Necessary Evil (19 page)

"Because they seem to know a lot about the Indians, that's why."

Kier's blood ran cold. Every Tilok on the reservation was a potential guinea pig—including his own mother.

"Be more specific. What do they know about the Indians?"

"Well, they had us go to a mink farm and take some minks. In the middle of the night."

"What did you do with the minks?"

"Brought them to the lab."

''How many of you were involved in this?''

''Just me and another guy. They said they thought the natives might have gotten something from the minks. We just went and got about five. It was for some kind of test."

"What kind of a test?"

"One of the science types whispered about a test. 'When the test was done,' he said. And we had supplies for a few days. I swear to you, I don't know—they told us nothing except what I already told you." The man shook so badly he seemed to be convulsing. ''Then more men came. We were supposed to get stuff dropped from the plane. I swear to God that's everything I know."

"There was a fancy black box on that plane. It had lab summaries. Why do they want it so bad?"

"There were s- s- six volumes. Number five and six are still missing. They're going nuts over Volume Six especially. I don't know why! Le- le- let me up. Please!"

"Tell me Mr. T's name. You must have heard something."

"Tillman, I think. Tillman, damn it."

Fortunately, the dead man lived up to his name—"Texas." He was big, with boots that would suit Kier's purposes. Apparently Texas had tripped the wire, then looked in horror to see what he had done. Since it had taken a moment for the grenade to blow, it had caught him in the face, with the result that there wasn't much of the head left. Blood was everywhere, and the clothes riddled with shrapnel.

"I have some disappointing news for you."

"What?" the man said, standing on the dead body to try to keep his feet out of the snow.

"You're going to wear his boots, and my shirt."

The man just stared vacantly.

"Don't take it so hard. If I've got a virus or bacterial infection, it's inside me. It's my breathing on you or touching your skin after I've blown my nose or wiped my ass that could kill you."

Kier gave the man the boots with no socks. Then the man put on Kier's shirt. Kier took his captive's outer clothes, which were tight but wearable.

"I don't have time for the truth-or-consequences test. So we'll cut straight to the good stuff. You are going to get on this radio and say exactly what I tell you. If you say anything else, I will shoot you instantly. If you do it right, I'm going to let you run straight down this mountain in those oversized boots. You say exactly the following:

''The Indian stripped Texas. He's headed down the mountain. I'm circling."

After the man uttered the words, Kier took back the radio.

"Run. And if I were you, I wouldn't come back here. Your friends are jumpy. They'll shoot an ordinary shirt in a second."

At that the man fled at a gallop.

The cries of bad men carry on the same breeze as those of the good.

—Tilok proverb

J
essie could find no more leaf piles to further insulate her clothing, so she was limited to rearranging what she had—and exercise—to keep warm. She longed for the comfort of the hut. Maybe there would be clothes from the bodies of the enemy, she told herself.

She walked in a large circle, satisfied that she had managed to find her beginning point after she had broken down the trail and stepped off it in a way that would disguise her exit. Having watched Kier, she made several false leads and hid near one of them at a spot where she could observe both the main trail and the false lead.

Now inactivity made the cold a bigger menace. She had heard of jumping in a snowbank for warmth. At the moment, it was a frightening thought. The logic behind hiding in snow—the elimination of wind chill and the insulating qualities of the fluffy white stuff—paled before the mental image of freezing to death in a smothering white prison.

So she remained in her hiding place, rubbing her arms through the leafy insulation, occasionally jumping up and down. But that used energy. Shivering used energy. Thinking used energy. Being ready to kill used energy. There was no more food, and she had little body fat. She imagined her body devouring its own muscles and organs to stay alive.

Looking around, she saw that the trees in this area were young. Kier had explained that forest fires killed the old trees and allowed the forest to regenerate. The young red fir trees had interlocking branches that created a wall of delicate green boughs.

