Keith drove the blue and white police car west, along a straight, flat farm road that was barely wide enough for two cars to pass. The walls of tall corn came almost up to the gravel, creating the effect of driving in a deep trench.
Keith had on Ward's hat and shirt, but so far he hadn't passed another police car or sheriff's car on the way from the Porter house. He was mindful, however, of the deputies driving their own vehicles, but he hadn't seen any uniformed deputies in private cars, nor had he seen any mounted posse. Spencer County was big, he knew, about six hundred square miles, and the distance between the Porter house and the Cowley farm was only about ten miles. With any luck, he'd get there, though he didn't know what he'd find when he did.
Keith had encouraged Officer Ward to radio headquarters and give a situation report, and Sergeant Blake had reprimanded Ward for being away from the car so long. Ward, with his own revolver being held to his head, his hands cuffed behind his back, his groin somewhat achy, and his sergeant chewing him out, was a truly unhappy man. He was less happy now, Keith suspected, bouncing around in the trunk. But that was Officer Ward's own fault and was the least of Ward's problems and the least of Keith's problems.
The farm road ended at the T-intersection of Route 8, and Keith turned onto it.
As he approached the Cowley farm, Keith saw five mounted men with rifles and dogs coming out of a tree line and onto the road in front of him. Keith slowed down as the troop crossed the road, and everyone waved. Keith waved back. One of the mounted posse reined his horse around and came toward him. Keith didn't know if the horseman would know every cop on the force by sight, but he did know that the blue Armani trousers weren't going to pass inspection, not to mention the problem of Officer Ward, who now and then kicked and shouted.
As the horseman approached, Keith waved again and accelerated past him as if Keith didn't understand that the man wanted to speak to him. Keith looked in his rearview mirror and watched the horseman looking at him.
Keith passed the Cowley farm and noticed Billy Marlon's blue pickup truck near the house. He continued on a mile up the road, then made a U-turn and came back.
The mounted posse was in the far distance now, and Keith swung the police car into the driveway of the farmhouse, then veered off, avoiding the pickup truck, and headed straight for an old cowshed. He hit the double doors, and they burst inward. He slammed on the brakes, but not in time to avoid hitting a pile of milk cans, which toppled over with a deafening crash.
Ward shouted something from the trunk.
Keith shut off the ignition, then took off Ward's hat and shirt and strapped on Ward's gun belt. He gathered his M-16 rifle and the rack-mounted police shotgun, then went around to the trunk and rapped on it. "You okay?"
"Yeah. Let me out."
"Later." Keith walked out of the cowshed and met Billy Marlon coming toward him.
Marlon looked at the police car in the shed, then at Keith and said, "Jesus Christ."
"Not even close. Are you alone?"
"Yeah."
"Let's get in the house." He gave Marlon the shotgun to carry.
Billy Marlon was understandably agitated and confused, but he followed Keith into the farmhouse. Marlon said, "Hey, they're lookin' for you."
"Who was here?"
"That bastard Krug. Asked me if I seen you, and I told him I didn't even know who the fuck you were."
"He buy it?"
"Sort of. He reminded me that you helped me out of a scrape with the law — hey, thanks for the money. I found it. I thought you was gone."
"I came back. You sober?"
"Sure. I'm broke, I'm sober." Billy looked at Keith. "What the hell happened to you?"
"I got drunk and fell down the stairs."
"No shit? Hey, something else, there was a guy here yesterday, can't remember his name, says he was a friend of yours and that the Porters told him you might be here..."
"Charlie?"
"Yeah... kinda all spiffed-up, light hair, wiseass..."
"Charlie."
"Yeah. Lookin' for you. I showed him that note you left me and told him you was gone, but he said you might be around. What the hell's goin' on? What's all the hardware for?"
"I don't have a lot of time, Billy. I need your help."
"Anything you want, you got it, if I got it to give."
"Good. I need your pickup truck and a pair of boots. Do you have camouflage fatigues?"
"Sure do."
"Binoculars, compass?"
"You got it. You goin' huntin'?"
"Yup. Got to get moving."
"Come on upstairs."
They went up the stairs of the tidy farmhouse and into a small bedroom.
Billy pulled his hunting gear out of a closet, and Keith took off his suit pants and shoes, saying to Marlon, "Burn these."
"Burn?.."
"Burn everything I leave here."
Keith tried on the tiger fatigue pants, which were a little snug and less than clean, but for a man who hadn't bathed since Sunday morning, it was okay. The boots fit fine, and so did the camouflage shirt. Billy gave him a bright orange vest for visibility, which Keith took but had no intention of using.
Billy watched him getting dressed and said, "I'll go with you."
"Thanks, but I want to hunt alone."
"What're you huntin' for?"
"Varmint." Keith tied the boots and stood. He thought about Baxter's three dogs. At the house on Williams Street, there had been a kennel, and Keith had seen no signs of dogs living inside the house. He assumed that if the dogs were outdoor animals on Williams Street, they would be outdoors all night at the lodge. He asked Billy, "You do any longbow or crossbow hunting?"
"Nope. I like the rifle. How about you?"
"Same." Despite all his exotic training, he'd never been introduced to bows and arrows, blowguns, slings, spears, or boomerangs. The only silent way of killing he'd been taught was by knife and garrote, which wouldn't work on a dog, and he didn't have a silencer for his M-16, and Billy didn't have a crossbow. But he'd worry about that later.
Billy said, "Varmint's a real hard shot with a longbow. Seen it done with a crossbow."
"Right. Okay, thanks. I'll get the truck back to you tomorrow or the next day."
"Hey, Keith, I may be a fucked-up juicehead, but I'm sober now."
Keith looked at Billy Marlon, and they made eye contact. Keith said, "The less you know, the better." Keith moved to the door, but Marlon held his arm.
