Necessary Evil (29 page)

—Tilok proverb

A
drenaline fueled her racing heart as Jessie glanced around the thicket where she and Kier had hidden themselves. Looking and listening for the men who hunted them, she strained all her senses. Kier remained still and peered through his stolen field glasses around the pasture at the Donahues' farm. His calm, she knew, was like the eye of a hurricane—never far from the turbulence of the engine that powers it. She was certain that not a minute passed when he didn't think of his mother, wondering if she was tied up in Claudie's house.

Starting at eleven p.m., Kier and Jessie had recrossed the ridge and walked briskly for five hours, most of it sideways and downhill along the mountain, covering a great distance in relatively little time. As Kier had predicted, the heavy rains of the warm storm had melted the snow at the lower altitudes, leaving the ground and vegetation sodden and thus quiet underfoot. Water dripped steadily through leaves and branches, a percussion that disguised the sounds of their passage.

The Donahue house was perched against the mountain on a slight rise that overlooked a tree-ringed pasture that ran like a widening funnel down the hill. Jessie guessed that they sat behind the several huckleberry plants some two hundred yards from the house.

Kier dropped one hand so that she could mesh her fingers with his. After twenty minutes of quiet observation, they had seen nothing except shadows moving against the curtains inside the house. They were not expected for another twenty-nine hours. Most of the men were probably still combing the mountain for their track.

According to Kier, at 5,800 feet, Elk Horn Pass was high enough that it would still be plugged with snow unless the largest plows had cleared the way. He suspected that Tillman had by now a stranglehold on access to the valley. The snow would be a perfect excuse to keep people out. Assistance, they decided, was unlikely.

Kier dropped the binoculars and turned to her. His hand went to her cheek; his eyes, she knew, were pleading.

"Just say it," she said, taking hold of his hand again in frustration. "You want me to stay here, only you haven't got a cellar to lock me in or a prisoner to leave me with."

Kier nodded in response.

"If you don't come back, I'm coming in."

Kier nodded. "I'll leave you a radio. But if I use it, things will be tough. I imagine they'll pick up anything we say."

They held each other for a few moments without speaking, each one trying to take in as much of the other as possible. Then they kissed—one of those kisses in which people try to transplant a part of their soul.

Kier removed his pack, took the M-16, two hand grenades, and a silenced .45. When he was ready to leave, he placed his forehead against hers. She bridged the darkness to his eyes by cupping a small penlight in her hand. Even though the light shone for only a few seconds, it was a risk, and she knew it. As he turned to leave, the image of his dark eyes burned in her mind.

In the deep forest, the night was like dark chocolate, and for Jack Tillman, just as palatable.

Moonlight sifted through broken, spiraling clouds made ghosts of the cattle. He sat yoga-style under a bush, absolutely still, save for the slight movement of his head, mind focused on his prey. Only the slight working of his jaw muscles and the gentle touch of his thumb to a razor-sharp knife would have told an observer that Tillman's meditation was of the devouring, hateful kind.

Down the pasture stood the house, looking like a small ship with gaudy lights floating on a black sea. But for all the light, the place stood absolutely silent as a church at prayer time. Inside many of his men waited, nervously fingering their rifles, thoroughly spooked by the Indian who had crippled or killed so many of their comrades. These were the sacrificial goats, placed in the house to cast shadows.

Tillman did not expect his invited guests until just before daybreak, which would be awhile in coming. He was almost certain the danger would make them want each other. He sensed their attachment from the track—from the way they walked together.

After they "made love"—he was sure they would call it that—the Indian would stash her and come alone. But she would be nearby. He was counting on that for his preferred plan. Actually, taking Kier's mother hostage had been too risky— although Tillman had her and the Tilok tribe just as surely as if they were hog-tied in the Donahues' living room.

For some reason, the jet had crash-landed over the drop zone largely intact instead of exploding in a billion pieces over the ocean, as had been the plan. The one mere lying on the snow had been shot in the head—as to the rest of the meres and science types, there was no telling. By the time Tillman and his men arrived, the plane had been burning for minutes.

