Robert B. Parker (13 page)

“Unless they suspect me of doing it,” Newman said. He felt sick and very weak. It was hard to keep his shoulders straight.

“Well, first we have to take care of this,” Janet said. “I think we ought to put him in the trunk of his car and put the whole thing, car and body, where it won’t be found.”

“The car,” Hood said, “Jesus, I forgot about his car. Good you remembered, Janet.”

“Where can we put it where no one will find it, where they’ll just disappear?”

Hood was silent.

Newman said, “The airport. You drive in, take a ticket, park the car, lock it, take the keys, and walk
right into the airlines. We can pick you up like you were just coming in. Right in front of American on the arrivals level. Ground floor, you know?”

“Not bad,” Hood said. “People leave cars there like that for weeks. By the time he’s found we’ll have done Karl in. I’ll see if the keys are in the car. If they are I’ll back it in here.”

“And if they aren’t?” Newman said.

“We’ll have to unwrap him and find them.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Newman said.

Hood walked fast to the rental Plymouth. He got in and started up and drove past Newman’s driveway and stopped and backed up and swung in. He stopped under the tree and got out. They loaded the body in the trunk. Janet and Newman took the feet, and Chris handled the head and shoulders. After they closed the trunk Hood said, “I’ll need some gloves.” Janet nodded and went to get them. While he waited Hood carefully wiped off the trunk and the door and the steering wheel with his handkerchief.

“I’ll drive it,” Hood said. “You follow me and drive me home.”

“Leave it in the airport garage,” Newman said. “And then walk into the terminal and we’ll pick you up outside American Airlines like you were arriving.”

“Okay,” Hood said. “That’s good. We’ll lock his gun in the trunk too. Don’t want to get caught with it.”

Janet went for gloves. Newman got a flashlight from the kitchen drawer and found Steiger’s gun in the bushes. He didn’t touch it. He waited for Hood to come with the gloves on. They were leather work gloves with a drawstring that had a red ball on the end of the drawstring. Hood picked up the gun and
put it in the trunk of the rental Plymouth and got into the driver’s seat.

“Meet me in a half hour at American Airlines,” he said.

Newman nodded. “Okay, Chris,” he said. “I know you saved my life tonight. And I know this is dangerous, what you’re doing now …”

“Don’t worry about it, just meet me at American. I’d hate like hell to have to get home by cab.”

He started and pulled the Plymouth away from the curb. Newman got in his own car with Janet and drove after him.

It was after midnight and cool for late summer. The top was off Newman’s Jeep and the open air was a bit uncomfortable.

“There’s spare jackets in the waterproof bag back of the seat,” Newman said. “Want one?”

“Yes, I’m freezing.”

Newman stopped and got two terrycloth-lined vinyl slicker jackets out of the bag behind their seats. He gave the smaller one to Janet and put on the bigger one. They were bright orange.

“Thanks for coming,” Newman said.

“If that was one of them, and it must have been, we’ve got to get out of here tomorrow. When he’s found, someone will come again. They’ll have more reason to be angry. They’ll assume you killed their first man.”

“I know.”

“We’ll go up to Fryeburg and wait until Karl comes and we’ll kill him quick and then it will be over.”

“That’s Karl’s place there,” Hood said to Janet. “On the island.” The three of them stood on the small patio of a rented summer home and looked out over a lake. Janet was looking through binoculars.

“All I can see is the dock,” Janet said.

“The cabin is in the woods,” Newman said. “At night you can see the lights.”

“Any way to get there besides boat?”

“No.”

“He the only one on the island?”

“Yes.”

Behind them their cottage was weathered shingles, with aqua shutters and trim. Living room, kitchen, bathroom, two bedrooms. It stood at the end of a half-mile dirt driveway that branched from a two-mile dirt road. Below them was the lake. The banks were ten feet high. A footpath had been cut in and steps made with short lengths of log. The path led down to a dock and a float. An aluminum canoe was moored to the float.

“Is that our canoe?” Janet said.

“Yes. It goes with the rental.”

“What names are we using?”

“Marsh,” Hood said.

Janet nodded. “Well,” she said, “let’s get unloaded.”

“I’ll do that,” Hood said. “Why don’t you folks take a walk. I’ll set up here.”

“Don’t be silly,” Janet said. “We’ll help.”

