Nightrise (21 page)

The three of them pushed the door open and slipped out into the warmth of the night, crouching down in case anyone saw them. Daniel was next to Jamie, who put a hand on his shoulder, keeping him close.

Joe Feather rose up and called out in a language that neither of the boys understood. It was almost like a high-pitched war cry, his voice echoing across the compound, above the noise of the shooting. A moment later, someone answered back. There was the sound of an engine starting and renewed firing as a pickup truck came hurtling over the sand, making toward them.

"Now, we go!" Joe said.

The truck slid to a halt. Jamie caught sight of a driver and a passenger, leaning out of the window with a rifle balanced over his arm. They were both young — only a few years older than him. Quickly, Jamie helped Daniel into the back, then climbed in himself.

"Hold on to the back!" Joe told them. He was the last in. No sooner had his feet left the ground than they were on the move again.

There was a bar running across the back of the driver's cab. Jamie found himself standing up, clinging on to it for dear life. Daniel was lying down, being bounced around on the wooden floor as the truck lurched forward. The ground suddenly seemed to be pitted with holes — maybe it was a result of all the explosions. More bullets were fired. One of them smashed into the side of the cab, ricocheting off with a loud clang. Whether it was a lucky shot or deliberately aimed at them, Jamie couldn't say. They were heading for the fence, a few feet away from the gate that had been opened, less than a week ago, to allow Jamie in. The gate was still there but the fence had been blown apart. He could see the track and the guards' houses on the other side.

They drove through. Jamie ducked down, afraid of being gashed by a piece of dangling razor wire. The driver fired a shot through a window, and a guard spun backward in the sand, wounded but not killed.

The other vehicles were also leaving the prison. Looking back, Jamie saw half a dozen of them, following not far behind.

The wind — warm and welcoming — rushed over his shoulders and through his hair. He almost wanted to laugh. He still didn't know who these people were but they were on his side and they were taking him and Daniel out. He would contact Alicia, and the prison would be shut down.

And surely someone there — one of the supervisors, a nurse or an administrator — would know what had happened to Scott. There would have to be a record somewhere in one of the files.

They passed a jeep parked next to the track. Jamie saw it and assumed it was empty. He didn't see the man rise up next to it. Nor did he see the gun aimed at his back.

Colton Banes had been waiting for him. He had realized that there was no point entering the battle inside the prison. Everything there was dark and confused. It would be better to wait just outside the compound. If they were going to bring out the boy, they would have to come this way. And he was right.

He could see Jamie, standing up, holding on to the bar in the driver's cab for support. He was a perfect target, almost like one of those paper cutouts Banes had used for practice at the range.

He fired.

Jamie heard the shot and felt the bullet smash into his back, high up, next to his shoulder. It was like being stabbed with a white-hot knife. All the strength went out of him. His legs folded under him and he fell, sprawling, on top of Daniel. He hadn't closed his eyes, but suddenly everything was black. He heard Joe call out, but before the Indian had reached the end of the sentence, the words had faded away. He couldn't feel the floor of the truck. He couldn't feel anything.

Colton Banes hadn't finished yet. He had seen the boy go down but he still had time for a second shot.

Although he was fairly sure that the first bullet would have done the job, this one would make certain. A smile spread across his lips as he brought the gun up, taking careful aim.

But he never pulled the trigger. He heard something come whistling out of the darkness and jerked back, wondering what had happened. He looked down and was surprised to see an arrow, complete with feathers, jutting out of his chest. Had it just been fired into him? Had one of these people really brought along one of their ancient weapons and used it against him? A car sped past. The young man with the war paint was leaning half out of the window, whooping. The bow was in his hands.

For a moment Banes stood there, unaware that his hand had dropped and that the gun was now pointing at the ground. He opened his mouth to speak but no words came. Hot blood flowed over his lower lip.

His last thought was that he had never expected to die like this, and certainly not quite so soon. Then he fell to his knees and crashed facedown into the sand.