Now only the fifth and sixth volumes were missing—the sixth a renegade binder that never should have been made. Tillman needed to know what the Indian and the woman had seen at the plane. He had to know if anyone else had been there. With that information, he might put the pieces together and find the missing volume. If the wrong people recovered it, he was as good as dead.

As he watched the night, his mind turned to his man Jensen and their last conversation. He could recall nothing in Jensen's manner or words to indicate that he wasn't following directions. Of course, they hadn't talked much before Jensen breathed his last on the floor. Even so, he replayed it all again.

Stuffed animal heads hung on all four walls, all predators except the rhino and water buffalo, making it the most politically incorrect office of any Forbes-listed billionaire in the United States. Absent were the trophies of his corporate plundering.

Tillman had been waiting for Jensen, who was late and probably hesitant. It was in the nature of men, especially scientists, to go soft. People like Marty Rawlins began as vigorous pragmatists but, as they aged, became concerned that they were doing the "right thing."

A case in point was the three-ring binder, the so-called Volume Six, sitting on the green leather inset of his rosewood desk. In his desperation, Marty had written every damned thing down, or most of it—enough to hang them all. This was the only copy outside the lab. The faithful had smuggled it to Tillman to prove Marty's treachery. Once the lab records were separated from Marty, he would be dealt with—but not until.

The scheming had seemed endless, but at last things were in place. He pushed the com button on his telephone.

"Where's Jensen?"

"He's not in his office," the nervous voice of his secretary came back at him.

Tillman smacked the com button, and it occurred to him that his icy cool temperament might be heating up a bit. Taking a deep breath, he brought back the absolute calm and allowed reason to reassert itself.

Marty Rawlins, the master egghead, had to go, and so did most of his immediate support staff. Although Paul had just received his Ph.D., he was aggressive and brilliant like Marty. Tillman had groomed him carefully and absolutely convinced himself of the young man's determination. Nothing would stop them now. Paul had no trouble with the human tissue concept. And more important, he understood Marty's new DNA work— at least well enough to coordinate the work of the other senior scientists.

''Jensen's coming in,'' his secretary's voice told him without warning. He made a note to fire her in the morning.

"Everything set?" The tall, graying man approached his desk. Tillman noted Jensen's eyes running over the heavy canvas drop cloth on the floor.

"Just painters," Tillman said casually.

"Oh," Jensen said, looking as if the canvas might somehow gobble him up. "Everything is ready. Everything is exactly on schedule," he said. ''They'll make the drop from four thousand feet . . . exactly five hundred feet above ground level. Then they'll pull up, and when they pass through twenty thousand feet—boom. They'll be off the Mendocino coast. Ocean's over a mile deep. I don't think there'll be a piece left bigger than a few square inches. It'll look like a fuel tank blew and then set off some oxygen bottles for the big boom. If they figure it was sabotage, we can blame one of those antitechnology terrorists."

"Mind locking the door?" Tillman asked from behind his desk. He doubted the authorities would be so easily placated, especially given the magnitude of the explosion. But he would worry about that later.

Jensen went to the door and turned the heavy brass knob.

"I'd like to show you something," Tillman said, beckoning Jensen back to the desk.

When Jensen returned, Tillman removed a Beretta 9-mm., loaded with subsonic hollow point shells and a Nexus grease-filled suppressor. This kind of silencer was super quiet for two or three shots—then the grease would require repacking. If Tillman fired only one shot, aiming square in the center of Jensen's chest, it was a virtual certainty that the bullet would not emerge from what was left of Jensen. There would be no messy lead traces in the woodwork. But it was not his plan to fire that shot unless required.

"What are you doing?" Jensen gasped.

Tillman studied the man's eyes as they widened in terror. There were creatures of flight—these were usually the vegetable eaters. Then there were those who wanted to fight before they died. For the most part these were the predators. Surprisingly, Jensen was turning out to be an herbivore. This would be easier than he'd thought.