“No, I’d rather, really. You and Aaron take a stroll around and see what the situation is. Better take a gun. I’ll set this up.”

“Yeah, okay,” Newman said. “I’ll give Janet a shooting lesson.”

“No gunshots, though, just snap her in.”

Newman nodded.

“This is ridiculous,” Janet said. “Why should he …”

Newman shook his head. “Come on,” he said.

They got the M1 carbine and a full fifteen-round clip from the Bronco and walked up the dirt driveway.

Newman said, “Don’t you see he’s setting up a command post?”

“A command post?”

“Yeah, for the search-and-destroy operation. If we were around we’d spoil it.”

“Ahh.”

“Yes. When we get back he’ll have it all ready for all emergencies.”

“Okay,” Janet said. “Let’s find a place to practice with the gun. What’s ‘snap in’?”

“You pretend the gun is loaded and you practice shooting it, but because it’s empty when you pull the trigger it just snaps. They used to do it in basic training.”

At the end of the driveway they turned right and walked along the dirt road dappled by leaves and sunlight, silent in late summer.

Behind them, at the cabin, Hood began to unload the Bronco. First he brought in the guns: the Ithaca 12-gauge, the Springfield with the scope, the Winchester, and the handguns in a red and white gym bag that said Speedo on the side. He took out the .45 and a shoulder holster, slipped into the holster harness, checked the clip in the butt of the .45, and slid the gun into the holster under his left arm. He piled the rest of the guns on the couch. Then he went back to the car and carried everything into the house and put it in the living room on the floor.

They had brought food in an old green cooler: beer, bourbon, cheese, fruit, some steaks. He put the food in the refrigerator. From a cardboard carton he took bread, peanut butter, crackers, granola bars, baked beans in cans. He put two sleeping bags in one bedroom and a single sleeping bag in the other. From a tackle box he took ammunition for the guns. On the large dining table in the living room he lined up the guns, and beside each one he put its ammunition. There were three pistol belts. He put the two remaining handguns into holsters and attached them to the pistol belts. On one he put a knife, on the other a hatchet. On the third belt he put the bowie knife and a hatchet in its case, and strapped on the belt.

On the floor beneath the table he put three flash-lights, three waterproof containers of matches, three light nylon knapsacks, three nylon pullovers. He picked one up, slipped into it, pulling it down over his head. He tried to get the .45 out of its shoulder holster. He couldn’t. He removed the jacket, took off the
shoulder harness, slipped the .45 into a regulation holster, attached it to the pistol belt. Then he took off the belt, put the pullover back on, strapped the pistol belt around his waist. The gun was at his right, the hatchet on his left side. Hanging from the belt in the middle of his back was the knife. He looked at his reflection in the window, then went to the bathroom and looked more carefully.

In a clearing, up an old logging road, with insects humming softly and often biting, Aaron and Janet Newman stood side by side. She held the empty carbine.

“Slide the bolt back,” he said.

“Show me,” she said.

He took the weapon. “See,” he said, “this little tit here, you push it back with your left hand, like this.” He slid the bolt back and let it snap forward.

“Why do I do that?”

“In this case, to see that it’s not loaded. If the clip were in it would jack a shell up into the firing chamber and cock the gun.”

He pulled the trigger and the hammer snapped down on the empty chamber. “Okay,” he said, “you do it.”

She took the gun and pushed the retracting handle on the bolt back. She let it go and it slid forward. Then she pointed the gun and pulled the trigger. Snap.

“Good,” he said.

“Why don’t I hold it in the other hand and push the whosis back? It’s awkward to reach across like that.”

“Bolt,” he said. “Because then you’d be holding it left-handed, and you don’t want to. You are right-handed and want to be ready to shoot and not switch
the thing back and forth. You can do it like this too, if you want to.”

He held the butt of the carbine against his thigh, his left hand on the stock forward of the trigger housing. With his right he snapped the bolt back. He snapped the trigger and handed the gun back to her. She tried running the bolt back as he’d shown her.

“I like the first way better,” she said.

“Okay, but make sure, whichever way, that you don’t end up trying to shoot left-handed.”

“Okay. What next? Pretend it’s loaded. I run the whosis back.”

“The bolt,” he said.