Max Koring stood up shakily. A few supervisors were still firing but it was already over. The last of the vehicles had disappeared into the desert night.

***

Sunrise.

Daniel McGuire woke up and found himself lying on a thick, woolen rug in a tent that was completely circular, tapering to a point high above him. The walls were made of some sort of leather and were wrapped around a framework of wooden poles. There was a flap for the door and he could see the sunlight filtering through the cracks. It was still early in the morning. The air inside the tent was cool and the light was tinged with red.

He had slept fully dressed. He blinked and stretched and then crawled forward, pushing his way through the flap. He saw at once that he was in the mountains. There were great boulders all around and although the tent had been erected on a flat shelf, the ground rose up steeply behind him. And it wasn't a tent.

Looking around, Daniel saw that he had spent the night in an Indian tepee.

There was a figure sitting cross-legged in front of a small campfire, his eyes fixed on the smoke curling into the air. Daniel recognized the man who had helped rescue him the night before. What had Jamie called him? Joe. Now Daniel recalled what had happened. The sudden appearance of Jamie in his cell, the blackout, the gunshots, the race out of the prison. As he had woken up, he had thought it might all have been a dream, but with full wakefulness came the knowledge that it had actually happened. And Jamie…

"Where is he?" he asked.

Joe Feather turned. 'You must have something to drink," he said. "And eat…"

"Is he all right?"

Joe gestured. Daniel had noticed a number of bundles spread out over the ground. Now he saw that one of them was Jamie, completely wrapped in blankets with only his face showing. The face was very white. His eyes were closed and he didn't seem to be breathing.

"Is he dead?" Daniel asked.

"He is very close to death." Joe's voice was low. "I have done what I can for him."

"We've got to get him to a hospital!"

"A hospital cannot help him now. And anyway, there is no hospital. Not for thirty miles. Even if we could carry him there, he would be dead before he arrived."

"Then what are we going to do?"

'You are going to eat and drink."

"I don't want anything…"

Joe's eyes flared. "This boy risked his life to take you out of Silent Creek. You won't help him by sitting there, dehydrating. He wanted to take you back to your mother, and I will make sure that happens. But for now you must trust me."

"Can you help him?"

"I have already helped him. I have called for the shaman. The shaman will be here soon."

Daniel nodded. There was a bottle of water and a basket containing fruit, bread, and some sort of dried meat. He forced himself to eat. Joe was right. He could hardly believe it but the nightmare of Silent Creek was finally behind him — and it was all thanks to this boy he had never met but who somehow knew his mother. He glanced across at the silent figure. He remembered the moment when the bullet had hit him as they sped out of the compound. It seemed so unfair. One more minute and they would have been away.

The morning wore on. The sun rose, becoming ever hotter. Jamie had been placed in the shade, protected by a great boulder. Daniel was worried that someone would find them — the police must surely be looking for them by now — but Joe seemed unconcerned. But then, of course, Native Americans had spent years hiding in the mountains.

Not being found had been the only way for some of them to survive.

A little before midday, there was a movement and a figure appeared, riding on a horse. At first it was difficult to see who it was. The sun was behind the person, who seemed to shimmer, out of focus, as the warm air rose up from the ground. But Joe sprang to his feet, relief flooding into his face. Daniel understood.

It was the shaman. The medicine man.

The horse and its rider seemed to take forever to reach them, struggling against both the steepness of the slope and the heat of the day. Daniel saw the shaman kicking at the horse, but not very hard and with little effect. At last the figure drew close and he was able to see the man in whom Joe had such faith. He wasn't impressed.

The shaman was one of the oldest men Daniel had ever seen. He had the sort of face one would have expected to see on a corpse, the skin withered and yet at the same time stretched light over the skull.