Marlon said, "I remember some of that night at John's Place and in the park and you drivin' me home."
"I have to go, Billy."
"He did fuck my wife... my second wife. I loved her... and she loved me, and we was doin' okay, but that bastard got between us, and after what happened, we tried to get it back together again... you know? But I couldn't deal with what happened and I started to drink, and I got like real mean with her. She left, but... she said she still loved me, but she'd done somethin' wrong and she could understand why I couldn't forgive her." Billy suddenly spun around and kicked the closet door, splintering the plywood panel. "Ah, shit!"
Keith took a deep breath and said, "It's okay." It was amazing, he thought, how much wreckage Cliff Baxter had left behind as he indulged himself in his carnal gratifications and moral corruption. Keith asked Billy, "What was her name?"
His back still to Keith, Billy replied, "Beth."
"Where is Beth now?"
He shrugged. "I don't know... Columbus, I think." Billy turned around and looked at Keith. "I know where you're goin'. I'm goin' with you. I have to go with you."
"No. I don't need help."
"Not for you. For me. Please."
"It's dangerous."
"Hey, I'm dead already. I won't even notice the difference."
Keith looked at Billy Marlon and nodded.
Keith went into the cowshed, and, with an ax that Marlon had given him, he sliced a few air vents in the trunk lid of the police car. He said to Ward through the slits, "Be thankful it's a Fairlane and not an Escort."
"Fuck you, Landry."
Keith drove the police car out of the shed and headed back on Route 8 the way he'd come. He didn't want to leave any evidence of an association between himself and Billy Marlon and Marlon's pickup truck.
Keith swung off the road onto the shoulder, then cut the car hard right over a drainage culvert and onto a tractor path between two fields of corn. Fifty yards into the corn, hidden from the road, he stopped and shut off the ignition.
He got out of the car and said to Ward, "I'll call from Daytona and tell them where you are. It'll be a while, so relax. Think about early retirement."
"Hey! Wait! Where am I?"
"In the trunk."
Keith jogged back to the road and met Billy Marlon, who was waiting for him in the pickup truck.
Billy drove the pickup, a ten-year-old blue Ford Ranger, and Keith sat in the passenger seat, a dirty bush hat pulled low on his head.
In the storage space behind the seat was the hunting gear, canvas ponchos for the Michigan cold, his M-16 rifle and scope, the Spencerville police shotgun, Officer Ward's service revolver, and Billy Marlon's hunting rifle, an Army surplus M-14 with a four-power scope. He'd also taken his briefcase, which held his passport, important papers, some money, and other odds and ends. It occurred to him that this was about all he owned in the world, which was actually not much more or less than he'd owned when he left Spencerville for the Army half a lifetime ago.
As they drove, Keith said to Billy, "Baxter has three hunting dogs with him."
"Shit."
"Think about it."
"I will." Billy asked, "Where we going?"
"Michigan. Northern part."
"Yeah? I do most of my hunting up that way. There's some good maps in the glove compartment."
Keith found the maps and located Grey Lake at the northern end of the peninsula. It was nearly one P.M., and they should be in Atlanta about seven and, with luck, be able to find Baxter's lodge at Grey Lake within an hour.
As they drove, Keith spotted two Spencerville police cars, saw another troop of mounted posse, and a Spencer County sheriff's car. He slid down in the seat each time, and no one seemed to pay any attention to the old pickup truck. Billy was wearing a John Deere cap pulled low over his eyes, and Keith instructed him not to make eye contact with any cops, since they all knew him from his frequent nights in the drunk tank.
Keith asked him, "Do they know this truck?"
"Nah... I never got a DUI or nothin'. I drink and walk. Hardly use the truck to get to town."
"Okay... if they want to pull us over, you do what they say. We can't run the police in this thing."
Billy replied, "Fuck them. I'm not gonna lay down for those assholes anymore."
"They'll shoot. I know this bunch."
"Fuck 'em. They'll shoot you anyway. Hey, those assholes drive regular Fairlanes. When I get into the corn with this thing, there ain't gonna be no fuzz on our tail."
"Okay. It's your call." Keith regarded Billy a moment. Apparently, there was more to the man than Keith had been able to determine when Billy was drunk. Billy was on a mission now, too, and though Billy Marlon and Keith Landry had traveled different roads since high school and Vietnam, they now found themselves on the same road and with the same thing in mind.
In fact, Billy said, "I'm gonna get us to northern Michigan, Lieutenant — hey, you signed that note 'Colonel.' You a colonel now?"
"Sometimes."
Marlon laughed. "Yeah? I'm a sergeant. I made three stripes before I got out. Ain't that somethin'?"
"You must have been a good soldier."
"I was... I was."
They drove a few more minutes, and Keith said to Marlon, "They might have roadblocks at the county line."
"Yeah, I know. But there's got to be fifty, sixty farm roads that leave this county. They can't put a roadblock at each of them."
"Right. Let's pick one."
"I know the one. Town Road 18 — mostly dirt and most of the time mud because of the bad drainage. Lots of cars get stuck, and Baxter's bozos got to keep their Baxter Motors lease cars lookin' good." He laughed. "Assholes."
Marlon turned west onto a paved farm road, then a minute later turned right and headed north on a rutted gravel road, Town Road 18.
Ten minutes later, the corn ended and they were in a low-lying area of marsh grass, a vestige of the ancient Black Swamp. The road became muddy, and the truck splattered through the black silty muck.
Five minutes later, Billy said, "We're out of Spencer County."
Keith hadn't seen a sign, but he figured that Billy was familiar with the area. He took an Ohio map out of the glove compartment and said, "Let's take back roads up to the Maumee, then maybe we'll pick up Route 127 to Michigan."
