Blaze (24 page)

Blaze dreaded leaving him, especially after the accident of the night before, but it was vital. His instincts told him so. He laid Joe down on one of the blankets, put the other over him, and anchored the top blanket with big rocks. He thought—hoped—that if Joe awoke while he was gone, he could turn over but not crawl out. It would have to be good enough.

Blaze backed out of the cave, then started back the way he'd come, following his tracks. They were already starting to drift in. He hurried, and when the ground opened out, he began to run. It was quarter past seven in the morning.

While Blaze prepared to feed the baby, Sterling was in the arrest-and-recovery operation's command vehicle, a 4X4. He sat in the shotgun seat. A State Trooper was driving. With his big flat hat off, the Statie looked like a Marine recruit after his first haircut. To Sterling, most Staties looked like Marine recruits. And most FBI agents looked like lawyers or accountants, which was perfectly fitting, since—

He caught his flying thoughts and pulled them back down to ground level. “Can't you push this thing a little faster?”

“Sure,” the Statie said. “Then we can spend the rest of the morning picking our teeth out of a snowbank.”

“There's no need to take that tone, is there?”

“This weather makes me nervous,” the Statie said. “This is a shitstorm. Slippery as hell underneath.”

“All right.” Sterling looked at his watch. “How far to Cumberland?”

“Fifteen miles.”

“How long?”

The Trooper shrugged. “Twenty-five minutes?”

Sterling grunted. This was a “cooperative venture” between the Bureau and the Maine State Police, and the only thing he hated more than “cooperative ventures” were root canals. The possibility of clusterfucks grew when you brought in state law enforcement. Of course it jumped to a
probability
when the Bureau was forced into the dreaded “cooperative venture” with local law enforcement, but this was bad enough: running point with a fake Marine who was afraid to push it past fifty.

He shifted in the seat and the butt of his pistol dug into the small of his back. But it was where he always wore it. Sterling trusted his gun, his Bureau, and his nose. He had a nose like a good bird dog. A good bird dog could do more than smell a partridge or a turkey in the bushes; a good bird dog could smell its fear, and which way its fear would cause it to break, and when. It knew when the bird's need to fly was going to overmaster its need to stay still, in its hide.

Blaisdell was in a hide, probably this defunct orphan home. That was all very well, but Blaisdell was going to break. Sterling's nose told him so. And although the asshole had no wings, he had legs and he could run.

Sterling was also becoming sure that Blaisdell was in it alone. If there was someone else—the brains of the operation Sterling and Granger had taken for granted at first—they would have heard from him by now, if for no other reason than that Blaisdell was dumb as a stump. No, he was probably in it alone, and probably hunkered down in that old orphanage (like a half-assed homing pigeon, Sterling thought), certain no one would look for him there. No reason to believe they wouldn't find him squatting like a scared quail behind a bush.

Except Blaisdell had his wind up. Sterling knew it.

He looked at his watch. It was just past 6:30.

The net would drop over a triangular area: along Route 9 to the west, a secondary road called Loon Cut on the north, and an old logging road to the southeast. When everyone was in position the net would begin to close, collapsing on Hetton House. The snow was a pain in the ass now, but it would give them cover when they moved in.

It sounded good, but—

“Can't you roll this thing a little faster?” Sterling asked. He knew it was wrong to ask, wrong to push the guy, but he couldn't help it.

The Trooper looked at the man sitting beside him. At Sterling's small, pinched face and hot eyes. And he thought: This Type A fuck means to kill him, I think.

“Fasten your seatbelt, Agent Sterling,” he said.

“It is,” Sterling said. He thumbed it out like a vest.

The Statie sighed and stepped down a little harder on the gas.

Sterling gave the order at seven AM, and the assembled forces moved in. The snow was very deep—four feet in places—but the men floundered and came on, staying in radio contact with each other. No one complained. A child's life was at stake. The falling snow gave everything a heightened, surreal urgency. They looked like figures in an old silent movie, a sepia melodrama where there was no doubt about who the villain was.

Sterling ran the operation like a good quarterback, staying on top of things by walkie-talkie. The men coming from the east had the easiest going, so he slowed them down to keep them in sync with those coming in from SR 9 and down Loon Hill from Loon Cut. Sterling wanted Hetton House surrounded, but he wanted more. He wanted every bush and grove of trees beaten for his bird on the way in.

“Sterling, this is Tanner. You copy?”

“Got you, Tanner. Come back.”

“We're at the head of the road leading to the orphanage. Chain's still across the road, but the lock's been busted. He's up there, all right. Over.”

“That's a ten-four,” Sterling said. Excitement raced along his nerves in all directions. In spite of the cold, he felt sweat break in his crotch and armpits. “Do you see fresh tire tracks, come back?”

“No, sir. Over.”

“Carry on. Over and out.”

They had him. Sterling's big fear had been that Blaisdell had beaten them again—driven out with the baby and beaten them again—but no.

He spoke softly into the walkie and the men moved faster, panting their way through the snow like dogs.

Blaze clambered over the wall between the Victory Garden and HH's back yard. He ran to the door. His mind was in a frightful clamor. His nerves felt like bare feet on broken glass. George's words echoed in his brain, coming at him over and over:
They've almost got you, Blaze.

He ran up the stairs in mad leaps, skidded into the office, and began to load everything—clothes, food, bottles—into the cradle. Then he thundered back down the stairs and sprinted outside.

