pinchot?"

"You mean it?" Rutledge said. When they both
nodded, he grinned. "I know
Pinchot
would be delighted, and
frankly I'd rather have him here where he can run and slop through
the snow than locked up in a pen for two weeks. But he can be an
awful nuisance..."

"Oh no," Megan said. "We'd love to have him.
It'd be fun."

Rutledge looked thoughtful. "I've got two
cases of dog food out in the pickup. He's a picky eater, and I was
going to take them to the kennel. Would only take a half hour or so
to bring them in on the snowmobile. But are you sure it's not an
imposition?"

"Pinchot seems to belong here," Ned said.
"And why should he miss the biggest snowstorm in years?"

Megan knelt by the dog and hugged him around
his thick neck. "Why don't we ask Pinchot? What about it, boy? You
want to stay here, huh?" Her voice was so cheerfully animated that
the dog's tail slapped the carpet repeatedly as he gave a dopey
grin. "There you have it!" Megan said. "Go get the chow, Mr.
Rutledge."

It took closer to forty minutes than thirty
for Rutledge to come back with the two cases of canned dog food.
"Two cans a day will do him," Rutledge said as he set the cases by
the door. "He'll want more, but don't give in to those sad eyes.
And feed him outside—he's such a sloppy eater."

He knelt and stroked the dog's head tenderly.
"You take care of yourself, boy. And take care of Megan and Ned
too. Stay out of trouble." It was almost as though Rutledge were
saying goodbye to a wife or a child, and even though Ned felt
foolish for doing it, he looked away to give them a private moment,
and found that Megan was doing the same.

Rutledge stood up and shook both their hands.
"You all have a good time now, and if old stupid there runs up the
tower, don't worry about him. He'll come down again. He'll probably
follow me out on the snowmobile too, but he'll come back."

They followed him outside, and, with one
final pat on the dog's head and a wave to Ned and Megan, Rutledge
hopped on the snowmobile, gunned it into noisy life, and roared
down the forest trail, Pinchot running delightedly behind him.

Ned put an arm around Megan. "Alone at last,"
he said, smiling.

"Except for Pinchot. You don't mind?"

"No. He'll be good company. And it won't hurt
to have a watchdog around."

Megan's smile vanished. "You don't think
that..."

"No, I don't. But just in case, it's not bad to have
a canine early warning system." He looked up at the threatening
sky. "But even if they could find out where we are, in another few
hours it'd be impossible to get to us."

M
egan wondered if
Ned was really as confident as he sounded. She didn't expect to
feel relieved until she heard those lunatics were in custody. She
hadn't thought about Pinchot as a watchdog, and it alarmed her to
realize that Ned had, and reminded her of why they were there in
the first place. It wasn't a vacation. It was an escape from people
who wanted to kill Ned, and maybe her too.

Nevertheless, they would make the most of it.
She put her arm through Ned's, and they walked back into the cabin.
The warmth inside felt wonderful as they unpacked, and before too
long they heard a scratching on the door. Megan opened it and
laughed as Pinchot leapt into the room, shaking himself so that
snow flew everywhere.

"Can't he do that
outside?
" Ned asked
with a grin. "Thank God there's a door between him and the
bedroom." The dog settled down quickly, and flopped lazily in front
of the wood burning stove.

"There, see?" Megan said, rubbing behind the
dog's ears. "He's just a big sleepy bear, no trouble at all."

"Hey, where's the radio?" Ned said, looking
around.

"I didn't bring one. Just the weather
radio."

He frowned. "Well, how will we know—"

"Who's getting shot or shot at?" Megan
finished. "We won't know. And I don't want to." She gestured toward
the phone. "Larry knows our number, and you know his. If you're
desperate for news, you can call him. But I'd rather you didn't.
Let's just try to forget the past few days and let the F.B.I. take
care of things. They'll find these people. And in the meantime,"
she said grinning, "we can find ways to alleviate our cases of
cabin fever."

"May I suggest that music hath charms to
soothe the savage breast," Ned said, nodding toward Megan's violin
which lay in its case on the floor. "It also happens to be the food
of love."

"Ah, in
that
case..." Megan opened her
case, took out her fiddle, and tuned. "Any requests?"

"Whatever you like."

She sat, began to play an old Irish ballad,
slow and sweet, and watched Ned sitting in the worn recliner until
his eyes closed in concentration or weariness. Then, still playing,
she looked out the window. It was snowing again, and the wind was
increasing. Megan felt sure they would be snowed in by the next
day. She was glad. That way, even if anyone did find out where they
were, no one could get in to see them.

Then the thought occurred to her that it
worked both ways. They were trapped here. And if anyone
did
find out where they were, and were somehow able to get in, Ned and
she would not be able to escape.

It was a nasty thought, and she tried to lose
it in the music. It was also ridiculous. Only a few people knew
where they were, and they'd never talk. Besides, if the crazies
weren't caught by now, the weather had probably forced them to give
up. She and Ned had nothing to worry about. They were warm and cozy
and as isolated as anyone could be.

They were safe.

"I'
ll have you outta
there in two shakes," Kyle Kendig told the two shivering people
standing by the side of the road. "You wanta warm up in the cab, go
ahead."

The woman took him up on the offer. He was
glad. She seemed like a bitch on wheels, he thought, and then
chuckled to himself. If she were, he'd soon have her
back
on
her wheels.

"Guess we shoulda had chains trying to make
this hill, huh?" said the big man who stood watching Kyle as he
attached the t-bar.

"Guess you shoulda," Kyle agreed. The big guy
seemed decent enough, almost cheery. Hell, Kyle wouldn't have
blamed him if he'd spat nails. Most people he pulled out of ditches
or snow banks were like the woman in the wrecker cab, tense and
pissed.

"Once you get us out," the man said, "can you
put some chains on for us?"

"Sure. Gotta come back into St. Mary's
though."

"Might's well. Won't get anywhere like
this."

"Where you headed?"

The man didn't answer right away, then said,
"Williamsport."

That made Kyle look up. "Williamsport? On
120? Man, with this stuff it'd take forever. You'd better head
south and pick up 80 west." He shook his head and turned back to
his work. "Man, 120 in this shit..."

Kyle finished making the attachments and
headed for the cab. "Climb in if you want," he said. "Extra weight
won't hurt."

Kyle got in the driver's side, and the big
man opened the passenger door. "
What?
" the woman asked the
man in a tone that Kyle was glad wasn't directed at him.

"Shove over," the man said, pushing himself
in so that the woman had to move into the middle of the seat. Kyle
felt her down-filled jacket pressing against him, and turned partly
sideways to give her more room. Then he gunned the engine, threw it
into gear, and easily pulled the jeep out of the snow bank.

"There you go," Kyle said. "Now you wanta try
and drive back to St. Mary's to get those chains on, or you want me
to tow you in?"