In places where these evergreens weren't as thick, there were leafless hardwoods and underbrush that tore at her legs, dislodging the insulation in her clothes and rustling when she moved. It was hard to see much beyond fifty or sixty feet, even in the openings. In the thickets there was no visibility.

She decided that she needed to emulate Kier: to be a ghost in the woods, moving much more slowly, placing one foot directly ahead of the other, as he did.

Suddenly, she heard a crunch, then a branch swish. Was it Kier? If so, he was making noise on purpose, and that was unlikely. Could those men have killed him with a silenced shot and gotten past him? A hollow feeling entered her chest—a foreshadowing of panic—and she felt so alone. These mountains were so vast, so foreign. While she listened, she made herself take deep slow breaths and consciously relaxed her muscles.

By the direction of the sounds, she could tell there were two of them. So it wasn't Kier. They were on either side of the main trail that she had broken down. They were on her circle, or, perhaps just off it, trying to avoid booby traps. Lifting the silenced pistol, she readied herself. Then they stopped. Why?

For what seemed like minutes, there were no more sounds. Then she heard a snap. Dear God, they were on top of her. She noticed the fog from her own breath. Crazily, she wondered if it would give her away, like a chimney. Now her heart thundered. She aimed straight at the sound, her finger wanting to pull the trigger. But she dared not. Why didn't he move again? A muscle in her shoulder tensed, pulling. Her arms started to ache from bracing in the firing position.
Relaxed control. Relaxed control. Breathe, breathe.

Another swish. And there was white against the green. Kier was wearing white. She saw an arm through the trees, then above the arm a shoulder. Was it Kier? She had to be sure.

She aimed just below the shoulder. All she had to do now was squeeze. Got to do it. Just a face—something—there! It was a wisp of brown hair.
Pop!
Down he went. She had been dead on, she was sure.

Her breaths were sharp and jerky, her hands shaking. God, I'm a mess.
Think. Think.
Where's the other one? Then she was at Quantico in a shoot-out. Look behind you. Always behind you, Dunfee intoned. And she whirled, like at Quantico.

Bullets compress air, and when they come very close, you can feel their passing. The instant her head turned, the bullet sliced the air where her jaw had been. She heard the little puff of the silenced muzzle.

Without a thought she dropped and rolled into the snow, ready to shoot on her way up. But she had no target. Then all hell broke loose—the thumping of an automatic rifle tore up the woods. She crawled madly on her belly back toward a log she had stepped over. Wood and ice flew everywhere. She held her automatic as she crawled.

Then it was dead still again. Nothing remained of the tumult except the chattering of an angry squirrel. She was behind the log.
Never shoot what you can't see.
Dunfee again. Out here it didn't matter. There were no bystanders. Maybe she should pepper the bushes herself. No—it would only give away her location as it had his.

Breathing heavily, she aimed at the spot that had spewed out the hell. She was shaking. Could she survive this? Then it occurred to her that she had a grenade. But was he still there? And why hadn't he used one? Obviously because he was too close. The trees were maybe a foot through and weren't a sure cover for shrapnel. But she was behind a big log. As if it were happening in slow motion, she watched her finger pull the pin. She stretched back her arm, then swung it forward in an arc, releasing the grenade. She waited for what seemed enough time for a slow yawn. Then,
wham!
The ground shook with the explosion. Damn, the ringing in her ears. Next time she'd cover them better.

Now the silence was overwhelming. Even the squirrel had shut up. Slowly, she stuck her head up. Concentrating again, she listened and looked, with the automatic ready. There was no point in being quiet now. The secret was out.

Then she heard something faint, like whispering. Of course, he would be using the radio. He had the luxury of staying put and waiting for reinforcements.

"Help." The voice was no more than a hoarse whisper. "Help."

She was stunned. It sounded genuine, like a person badly hurt. Dying.
Of course it sounds genuine, you lunatic,
she told herself. If she were going to fake it, she would make it sound real.

"Help," the voice came again.