"Relax, Jensen. I just want you to take a little nap until this is all over.'' Tillman removed a plastic bag from his desk, then rose to come around to Jensen.

"But why . . . ? I . . . I've done everything you asked . . . everything—"

"Stay calm and I won't kill you. Otherwise you're going to end up on the canvas, bleeding from a punctured heart."

In the bag there were several large, soaked cotton balls.

"What are you doing?" Jensen's eyes flashed to the canvas as panic began to control him.

Tillman stepped behind him, congratulating himself on his judgment. He knew he had been right. The man was weak. He could be broken. With practiced ease Tillman slipped a pair of

handcuffs on Jensen. He took the bag from the floor where he had dropped it and slipped it over Jensen's head.

"Please . . . you can trust me—" Jensen choked as much from panic as the lack of oxygen. It took only seconds for the chloroform to do its work.

Jensen's eyes seemed to bulge, remaining open as if he were staring at some far-off place. They were brown eyes, but now appeared clearer and lighter, which Tillman found interesting. Foam collected at Jensen's lips and his hands opened and closed as if trying to grasp something. Out of interest in what might happen, Tillman undid the cuffs, but Jensen was too far gone to even try to save himself. Perhaps it was involuntary, or perhaps he could see eternity rushing at him, but Jensen now grasped at the air in front of his face, reaching for something only he could see. Around his fingernails the flesh was turning blue.

Tillman caught Jensen as his knees began to buckle, and then he smelled the man's defecation. Tillman knew from years of experience that mammals sometimes evacuate their bladders and bowels in their death throes. He had prepared for just such an eventuality with the plastic-lined canvas.

With some care, Tillman wrapped the body in the plastic-lined canvas and placed it in a giant nylon bag that would otherwise have housed his hang glider. Hang gliding was a sport whose benefits, he now decided, extended beyond the obvious.

Tillman would personally put the body in the trunk of his car, take it to the jet, and put it in the cargo hold.

Later, a witness would swear he saw Jensen walk onto the doomed plane with the other passengers.

Tillman reattuned all of his senses to the night landscape. His eyes worked the edges of the ravine and the pasture below. He listened for the slightest variation in the forest's sounds, for any sign of a creature's alarm that might signal an intruder. There were rustlings, small noises, but nothing he could identify as human.

So far Kier had preferred to fight alone, leaving the woman nearby, where he perceived she would be safe. Odds were he would follow the same pattern now—bring her partway, then leave her.

The question was where Kier would leave the woman. If she was an ordinary woman, he would leave her far back; but in her case, where she herself had killed and killed well, it could be much closer. She would be aggressive, insisting that she should come along. Perhaps she would come the whole way. Tillman would wait near the base of the ravine until daylight, when he would hunt the woman. If Kier and the woman hadn't arrived by dawn, he would change his strategy.

It was from the corner of his eye that he caught the flicker of light. What he saw lasted no more than a few seconds, but it was all he needed. It was not worthy of the Indian to make such a mistake. He knew it was either the woman's carelessness or a trap. It had come from below at the edge of the pasture. If he was correct about the light, they had slipped past him undetected or taken another route.

If Tillman could capture the woman, he would not follow Doyle's recipe in its entirety. Instead she would be suitably tormented, then brought to the Donahues', where Doyle would slip into her room and reveal his FBI status. Tillman would have her in a controlled environment where she couldn't escape. The thought of softening her up sent a wave of anticipation through Tillman. His heart quickened with the mental image of her bound and helpless. It struck him as an odd reaction. Rape was normally the province of lunatics, the exception being in war, where for centuries rape served as an effective means of subjugation. If the best means of rattling Special Agent Mayfield was to take her sexually, then that certainly made it an appropriate tool. Sexual submission would make a woman like her feel especially helpless. For that reason alone he would consider it. Once she felt weak and vulnerable, Doyle's story would come as sweet relief.