Deadfall (39 page)

Hutch's current view of the helicopter in profile supported his first impression: it was a sleek machine that would have seemed more at home on a racetrack than in the sky. Glossy black, with black tinted windows, it bore no markings except a white tail number.

It was alien and insectile. If a black whiplike tongue shot out to ensnarl Cortland and pull her into its gaping maw, Hutch would have been shocked but later would have thought,
Yeah, I saw that one coming
.

Nothing moved as the blades slowed to a stop. Even Declan and Julian seemed to be holding their breath. Then a rear door opened and a big man with a little machine gun draped around his neck hopped out.

The ultimate bling,
Hutch thought.

He was bald, but unlike Bad, rolls of fat rippled from the back of his head into his shirt collar. Coupled with a beefy double chin, the effect was that the man either wore a neck brace of flesh or possessed no neck at all. The black sunglasses shielding his eyes may have been designed as an accessory to the helicopter. His black suit appeared to be a size too small. A white shirt and thin black tie completed the ensemble, evidently purchased from Bodyguards- -Us.

He moved away from the helicopter, taking in everyone's position —Declan, closest to the helicopter; Cort, a step behind; Julian, standing at the open door of the Cherokee; Bad and Kyrill, at its grille; Pruitt, filming from the top of the low berm; and Hutch, restrained to a tree. The man did not seem bothered by the sniper's rifle Kyrill held or the machine gun within Bad's reach on the hood of the SUV. He pointed at Pruitt, however, and ran a finger across his neck. Pruitt's shoulders slumped, and the camera came away from his face. He set it on the ground, lens facing backward into the void over the crater.

Another man came through the open helicopter door. He stepped onto the grass and looked around. He was tall and thin with silver hair. Even from a distance, Hutch realized he had intense blue eyes.

Julian ran forward and threw his arms around him. The man returned the hug, leaning his head over Julian's. Julian said something. The man nodded. He lifted Julian's bangs to examine the wound. He patted the boy on the shoulder, and Julian returned to the Jeep.

The man approached Declan, stopping a pace or two away. In a clear, crisp voice—a voice Hutch thought a stage actor would have—he greeted Declan's gang. “Cortland, how are you, honey?”

Hutch did not hear her reply.

The man cocked his head at Kyrill and Bad. “Kyrill. William, how's your father?”

Bad replied, “Fine, sir.”

“Pruitt. I trust you're getting all the footage you need for the game?”

“I think so, sir.”

“Back in my day we used film, which was measured by the foot. Do you digital guys still say ‘footage'?” He chuckled.

“I do, sir.”

The man took a step sideways to peer past Declan at Hutch. He studied him awhile, his face unreadable.

Declan took a step forward. The man turned toward him and slapped him across the face, hard. Cortland jumped, took a tentative step back, then another.

Declan did not respond.

The man said, “This is
not
what we agreed to.” The light tone he had used to address the others was gone. His words were hard and cold, bones clattering together, blowing across an icy tundra.

Declan brought up a finger. He pointed at the man's chin, seeming ready to scold him. He changed his mind and used the finger to tap his lower lip. Without a word, he turned to Cort.

“Go for a walk,” he said. Then to the others: “Take off!”

Cortland hesitated but finally headed for the entrance to the spiraling ramp inside the crater. The others followed.

Except Julian, who exchanged a glance with Declan. He retrieved something from the Cherokee, then shut the door. He meandered around the rear of the SUV and along the other side to its front bumper. Evidently, he did not want to leave the area or to accept orders from Declan. He had an object in his hand, which he tapped impatiently against the metal. It made a light
ting, ting
sound. Hutch realized it was the arrow the boy had recovered from the field where the caribou exploded.

Declan and the newcomer watched the others disappear around the berm and down the ramp. The man said something Hutch didn't catch, and the two headed toward the Jeep. Declan jerked his head sharply at Julian.

The boy backed away. He turned and walked to the edge of the plateau.Turning right, he approached Hutch. He stopped beside him, tapping the tree with the arrow.

The man clattered his briefcase onto the hood and snapped its latches open. Declan lifted one foot to the bumper and leaned to drape his arms over his knee. He acted casual and relaxed and not like someone who had just been slapped.