"Yeah, that's the way to go."
They continued on, heading west and north on a series of intersecting town and county roads, through the rich autumn farm country, the endless fields of corn and hay, the pastures and meadows. Now that he was leaving and perhaps never coming back, he made certain he noticed everything: the road signs, the family names on the barns and the mailboxes, the crops and the animals, the people, and the vehicles, and the houses, and the whole sense and feel of this land whose whole was indeed far greater than the sum of its parts... And the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.
They drove another half hour without much said that didn't pertain to the subject of land navigation and police.
Keith regarded the map and saw that most of the bridges across the Maumee River were located in the bigger towns on the river, and he didn't want to go through a town. He spotted a bridge near a tiny village called The Bend and asked Billy about it.
Billy replied, "Yeah, bridge is still there. Got some sort of weight limit, but if I gun it, we'll be across before it falls."
Keith wasn't sure about Billy's understanding of applied physics, but it was worth a look at the bridge.
They approached the small trestle bridge, and before Keith could see a weight limit sign or evaluate the structure, Billy was racing across the narrow span, and within ten seconds they'd crossed the Maumee. Keith said, "I think that bridge was closed to motor vehicle traffic."
"Yeah? Looked okay."
Keith shrugged.
They drove through The Bend, which took slightly less time than the river crossing and picked up U.S. Route 127 at a village called Sherwood. Keith noted it was two P.M., and it was about thirty-five miles to the Michigan state line, then another two hundred fifty miles or more to Grey Lake.
Route 127 went through Bryan, Ohio, but they skirted around the small city and returned to the highway some miles north of the town. That was the last major town in Ohio, and, in fact, after Lansing in southern Michigan, there were no major towns along Route 127 all the way up to the tip of the peninsula. Twenty minutes later, a sign welcomed them to Michigan, "The Land of Lakes." Keith was only interested in one of them.
There were no great differences in terrain or topography between northern Ohio and southern Michigan, Keith noted, but there were those subtle differences in signage, blacktop, and land surveys which, if you hadn't seen the Michigan sign, you might not notice. More important, Keith thought, whatever residual interest the state of Ohio had in him most probably didn't extend beyond that sign. This border crossing wasn't the heart-stopping equivalent of the old East to West border crossings in Europe, but he did feel a sense of relief, and he relaxed a bit.
They drove on for another half hour, and the terrain started to change from flat farmland to rolling green hills and small valleys. There were large stands of trees now, mostly oak, hickory, beech, and maple, and the autumn colors were further along than in Ohio. Keith hadn't been in Michigan since he and Annie used to drive up to see the Ohio State-Michigan game in Ann Arbor, or to see Bowling Green play Eastern Michigan in Ypsilanti. Those had been magic weekends, he recalled, a break not only from classes but from the war and the turmoil on the campus, a time-warp weekend without dissent or demonstrations, as if everyone agreed to dress, act, and look normal for a traditional Saturday afternoon football game.
He let his mind drift into thoughts about Annie, then realized this wasn't good or productive. The objective was Grey Lake, the mission was to settle the score with Cliff Baxter, not just for himself, but for Annie as well, and thinking about her meant he wasn't concentrating on the problem.
Billy asked, "Where in northern Michigan we goin', exactly?"
"Don't know exactly."
"Then how we gonna get there?"
"We'll manage. Hey, remember that old Army expression? I don't know where we are..."
"Yeah." Billy smiled and recited, "I don't know where we are, or what we're doin', but we're makin' really good time." He laughed.
Keith thought that seemed to satisfy Billy, but a few minutes later, Billy asked, "Is Baxter alone?"
Keith thought a moment, then replied, "I don't think he has any other men with him."
Billy mulled this over a minute, then asked, "Where is Mrs. Baxter?"
"Why do you ask that?"
"Well... I mean, I heard about the kidnappin' on the radio." Billy glanced at Keith and added, "The radio said you kidnapped her."
"What do you think?"
"Well, it's plain as day that you two ran off together. The whole town knows that."
Keith didn't reply.
Billy went on, "What I can't figure out is what happened next."
"What do you think happened?"
"Well... I guess he caught up with you. That explains them cuts and bruises on your face. But that don't explain why one of you ain't dead."
Keith replied, "We tried."
Billy laughed and said, "I bet you did. This is like round two, I guess."
"Two, maybe three, four, or five. But who's counting?"
"And I guess this is the last round."
"I'm sure it is."
"You gonna kill him?"
Keith thought a moment, then replied, "I'd rather not."
"Why not?"
"That's too good for him."
Billy nodded and didn't reply.
Keith said, "If I take you all the way, you're going to follow my orders. Right?"
Billy nodded.
"Can't hear you, soldier."
"Yes, sir."
They drove in silence awhile, then Billy said, "She's with him, ain't she?"
"She is."
"Right. So we got to take him without hurting her."
"That's right."
"That ain't gonna be easy."
"No, it's not."
"Three dogs?"
"I think."
"What kinda stuff is he packin'?"
"You name it, he's probably got it. He's a hunter and a cop."
"Yeah, he is." Billy asked, "He got any night-vision stuff?"
"Probably. Compliments of the Spencerville P.D."
"Okay... and I guess he's holed up in a cabin or somethin', someplace where he knows the lay of the land."
"That's right." Keith glanced at Marlon. In medical terms, a doctor would say Billy Marlon's brain had suffered prolonged alcohol insult, and in human terms, anyone who knew him would say his spirit had suffered too many of life's insults. Yet Keith had no doubt whatsoever that Billy Marlon had reached deep down inside himself today, and this was going to be his finest and most lucid hour. Keith said, "Tell me about Beth."
"I can't."
"Sure you can."