It was 7:30.

7:30.

“Hold it,” Sterling said quietly into his walkie-talkie. “Everybody just hold it for a minute. Granger? Bruce? Copy?”

The voice that came back sounded apologetic. “This is Corliss.”

“Corliss? I don't want you, Corliss. I want Bruce. Over.”

“Agent Granger's down, sir. Think he broke his leg. Over?”

“
What?
”

“These woods are lousy with deadfalls, sir. He, ah, stumbled into one and it gave way. What should we do? Over.”

Time, slipping away. Vision in his mind of a great big hourglass filled with snow and Blaisdell slipping through the waist. On a fucking sled.

“Splint it and wrap him up warm and leave him your walkie. Over.”

“Yessir. Do you want to talk to him? Over?”

“No. I want to move. Over.”

“Yessir, I'm clear.”

“Fine,” Sterling said. “All you group leaders, let's hump. Out.”

Blaze ran across the Victory Garden, gasping. He reached the ruined rock wall at the far end, climbed over, and skidded willy-nilly down the slope into the woods, clutching the cradle to his chest.

He got up, started to step forward, then stopped. He set the cradle down and pulled George's gun out of his belt. He had seen nothing and heard nothing, but he
knew
.

He moved behind the trunk of a big old pine. Snow whipped against his left cheek, numbing it. He waited without moving. Inside, his mind was a fury. The need to get back to Joe was an ache, but the need to stand here and wait and be quiet was just as strong.

What if Joe got out of the blankets and crawled into the fire?

He won't, Blaze told himself. Even babies are ascairt of fire.

What if he crawled out of the cave into the snow? What if he was freezing to death right now, as Blaze stood here like a lump?

He won't. He's asleep.

Yes, and no guarantee how long he he'll stay that way, in a strange place. Or what if the wind shifts around and the cave fills up with smoke? While you stand here, the only living person in two miles, maybe five—

He
wasn't
the only one. Someone was around.
Someone
.

But the woods were silent except for the wind, the creaking trees, and the faint hiss of falling snow.

Time to go.

Only it wasn't. It was time to wait.

You should have killed the kid when I told you, Blaze.

George. In his
head
now. Christ!

I wasn't ever nowhere else. Now go!

He decided he would. Then he decided he would count to ten first. He had gotten up to six when something detached itself from the gray-green belt of trees farther down the slope. It was a State Policeman, but Blaze felt no fear. Something had burned it away and he was deadly calm. Only Joe mattered now, taking care of Joe. He thought the Trooper would miss him, but the Trooper wouldn't miss the tracks, and that was just as bad.

Blaze saw that the Trooper would pass his position on the right, so he slipped around the trunk of the big pine tree to the left. He thought of how many times he and John and Toe and the others had played in these woods; cowboys and Indians, cops and robbers. Bang with a crooked piece of stick and you're dead.

One shot would end it. It didn't have to kill or even wound either of them. The sound would be enough. Blaze felt a pulse thudding in his neck.

The Trooper paused. He'd seen the tracks. Must have. Or a piece of Blaze's coat peeking around the tree. Blaze flicked the safety off George's pistol. If there was going to be a shot, he wanted it to be his.

Then the Trooper moved on again. He glanced down at the snow from time to time, but he directed most of his attention into the thickets. Fifty yards away now. No—less.

Off to the left, Blaze heard someone else crash through a deadfall or some low branches and utter a curse. His heart sank even deeper in his chest. The woods were full of them, then. But maybe…maybe if they were all going in the same direction…

Hetton! They were surrounding Hetton House! Sure! And if he could get back to the cave, he'd be on the other side of them. Then, farther into the woods, maybe three miles, there was a logging road—

The Trooper had closed to twenty-five yards. Blaze sidled a little farther around the tree. If someone popped out of the brush on his open side now, he was dead-dog fucked.

The Trooper was passing the tree. Blaze could hear the crunch of his boots in the snow. He could even hear something jingling in the Trooper's pockets—change, maybe keys. And the creak of his belt. That, too.

Blaze moved even farther around the tree, taking little sidle-steps. Then he waited. When he looked out again, the Trooper had his back to Blaze. He hadn't seen the tracks yet, but he would. He was walking on top of them.

Blaze stepped out and walked toward the Trooper in large, soundless steps. He reversed George's pistol so he was gripping it by the barrel.

The Trooper looked down and saw the tracks. He stiffened, then grabbed for the walkie-talkie on his belt. Blaze raised the gun up high and brought it down hard. The Trooper grunted and staggered, but his big hat absorbed much of the blow's force. Blaze swung again, sidehand, and hit the Trooper in the left temple. There was a soft thud. The Trooper's hat slewed around to the side and hung on his right cheek. Blaze saw he was young, hardly more than a kid. Then the Trooper's knees unlocked and he went down, puffing up snow all around him.

“Fucks,” Blaze said. He was crying. “Why can't you just leave a fella alone?”

He gripped the Trooper under the armpits and dragged him to the big pine. He propped the guy up and set his hat back on his head. There wasn't much blood, but Blaze wasn't fooled by that. He knew how hard he could hit. No one knew better. There was a pulse in the Trooper's neck, but it wasn't much. If his buddies didn't find him soon, he would die. Well, who had asked him to come? Who had asked him to stick his goddam oar in?