Julian walked behind Hutch to stand on his other side. He knelt at Hutch's shoulder. He looked into his eyes, then nervously toward Declan and the man. It seemed to Hutch that the boy wanted to be near but not to be seen.

“My Uncle Andrew,” Julian whispered, and Hutch detected a tremor in his voice. Julian shrugged. “Not my real uncle. My Dad's best friend.Takes care of family business.”

Hutch kept his voice low. “Looks like Declan's up the creek.”

Julian took in Hutch's injuries, pained by them. He said, “I'm sorry.”

“How did you get pulled into this?”

Julian's eyes pooled with tears. He blinked, spilling one down his face. He didn't have an answer.

“He's your brother, right?”

Julian's lips tightened; his head barely moved up and down.

“You're not like him, Julian.Your life is not his. Nothing good can come out of what he's doing.”

The man's raised voice drew their attention. He was pointing at papers and saying, “Do you understand what these spikes are?” Pause. “Declan, every time you fire that thing, a heat signature shows up in the atmosphere. NORAD thought the Canadians were messing with some kind of new nuclear threat or missiles or . . .” In frustration he tossed the sheaf of papers back into his briefcase. “They didn't know what to think.We stepped in to inform them of a test we had going on up here.We had to call in all sorts of favors at DARPA.” He pointed down the valley. “Son, we flew over that town. There are buildings destroyed! Cars! Who knows what else! We didn't see any civilians.” He swung his pointing finger at Hutch without looking.

Julian crouched lower.

“You've got bleeding men tied to trees. And . . . and . . .” He then turned to the big bald man at the helicopter. He snapped his fingers and beckoned with his fingers.

The man turned to the open door of the helicopter and made the same gesture.

Shadows stirred, and another man came into view, hunched over, blinking. His wrists were handcuffed in front and a cloth gag cut into his mouth.

“Phil!” Hutch called.

57

Standing in the open door
of the helicopter, Phil's head shot up. He squinted in Hutch's direction; his glasses were gone. Finally he spotted Hutch. He jumped down and ran toward him. He was favoring his right foot. Between the limp and the handcuffs, his approach resembled a fast waddle more than it did a run. His clothes were torn and filthy. Dried mud and blood smeared his face, hair, hands . . . everything. His eyes were locked on Hutch, and they started glistening as tears filled them.

As he drew closer, Declan lightly skipped out from the Jeep, spun, and planted a flying roundhouse kick to Phil's sternum. Phil went down hard.

“Hey!” Hutch said. He struggled against his bonds.

Phil rolled and craned his neck to put his friend back in his sight, as though Hutch would disappear without that visual connection. He stared at Hutch, tears streaking his face, dripping off of his lids and the tip of his nose.

Hutch smiled and nodded at him, trying to convey assurances no words could provide.

“Declan!” Uncle Andrew shouted.

Declan glared at Phil. He shifted his eyes to Hutch before turning and dropping his head in a posture of contrition. He stepped back to the Jeep.

“This is what I'm talking about,” his uncle scolded.“We found this man on the road to Black Lake from Fiddler Falls. I assumed he was one of your loose ends, and I see that was a correct assumption. Did you even realize you had these kinds of problems?”

“Of course,” Declan answered. He said something Hutch could not hear.

“Tell me, Declan. Just what
is
going on here?”

Again Declan spoke quietly.

“That's not what we agreed!”The man, Julian and Declan's “uncle,” was livid. “You were supposed to do two or three test events, no more. On trees and rocks and . . .” He waved his hands around the area as if searching for a word. Finally he said,“Maybe a
rabbit
! Look at this!” He jabbed a finger into his briefcase. “NORAD's going nuts.Twenty, thirty events in two days. They want to know what's going on, and so do I.”

Declan spoke; his hands, his head, his body did not move at all as he did.

Phil glanced around, quick, panicky gestures, then looked back to Hutch. His eyes were red and anguished. Hutch made a
shhh
gesture with his lips. No telling what Declan would do if Phil caught his attention again.

“I'm going home with my uncle,” Julian whispered. “I don't . . .” His voice trailed off. He looked at Hutch, his eyes pleading as though Hutch had the power to absolve him of his burdens.