Billy sat quietly for a few minutes, then pulled out his wallet and fished out a grubby photo. He handed it to Keith.
Keith looked at it. The color photograph showed a head-and-shoulders shot of a woman in her mid-thirties, short blond hair, quite pretty in fact, with big eyes and a big smile. Keith was sort of surprised at how good-looking she was and not at all surprised that she should have come to the attention of Chief Baxter. There was certainly a normal ratio of pretty women in Spencer County, as Keith had observed, but he understood why this one had become Baxter's victim, and the reason was sitting in the seat beside him. Civilization and civility aside, a weak man with an exceptionally endowed wife was bound to lose her — perhaps on a temporary basis — to someone like Cliff Baxter. Keith handed the photograph back to Billy and said, "She's very beautiful."
"Yeah."
"How long has it been?"
"Two years."
"She remarry?"
"Don't think so. She's still in the Columbus phone book as Beth Marlon."
"Maybe you'll go look her up after this."
"Yeah, maybe."
After a few minutes, Billy seemed in better spirits and said, "Hey, time for a war story."
Keith thought not and asked, "You know this road?"
"Yeah, I take this up now and then. Good huntin' up in Hartwick Pines State Park. You ever been up there?"
"No, never been this far north. You remember a gas station around here?"
"Let's see..."He looked out the window. "Yeah, another mile or so. Hey, how far up we goin'?"
"Near the tip of the peninsula. Another two hours, I guess." Keith added, "You don't have to come all the way. I can drop you at a motel and come back for you."
"Yeah? And what if you don't come back?"
"I'll be back."
Billy suddenly grinned. "You got your shit together, man. Hey, tell you what — we get this fucker, we gut him, and drive into Spencerville with him tied onto the roof like a deer. Whataya say?"
"Don't tempt me."
Billy let out a howl of delight and slapped his thigh. "Yeah! Yeah! Up and down Main Street with the horn honkin' and Baxter's naked butt stickin' up in the air, and the fuckin' wolves eatin' his guts back in Michigan. Yeah!"
Keith ignored this bloodthirsty outburst, not because he thought it was disgusting, but because he thought it wasn't.
He saw the service station up ahead and pointed it out to Billy, who pulled in. Keith gave Billy money for snacks, and Billy went into the building. Keith got behind the wheel.
The attendant filled the tank, and Keith paid him while Billy went to the men's room. Keith's impulse was to leave Billy there, not because Billy Marlon was a burnout — Keith understood burned-out, and he appreciated Marlon's rising to this occasion. The problem was that the occasion that Billy had risen to included Billy's own agenda, and his presence added another dimension to the problem.
But Keith, in a weak moment, had acknowledged what it was he was hunting for, and Billy knew too much, so Billy couldn't be cut loose and left wandering around.
Billy came back to the truck and got in the passenger seat. He looked at Keith, and they both understood that Billy Marlon was a man who was used to being tricked, snubbed, and left behind. Billy said, "Thanks."
Keith got back onto Route 127.
The farms thinned out, and the hills became higher and more thickly wooded. The oaks and maples had lost most of their leaves, and the birch and aspen were almost bare. There were more evergreens, too, Keith noticed, white and red pines and hemlock, some of them reaching towering heights. The sign at the last county line they'd crossed had announced a population of 6,200, about one-tenth the population of Spencer County, which was considered rural. Truly, he thought, this place was remote and nearly uninhabited, bypassed by the great wave of westward pioneers.
The daylight was starting to fade, and the trees cast long shadows over the hills. It was very still outside the truck, and except for an occasional small herd of cattle on a hillside, nothing moved.
Billy asked, "You think she's okay?"
Keith didn't reply.
"He wouldn't hurt her, would he?"
"No. He loves her."
Billy stayed silent for a minute, then commented, "I can't think about him lovin' nobody but himself."
"Yeah, well, maybe love isn't the right word. Whatever it is, he needs her."
"Yeah. I think I know what you mean." Billy added, "She's okay."
At Gaylord, in Otsego County, Keith turned east onto Route 32, and twenty minutes later, at seven-fifteen P.M., they reached Atlanta, the principal town in the area, with a population of about six hundred souls. Keith said to Billy, "We'll stop for gas. Don't mention Grey Lake."
Keith pulled into the only service station and topped off the tank on the assumption that he would be leaving Grey Lake at some late hour, with no known destination.
The attendant made small talk, and Billy spun a yarn about going up to Presque Isle to shoot duck.
Keith went to the pay phone and dialed the Baxter house in Spencerville. As Terry had said, the call was automatically forwarded, and a voice answered, "Spencerville police, Sergeant Blake speaking."
Keith said, "Blake, this is your old pal Keith Landry. Your missing car and man are sitting in a cornfield off Route 8, north side, about a mile west of the city line."
"What?.."
Keith hung up. He felt obliged to make the call, to get Ward out of the trunk before the harvesters found him dead. Keith doubted if his call from Michigan to the Baxter house, forwarded to the police headquarters, would be displayed on any caller ID that the Spencerville P.D. had. Normally, he wouldn't have done anything so charitable if it had even the slightest element of risk to himself, but he didn't want Ward to die, and when the police found Ward, Ward would tell them that Landry was heading to Daytona. The Spencerville police would alert the Ohio state police to look for their fugitive witness at nearby airports or in Florida. There was no reason why they would think of Grey Lake, or of Billy Marlon, or the pickup truck. He hoped not.
Keith had also wanted to see if anyone answered the phone at the Baxter house. Keith believed, based on what Terry had said and Annie's clue about Atlanta — this Atlanta — that Baxter was at Grey Lake. On the other hand, Keith had the nagging thought that this was a setup. But if it was, it was a very elaborate setup and probably too sophisticated for Cliff Baxter. Keith's problem, he knew, was that he'd lived too long in that wilderness of mirrors where thousands of bright boys played the most elaborate and sophisticated tricks on one another. This was not the case here. Baxter was in the only place he could be — his lodge at Grey Lake; and he was alone, except for Annie, and he didn't know Keith Landry was on his way. Reassured, Keith put this out of his mind and thought about the immediate problem at hand.