“The bolt. I run the bolt back and let it go forward. Then I aim it.” She put the carbine to her shoulder. “And pull the trigger.”

“Good,” he said. “I don’t know how you’ll be shooting. If it’s at close range and sudden, you’ll shoot any way you can. Otherwise you may as well learn the right way.” He took the gun.

“Get it against your shoulder, then hold it with your left hand and reach up with your right toward the sky, like this, and then keep your elbow pointed up and reach down and grip it with your right hand like this. You don’t want your elbow down in against you like this. You want it up and out like this.”

“It looks awkward,” she said.

“A little, but be comfortable, don’t strain, just keep the elbow out and up as much as you can. Move your left hand down the stock a little farther. No, toward the front. Good.”

“Now I shoot?”

“Not yet. Pick out something, a leaf, a rock, whatever. Aim the gun so the leaf or whatever it is sits on
the sight, in between the two outside wings and on top of the center thing. You see? See it? How if you get it right it sits up there, almost seems to magnify?”

“Okay.”

“Now breathe out, and don’t inhale. Aim, take up the slack in the trigger, now squeeze the trigger, slowly.” Snap.

“Can I inhale?”

“Yes. The Army had a little code for it you could say to yourself: BASS. Breathe, Aim, Slack, Squeeze. Don’t jerk the trigger,
squeeeeeze
it, you know?”

She nodded. “Then I push the whosis back?”

“Bolt,” he said. “No. From there on until the gun is empty you just keep pulling the trigger. The explosion of the weapon will push the bolt back and eject the spent shell and put a new round in the chamber and cock the hammer.”

“So, pretend it’s loaded, I slide the thing back. Breathe, Aim, Slack, Squeeze.” Snap.

She repeated the process several times.

“I think she’s got it,” he said, “by God, I think she’s got it.”

“Let me practice putting the clip in.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “I’ll put it in for you when you need it.”

“I want to know how myself, Aaron.”

“Oh, for crissake.”

“Aaron, I have to be able to do it if you’re not there.”

He took the clip out of his pocket and looked at her for a long time. “Yes,” he said. “Of course you do. I might get shot. You might be alone.”

The hum of the insects was steady in the clearing. More of them now that the sun was going down. They
buzzed and bit, and both Newman and Janet waved them away automatically and almost continuously.

“You just slip it up in, like this. Then slap it home. Just make sure the bullets are pointing in the right direction, the barrel end, not the stock. To release it you press this little buttonlike, here.”

She did as he said.

“You remember all this from the Army?” she said.

“Yeah. They have an excellent pedagogical technique. They threaten you and they mean it. Fear is underrated as a motivator.”

She smiled. “Isn’t that what’s motivating us?”

“Yes,” he said. “It surely is.”

“I was in town,” Hood said, “while you were out firing, and I picked up some more supplies.”

“We weren’t actually firing, Chris, we were just snapping the hammer.”

“You know what I mean,” Hood said. “Now here’s how I’ve set things up. The guns are all loaded, so be careful. There’s a long gun and a handgun for each of us. Janet gets the carbine and the .32, they’re the lightest weapons. I’ll take the Springfield and the .45; Aaron, you get the Winchester and the P-38. I’ve also organized three knapsacks. In each one there’s a dozen granola bars, matches in waterproof wrap, extra ammo for both guns, but only for your own so you have to keep the sacks straight. I’ve put our names on them.”

Newman looked at the green nylon knapsack. Across the back, between the padded straps, it said Aaron in black ink.

“I used indelible ink so it wouldn’t run if we sweat. There’s also a roll of nylon cord, a roll of toilet paper, a small first-aid kit, a flashlight, and a down vest. The vest is rolled up inside the nylon pullover parka. In
the late summer it gets cold up here at night, and maybe you’ll need it. You should put in some dry socks and clean underwear, or whatever you might want. But this is for emergencies, so you don’t want to travel heavy. Anything I forgot?”

“If it’s an emergency,” Newman said, “you better put in more toilet paper. I may shit myself.”

Hood shook his head. “Don’t kid around about this, Aaron. You’ve got to be ready, and you’ve got to cover everything. You should always be wearing clothes you’d be willing to live in in the woods. Jeans, boots, good shirt. If your feet get wet, change at once, get into dry socks, never get caught. You can’t tell when we’ll have to move sudden.”