Hutch did not know what crimes Julian may have committed. Or if simply not stopping Declan was enough to make him an accessory. Or if Julian's age and the control his brother had over him would be enough to exonerate him.

“You have to do something, Julian. You have to tell somebody what's going on up here, what Declan is doing.You've got to come clean.You've got to break away from your brother. It's the only way to keep from going where he's going.You understand?”

He nodded. More tears.

“How old are you, son?”

Julian cleared his throat. “Thirteen.”

“That's too young to have your life ruined by someone else's selfishness and madness. Get away.Tell someone.”

“Julian!” His uncle was waving him over. Declan started speaking, and the man turned his attention to him.

“I'm sorry,” Julian said. He stood. He tapped the arrow against his leg a couple times, then stepped behind the tree. Hutch felt a tug at his wrists, felt the shaft of the arrow in his hand.

Julian walked to his uncle.

Hutch moved his hands apart, feeling the slightest tug of resistance, and then the zip-tie fell away.

The uncle lifted his arm to accept Julian into an embrace. He nodded toward the helicopter. Julian stepped around his brother, threw a glance at Hutch, and headed for his ride home.

Go, kid, go,
Hutch thought. Slowly, he brought his left arm from around the tree, his body blocking his movements from Declan and the man. His hand gripped the shaft of the arrow near the vanes so the arrow extended to his ankle. He moved his fist to his lap, and the razor edge of the broadhead rested on the length of zip-tie that restrained his ankles. As gently as a violinist touching his bow to a string, he sawed the broadhead over the plastic restraint. He watched Declan and the man continue their conversation. Declan's shoulder rose in agitation. Julian had easily cut away the zip-tie from his wrists with the broadhead, but he had been able to apply pressure at the tip. Holding the arrow so far back did not give the broadhead enough force to cut the tie. Despite this, Hutch continued his covert sawing.

The man slammed the briefcase shut and snapped its latches. He pulled it off the hood. He walked around Declan and stopped. He gave Hutch a long look. It was neither sad nor disappointed; it was the look of a businessman whose balance sheet would cause him trouble at the next stockholders' meeting. He turned back to Declan. “Clean this up,” he said.

“Wait a minute,” Hutch said. “You've got to stop this. He's killing people.”

Uncle Andrew's attention flitted over Hutch. To Declan he said, “No witnesses.”

Declan nodded obediently.

The man marched toward the helicopter.

“Hey! Hey! You can't do this.You can't allow it!” Hutch yelled. He watched the man walk away. He could do it, and he was allowing it. “There are over two hundred and forty people in town.Women and children.”

The man stopped halfway between Hutch and the helicopter. He did not turn, he did not say a word. After a few seconds, he continued walking.

Declan checked his watch. He looked at Hutch but didn't see him. He was thinking. “Uncle?” he said.

The man turned.

“May I . . . may I . . . see those heat signatures again?”

“It doesn't matter now, Declan. Just clean this up and come home.”

“I have an idea. It's important.”

The uncle sighed. He walked back toward Declan.

Phil was still lying where he had fallen. He rolled his head to follow Uncle Andrew, then looked desperately at Hutch.

Hutch jerked his head sideways:
Get over here.

Phil glanced around. He got to his knees, then to his feet. Apparently believing his captors expected him to follow certain rules of etiquette, he faced the chopper and slowly backed toward Hutch.

Uncle Andrew had reached Declan. He said, “No more big ideas. Just wrap this up.”

“I know. I know. Just let me see them again for a minute.”

The man put his briefcase on the hood again, popped it open, and handed Declan a sheaf of papers. Declan turned from him to examine the sheets, but Hutch saw that Declan's eyes were lost in the distance beyond the plateau.

Hutch considered that he was witnessing the breakdown of a mind. Perhaps having been found out by his family, and possibly the U.S. military, was enough to shatter his already fragile psyche. He seemed like a man about to come undone. Someone unsure of what to do when no options were palatable. He nervously glanced at his watch, then, without giving the papers the slightest glance, he turned, tossed them into the open briefcase, and said, “Thanks.”