Keith went into the small office and said to the attendant, "I'm looking to buy a good crossbow."
The attendant said, "Feller named Neil Johnson sells sporting equipment. Some used, some new. Cash. He's closed now, but I'll give him a call if you want."
"Good."
The man made the call and spoke to Neil Johnson, who was apparently having dinner and wanted to know if the gentleman could wait awhile.
Keith said to the attendant, "I'd really like to get on the road. I won't take much of his time."
The attendant passed this on to Mr. Johnson, and the appointment was set. Keith got directions to Neil's sporting goods store, thanked the attendant, and got into the pickup.
Billy said, "What's up?"
"We're going to get a crossbow." He pulled out and headed east.
Billy nodded and asked, "Is there any way we can kill Baxter without killing the dogs?"
"We'll see." Of course, Keith thought, there was a chance of nailing Baxter at a hundred yards or more with the M-16 and the four-power scope. But that's not what Keith wanted to do; he wanted to look into the man's eyes.
Keith found Johnson's house, a small clapboard at the edge of Atlanta, which was to say a few hundred yards from Main Street, and pulled into the driveway.
Dogs barked, and the front porch light came on. Keith and Billy got out of the truck and were met by a tall, wiry man, still chewing on dinner, who introduced himself as Neil. Keith introduced himself and Billy as Bob and Jack. Neil glanced at the old pickup truck for a second and regarded Keith and Billy, probably trying to determine if this was worth his time. He said, "You're from Ohio."
Keith replied, "Yup. Thought I'd try my hand at crossbowing."
"Crossbowing? Hell, that ain't no sport. You want a longbow."
"I'm not an archer. I just want to shoot varmint."
"Yeah? Okay, I only got one kind of crossbow, and you're welcome to it. Come on in."
He led Keith and Billy to an aluminum warehouse-type building set back from the road that had been converted into a sporting goods store. Neil turned on the fluorescent lights. The right wall of the long building was lined with gun racks and counters laden with hunting paraphernalia and ammunition, and Keith figured that Mr. Johnson could outfit an infantry battalion. The left-hand side of the building was stocked with fishing gear, archery equipment, outdoor clothing, tents, and assorted odds and ends for the hunter. Keith didn't see any tennis rackets or running shoes.
Keith was not in a particular hurry at this point, knowing that whatever he was going to do at Grey Lake had to wait until the early hours of the morning. Still, he wanted to get moving, but you didn't show any impatience in a town of six hundred people, and each purchase had to be treated like the deal of the century.
After some polite chatter, Neil Johnson handed Keith the crossbow and said, "This here one is used, made out of fiberglass by a company called Pro Line. Pretty good."
Keith examined the weapon. Essentially, it consisted of a short bow mounted crossways on a riflelike stock also of fiberglass. A trigger arrangement released the drawn string and sent the arrow on its journey along a groove running the length of the top of the stock. "Looks easy."
"Yeah. It's too easy. No sport. You'll be as good as anyone else in a few days. A longbowman got to practice years to get good."
Keith had the feeling that Mr. Johnson was disdainful of the crossbow and of anyone who used it.
In fact, Neil Johnson informed him, "A feller told me once that crossbows was outlawed by the pope back in the days of knights, you know, because it was considered unfit and unfair for Christians to use it."
"You don't say? Did that include shooting rats?"
"Probably not. Anyway, it's real accurate. You got about a sixty-pound pull, and you cock it by putting the stock against your chest, and you draw the string back with both hands. Here, I'll show you." Neil took the crossbow and cocked the string back and hooked it on the trigger catch. He put an arrow in the groove and pointed it down the length of the room at a dusty deer head mounted on the far wall about thirty feet away. He aimed along the sights and pulled the trigger. The short arrow flew out of the crossbow and pierced the deer head right between the eyes, passed through, and stuck into the wooden wall mounting with a thud. "How's that?"
"Very good."
"Yeah. I couldn't do that with a longbow. Okay, so the arrow travels about two hundred feet a second, and if you're leadin' an animal, you got to remember you ain't firin' a rifle, and you got to lead him more. Somethin' else to remember — at forty yards, you're gonna get as much as a four-foot drop in the arrow, so you got to compensate for that." He picked up one of the arrows and said, "These here are fiberglass, with plastic vanes, and this here's a broad-tipped hunting head. They come eight to a box. How many you want?"
Keith looked at the plastic quiver on the counter and said, "Fill 'er up."
"Okay. That's twenty-four. You need anything else?"
"Can you mount a scope on this?"
"Scope? You ain't givin' them rats a chance, are you?"
"Nope."
"Let's see what I got here." Neil found a four-power bow scope and within ten minutes had mounted it on the crossbow. He handed it to Keith and said, "You want to adjust that aim?"
"Sure do."
"I'll set out a target. Step on back to the door. That's about twenty yards."
Keith took the crossbow, slung the quiver, and walked back to the door, while Neil Johnson set up a bull's-eye target against a bale of straw and stepped away. Keith cocked the bow against his chest, fitted the arrow, aimed through the telescopic sight, and pulled the trigger. The arrow hit low, and he adjusted the sight and fired again. On the third shot, he put the arrow through the inner circle. "Okay. How accurate is this at, say, forty yards?"
Neil replied, "About twice as accurate as a longbow, which is to say you ought to be able to put all your arrows inside a nine-inch circle at forty yards."
Keith nodded. "How about eighty yards?"