It was unnerving. All her life she had thought of herself as someone who would help. Without thinking further, driven by something she couldn't explain, she began to crawl in a circle. Crawling straight away would be much safer—make him come to her. But she ignored her own safety in favor of the more powerful seduction.

After several minutes of crawling, she stopped. He hadn't moved, and was still calling out to her. Now she was opposite the log behind which she had hidden, on the far side of the shooter. By continually calling out, he was giving away his location. She could throw another grenade and wipe him out, unless he was behind something solid.

"What the hell are you doing?" she shouted in frustration.

''I'm dying,'' the faint voice said.' 'I don't want to die alone. They're . . . leaving me . . . leaving me for dead."

''And I'm supposed to worry about this?'' There was silence. "You tried to kill me!"

"You want me to apologize?" The voice laughed a feeble laugh. "You're gonna forgive me if I say—" She heard an ugly cough. "If I say, 'I'm sorry'?"

"How do I know you won't blow us both up with a grenade if I come in?"

"I'll throw 'em out."

"How do I know how many you have?"

"You've killed enough of us. Four per man."

She wasn't sure from the sound of him how much longer he could talk.

"Okay, you throw them off to my right and blow 'em." She lay in a swale behind a natural earthen berm covered with snow. Then she heard a thud in the trees, and nothing more.

After a time he called out. "Okay," he gasped.

"They were supposed to explode."

"Too weak. I'd blow my ass off."

"Well, I only heard one—and I have no way of knowing it was a grenade."

"I'm not strong. I threw three . . . they're close by."

"Crawl toward me."

"I can't."

"Then you're just going to have to die."

"Please." He was choking again.

"I'll think about it."

She crawled toward the spot where she had heard the grenade fall. But after she'd crawled twenty feet, she realized how stupid it was to look for a hole in the snow. Still she kept on.

"More to the right."

Damn. He could hear her. Feeling crazy, she crawled straight toward him until she found a log. Thank God. She couldn't see him, but she was sure he was less than thirty feet away.

Wedging herself way under the large log, she called out. "All right. Tell me who you are, and how many of you there are." It smelled musty under the log, even in the snow.

"Please."

"Listen, you bastard. How do I know you won't cut loose a grenade and blow us both up?"

"I'm dying. Please." The man's breathing sounded as if he had been in a footrace. "I'm no hero."

"Why would blowing me up make you a hero?"

"You stole top-secret—" He gasped for air.

"So what do they think we have?"

"They won't tell us."

"Who won't tell you?"

"Tillman. Not supposed to know his name."

"What's he scared of?"

"Don't know." There was more coughing. "Illegal stuff, probably."

"What do you mean?"

"Buddy of mine took two eggheads to the reservation. He heard . . . about some mink farm . . . something with the mink. Now, help me." He sounded like he was fading fast.

"Tell me about the mink first."

"I will. Come." She hesitated. "Please," he said with a certain haunting resignation in his voice.

Something inside tugged at her. He sounded alone and pathetic. Coming to an adversary on his terms was contrary to the rules of engagement she'd learned at Quantico. Dunfee would be appalled. Setting aside the warnings in her mind and ignoring her profound sense of foreboding, she started crawling.

She approached with her gun drawn. But even under the trees, the snow was deep, causing her to stop regularly to push her head above the drifts. Finally she spotted a bloody leg. Low-hanging branches kept her from seeing his torso, his hands. Still hiding behind the tree trunk no bigger than a man's thigh, she looked for a safe vantage point. There was none.

The man stirred. "Where are you?"

She said nothing. Another tree about six feet away would provide minimal cover and maybe a better view. Very slowly, inches at a time, without looking up, she crawled toward it, conscious of every sound. Raising her head, she found him through a break in the foliage. Her breath caught in her throat. Each of his hands clenched a grenade. How could she be so stupid? If he let go, they would both die. She began crawling away. In a minute, she lay back behind the berm, shaking.

"I saw the hand grenades, asshole," she shouted.

A second later the forest rocked with the explosion.