"Eighty yards? You ain't gonna even see a rat at eighty yards... well, maybe with that scope it's gonna look like twenty yards, but you're gettin' that four-foot drop at forty yards, and maybe a ten-foot drop at eighty yards. These things is made for forty-yard target shooting. You can send an arrow maybe seven hundred yards with that thing, but you ain't hittin' nothin', 'cept maybe Farmer Brown's cow, by accident."
"Yeah... can I hit, let's say, a wild dog, stationary, at eighty yards, no wind, with this scope?"
Neil rubbed his chin. "Well... you're gonna get a straight, true flight regardin' left and right, but you got to figure your drop. What's the point of this?"
"Dogs bothering my sheep back in Ohio. When I fire a rifle at one, the others scatter. I figure with a crossbow, I won't spook them."
"Why don't you just poison the damned things?"
"That's not real Christian."
Neil laughed and said, "Have it your way." He took a pencil and scratched some numbers on the wooden counter. "Let's see... crossbow, twenty-four arrows including the one I shot... you want that back?"
"No."
"Okay, quiver, carrying case, and scope... let's say six hundred dollars, and that includes the tax."
"Sounds fair." Keith counted out the money, which was almost all the cash he had, and he recalled Charlie Adair's thousand dollars, then thought about Adair and wondered when and how he'd see him again.
As Billy packed everything in the canvas carrying case, Keith inquired, "Do you get many folks from Ohio up this way?"
Neil counted the money and replied, "Get a lot in the summer, then during the hunting season. After that, you don't see many. Where you headed?"
"Presque Isle."
"Yeah? Ain't easy getting through them hills at night unless you know the way."
"We'll take it slow. I see you sell dog chow."
"Yup. Do a lot of my out-of-town business in ammo, dog chow, some fish bait, and like that. People's got their own rifles and all." Neil went on, then remembered the subject and asked, "You need some dog chow?"
"No, but a friend of mine comes up here with two, three dogs, and they eat like wolves. I think this is where he comes for his chow."
"Yeah, you run 'em, you got to feed 'em. Fact, a guy from Ohio was in here a few days back and bought enough chow to last a few months."
"That could have been my friend. He's up here."
"Coulda been."
The conversation seemed to be stalled, so Keith, against his better judgment, prompted, "I was thinking about maybe buying a place up here, but I'd like to talk to some Ohio guys who already got a place."
"Yeah, you can do that. Fact, that guy who near cleaned me out of dog chow, he's up at Grey Lake. Take a ride up there and look for his signpost. Name's Baxter. That your friend?"
"No."
Billy's eyes opened wide, Keith noticed, but Billy's mouth stayed shut.
Keith said to Neil, "Yeah, maybe I'll look him up on my way back, but I don't want to just pop in if he's got the missus with him."
"Didn't see no lady in his car."
Keith didn't reply.
Neil added, "But I didn't see no dogs neither, so he must've gone up to his place, then come back here." He said, "You can call ahead. He's in the book. Tell him I sent you. We do business now and then."
"Thanks. Maybe I'll call on the way back. Meantime, I got to make a call home. Mind if I use your phone?"
"No, go right ahead. Over there by the cash register."
Keith walked over to the cash register, found the phone, and dialed. Billy was making conversation with Neil, talking guns and hunting.
Terry answered, "Hello?"
"Terry, it's me."
"Keith! Where are you?"
"I'm here. Listen, your phone is tapped."
"My phone?"
"Yes, but not by the Spencerville P.D. By the federal government."
"What? Why?.."
"It doesn't matter. Call your lawyer in the morning and get the tap taken off. More important, I know he's up here, so we have to assume she's here, too." He added, to make her feel better, "I'm sure she's alive."
"Oh, thank God... what are you going to do?"
"I've spoken to the local police, and they're very cooperative. I just want to remind you and Larry again not to do anything that might jeopardize the situation. Don't say anything to your parents over the phone, either. Okay?"
"Yes."
"Terry, trust me."
"I do."
"I'll have her back tomorrow."
"Do you mean that?"
"Yes."
"And him? Will they arrest him?"
"I can't say. I suppose, if she swears out a complaint, they will."
"She won't do that. She just wants to be rid of him."
"Well, first things first. The police here want to wait until morning, and that's all right. I'll call you tomorrow with good news."
"All right... can I reach you tonight?"
"I'll get a motel and call you only if I have new information."
"Okay. Be careful."
"I will. And now a message to the people recording this conversation: 'Hello, Charlie — I got here without your help, but thanks again. Billy helped me, and if I'm inconvenienced later, you take care of him. Okay? Meantime, one more dragon. See you around.' " Keith said, "Terry, sit tight. Regards to Larry."
"Okay."
Keith hung up. He, Billy, and Neil went back to the pickup truck, and Keith said, "See you next week on the way back."
"Good luck."
Keith and Billy got in the truck and pulled out onto the road. Billy said, "Hey, you hear that? Baxter's at Grey Lake."
"Indeed he is." Keith felt much better.
"We got him!" He looked at Keith. "You knew he was there, didn't you?"
Keith didn't reply.
Billy thought awhile, then asked, "You think he knows you're lookin' for him?"
"I'm sure he knows I'm looking for him."
"Yeah... but you think he knows you knew where to find him?"
"That is the question."
Billy examined the crossbow. He raised it and sighted out the front window through the small telescopic sight. "Aims like a rifle. But I don't know about that drop."
Billy examined the tip of the arrow, a razor-sharp, open-bladed broadhead made of high-quality steel. "Jesus, this tip is over an inch across. That'll put a big slice in the meat." He asked Keith, "You sure we got to kill the dogs?"
"You tell me when we get there."
"Okay... hey, maybe we can get Baxter with this thing."
"Maybe." Whether he killed the man with his M-16 at a hundred yards or a crossbow at forty yards, the man was just as dead as if Keith had severed his femoral artery with his knife. There was a difference, however, in the after-action report, so to speak. He mulled this over awhile, taking into account the fact that Annie was going to be right there when it happened. Keith also considered not killing Baxter at all. Much of what was going to happen before dawn was not in his power to control, but he felt he should at least think about life after death — that is, his life after the other guy's death. He always did this, though rarely did it work out the way he wanted it to. Mostly you just tried to avoid shooting a guy in the back or the balls. Beyond those minor concessions to chivalry, anything was permitted. Yet Baxter was a special case, and Keith really wanted to be close enough to smell the man, to make eye contact, to say, "Hi, Cliff, remember me?"
Billy asked, "You tuned out?"
"I guess. Did I miss a turn?"
"No, but you turn here. Take the left fork."
"Okay." Keith veered off to the left, and they headed north from Atlanta into a vast tract of unspoiled wilderness, hills, lakes, streams, and marsh. Billy commented, "I remember that the roads on the map don't always match the roads on the ground."
"Okay." Keith turned on the overhead light and glanced at the map. The region they were entering was mostly state land, about two or three hundred square miles of forest, most of it accessible only by logging roads, game trails, and canoe. Keith couldn't see a single village or settlement. He shut off the light and handed Billy the map. "You navigate."
Billy took a flashlight out of the glove compartment and studied the map.
Keith said, "Baxter's lodge is on the north side of Grey Lake."
Billy glanced at him but didn't ask how he knew that. Billy said, "Okay... I see a road goin' around the east side of the lake, but it don't turn around to the far north side."
"We'll find it."
"Yeah, people got these wood signs like that one over there, pointin' up these dirt roads with their names on it — see that? 'John and Joan's Hideaway.' " Billy asked, "You know what his place is called?"
"No... yes, I think it's 'Big Chief Cliff's Lodge.' " Keith added, "But I have a feeling he took down his welcome sign."
"Yeah... we might have to ask around."
"I don't see another human being around to ask, Billy."
"There's usually somebody. They'll know."
"Right, and they might call on ahead to Baxter."
"Yeah, maybe. Hey, you think about all these things, don't you? Maybe I should start thinkin' ahead once in a while."
"Can't hurt. Start now."
They continued on through the pitch-dark night, through the narrow, winding road, bordered by towering pines. Keith asked, "You ever hunt through here?"
"Now and then. You got deer, bobcat, and even bear. You get the odd timberwolf, too. But you got to know the area or you could get fucked-up in here. I mean, this ain't the end of the world, but I think you can see it from here."
After a few minutes, Billy said, "You take this here small road to the left, and it wraps around almost to the north end of Grey Lake. After that, we got to wing it."
"Okay." Keith turned onto the road, which was barely wide enough for the truck, and the pine boughs brushed both sides of the cab. Off to the left, through the pines, Keith caught a glimpse of the lake itself. A bright, nearly full moon had risen, and the lake indeed looked gray, like polished pewter. It was maybe a mile across, totally surrounded by pine with a few bare birch at the water's edge. He saw no lights from boats or from houses in the pines.
Truly, he thought, this was a spectacular piece of the world, but it was very far removed from Michigan's other recreational areas, and Keith wondered what Annie thought of her husband buying a place in this wilderness. It occurred to him that, for people used to the endless horizons and big blue sky of farm country, this place must feel claustrophobic and nearly spooky, and it was probably hell in the winter. Baxter, however, would feel at home here, Keith realized, a timberwolf in his element.
Keith spotted a cabin through the trees that looked uninhabited, and he suspected that most of these places were probably weekend homes, and, for all he knew, there wasn't a single human being around the lake other than he and Billy, and Cliff and Annie Baxter, which was fine with him, he thought. Before dawn, the population of Grey Lake would be zero.
The road curved around the lake, and, again, Keith caught a glimpse of it to his left, then the road turned north again, away from the lake, and Keith pulled over.
Billy said, "There's got to be a road wide enough for a truck to get through someplace back there."
"Right." Unable to make a U-turn, Keith backed up, looking for an opening in the pine trees and brush. There were utility poles along the narrow road, and Keith tried to spot an electric line or telephone wire that ran from a pole toward the lake.
Finally, Keith nudged the pickup off the road onto a narrow drainage shoulder, leaving room for another vehicle to pass. He got out of the truck, and Billy followed. It was cold, Keith noticed, and he could see his breath. It was also quiet, a typical autumn evening in the northern woods, with no sounds of insects, birds, or animals, and it was dark and would stay that way until the first snows brightened the land and the trees.
Keith and Billy walked along the road for a hundred yards, searching for an opening in the pine trees that was wide enough for a vehicle to pass through. Billy said softly, "Maybe we should just take a compass heading through the woods and get down to the lake and look around."
"That might be the thing to do. Let's get our gear."
They walked back toward the truck, and Keith kept looking up at the utility poles. He stopped, tapped Billy on the shoulder, and pointed.
Billy stared up at the dark sky. A squirrel was making its way along an electric wire that was nearly invisible among the dark shadows of the pine trees. The wire ran toward the lake. Under the wire was another one, probably the telephone line, Keith thought.
Billy said, "That definitely goes to the lake, but they always run along a road, and I don't see no road."
Keith stood near the utility pole, then walked into the woods and grasped an eight-foot-tall white pine by its trunk, shook it, then pulled it out of the ground.
Billy looked at the base of the sawed-off trunk and said, "Jeez... this guy must be a gook."
Keith kicked another pine, and it tumbled. Someone, undoubtedly Cliff Baxter, had camouflaged the narrow dirt road that led to his lodge with cut pine trees, each about eight or ten feet high. There were about a dozen of them implanted into the dirt road, running back about twenty feet, giving the impression of a continuous forest. They were still green, Keith noticed, and would stay green for weeks, but they were slightly tilted and smaller than the surrounding pines.
Keith also noticed that where the dirt road met the blacktop was strewn with deadwood and pine boughs to conceal the tire ruts leading into the hidden road. Not a great job, Keith thought, but good enough to keep a lost or curious driver from turning into the road that led to Baxter's lodge.
Keith looked around and found a signpost that had been chopped at the base and pushover onto the ground. There was no sign on the post that said, "Big Chief Cliff's Lodge," but Keith was certain there had been.
It was obvious, Keith thought, that Cliff Baxter wanted no visitors, casual or otherwise. And the same laboriously transplanted pine trees that kept people out kept Baxter from making occasional forays into the outside world. So there was no chance of staking out the road, waiting for Baxter to leave for a while, and rescuing Annie without putting her in danger of a fight. Apparently, Baxter had everything he needed for a long stay. The essential questions, of course, were, Did he also have Annie and was she alive? Keith was almost certain that he did have her, and she was alive, if not well. This was the whole point of Baxter's flight to this remote lodge — to imprison his unfaithful wife and to take out his anger and rage on her without any interference from the outside world.
It occurred to Keith that ultimately, regardless of Keith Landry — or someone like him — this was where the Baxters were destined to end up, sooner, if not later, though Annie may or may not have understood the psychological subtext of this hunting lodge and future retirement home. He recalled something she'd said. The few times we went up there alone, without the kids or without company, he was another person. Not necessarily better, and not actually worse... just another person... quiet, distant, as if he's... I don't know... thinking of something. I don't like to go up there with him alone, and I can usually get out of it.
One could only imagine, Keith thought, what Cliff Baxter was thinking about. One could only hope that whatever he'd done to Annie in the last three days, to her mind and her body, was not permanent or scarring.
Keith and Billy went back to the pickup and collected their gear, then returned to the place where the camouflaged road began. They both knew not to walk through the camouflage or on the open dirt road beyond it, and they entered the woods to the right of the road and began walking on a parallel course to it, keeping it in view when they could. They maintained their heading with the compass and an occasional sighting of the small utility poles that ran along the road.
After about fifteen minutes of slow progress, Keith stopped and knelt down, listening to the forest. Billy knelt beside him and they stayed motionless for a full five minutes. Finally, Billy whispered, "Sounds okay, smells okay, feels okay."
Keith nodded.
Still whispering, Billy said, "I know that camouflage back there looks like Baxter's work, but how we gonna be sure the house at the end of those wires is his? We don't know what it looks like, and we ain't gonna knock before we shoot."
Keith said, "It's an A-frame, dark wood, set back from the lake."
"Yeah? You know more than you say, don't you?" He added, "Typical officer."
Keith replied, "I think you know everything I know now. I told you up front this was going to be dangerous."
"Yeah, you did."
"I'll tell you something else — I took you along for you, not for me. But I appreciate the help."
"Thanks."
"If I take you the rest of the way, I want you to promise me that you'll finish the job if I'm not able to."
Billy looked at Keith and nodded. "You know I got my own reasons, and you got yours... so if one of us is down, the other guy's gonna give it his best shot."
Keith hesitated, then said, "Okay... and if it turns out at the end that it's just you and her, you tell her... whatever."
"Yeah, I'll tell her whatever." He asked, "Anything in particular?"
There was, but Keith said, "Just tell her about today."
"Okay. You do the same for me." He added, "Maybe she don't care, but she should know."
"Will do." Keith had the distinct feeling he'd had this conversation before, in other places with other people, and he was definitely tired of it. He said, "Let's move."
They continued on through the forest. Keith tried to guess how thorough Baxter had been in his preparations. Camouflage was okay, but an early-warning device was essential. That was what the dogs were for, of course, but the thing that concerned him most was a trip flare, though he wondered if Baxter, who had no military experience, had thought of such a thing. Still, he stepped high as he walked, and so did Billy, he noticed, who had the same thing on his mind. It was interesting, Keith thought, how much old soldiers remembered, even guys like Billy. But after you'd seen your first trip wire set off by someone else — whether it led to a flare or an explosive booby trap — you didn't want to repeat the experience.
The moon was higher now and cast some light into the pine forest, but Keith still couldn't see more than twenty feet in front of him. It was colder than Keith had imagined it would be, and a wind had come up from the direction of the lake, adding to the chill.
They moved slowly, covering about half a mile in thirty minutes. Keith slowed down, then stopped and pointed.
Up ahead, they could see the beginning of a clearing through the pines, and at the end of the clearing, the moonlit waters of Grey Lake.
They moved another twenty yards and stopped again. To their right, about a hundred yards away, sitting in the large clearing that ran to the lake's edge and silhouetted against the lake, was an A-frame house of dark wood.
They both stared at the house a moment, then Keith raised his binoculars. The house had sort of an alpine look and was built on cement-block columns, he saw, also that it was elevated a full story above the ground. A raised, cantilevered deck ran completely around the house, giving Baxter a full 360-degree view from a raised vantage point. A stone chimney rose from the center of the roof, and smoke drifted toward them, so they were upwind from any dogs. Parked in the open garage beneath the A-frame structure was a dark Ford Bronco.
The house was set at an angle to the lakeshore, so that Keith could see the front of the house as well as the long north side. Light came from the dormered windows set into the sloping roofline and also from the sliding glass doors that led onto the deck, and, as he watched, a fleeting figure — he couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman — passed in front of the glass doors.
Keith lowered the binoculars. "This is it."
From the direction of the house, a dog barked.