What few teeth he had left seemed to be on the edge of falling out. His arms were emaciated and there was a hollow in his throat you could have put your fist into. His hair was silver. It was long, hanging down to his shoulders in the back, tied with a piece of black ribbon. Only the shaman's eyes were truly alive. They were gray in Color but they seemed to shine with an inner strength.

Very slowly, he climbed down from the horse. Joe was still standing there, his hands clasped in front of him, his eyes turned down.

"Goddamn horse!" The shaman turned and spat. "I've only been on it a couple of hours and I swear I've been sitting on a cactus." He turned to Joe. "Don't just stand there, Joe Feather. Make me a cup of tea!

And I wouldn't say no to a piece of pie if you happen to have one."

It was only now that he heard the voice that Daniel realized that the shaman was not a man but a woman.

Her body had reached such a stage of decay that it was hard to tell the difference. Suddenly he felt her eyes on him.

''You Danny?"

''Yes, ma'am." Danny wasn't sure what to call her.

"How long they keep you in that prison of theirs?"

"I was there for thirty weeks and three days."

"And I bet you counted every one of them." She shook her head. "There's evil people in this world.

There are people who don't deserve to walk the land and that's the truth. Now, let's take a look at this boy."

Her manner changed as she approached the silent figure of Jamie. She knelt down beside him and rested a gnarled hand against his forehead. Joe was busying himself with a kettle but she called out to him.

"Forget that, Joe. Come and help me turn him."

Joe hurried over and the two of them turned Jamie onto his side. The back of his T-shirt was saturated with blood. Daniel could see the hole where the bullet had gone in. The shaman examined the entrance wound, touching it gently with the tip of her finger.

"Is it bad?" Joe asked.

"It's bad. It couldn't be much worse. The first thing we're going to have to do is get that bullet out. Lucky you've got a fire burning. We're going to need that."

"Is he going to live?"

The shaman shook her head as if dismissing the question.

She turned to Daniel. "I want you to go back into the tepee," she said. "I know you want to stay and help but there's nothing you can do and this is something no young child should have to see."

"Please…" Daniel wanted to argue, but one look at the old woman's eyes told him not to waste his time.

He did as he was told.

The shaman nodded at Joe. "Take off his shirt."

Joe knelt down beside Jamie. He didn't try to pull the shirt over Jamie's head. Instead, he used a knife to cut the material, then ripped it apart, exposing the wound. The skin was bright red and puffed up around the bullet hole. Meanwhile, the shaman had gone back to the horse and untied a leather bag that had been strapped to the saddle. As she returned to the unconscious boy, she opened it and took out some muslin packets tied with strips of sinew, some bowls, two glass bottles, and a wooden wand, about four inches long, with an eagle carved at the top. Finally she produced a knife. Joe looked at it and winced.

There was nothing ancient about the knife. It was a straightforward surgical scalpel.

She caught his eye. "The spirits will only do so much," she said. "To start with, we have to cut the bullet out."

Joe nodded.

"Tell me when my tea is ready," the shaman said.

She leaned over Jamie and made the first cut.

***

Daniel waited for as long as he could. He tried to sleep but now that the sun was up, it was too hot, even in the shade of the tepee. He wished he could talk to his mother but he doubted that the shaman carried a cell phone — and anyway it was the wrong time to ask. Perhaps in the end he did manage to doze off, because the next thing he knew, there were long shadows falling across the tepee, and the heat seemed to have lessened. Once again, he crawled out through the flap, not sure what he was expecting to find.

Joe was sitting next to Jamie, who looked no better than he had the last time Daniel had seen him. He was lying on his side with a dressing over the wound. The shaman had made some sort of poultice.

Daniel could smell it and see it, seeping through the bandages. The shaman herself was farther down the slope, on her knees, facing the sun. It was late in the afternoon. The sky was already tinged with red. The campfire was still burning, sending a thin trickle of smoke up toward the clouds.

"How is Jamie?" Daniel asked.

Joe turned around angrily. "Stop!" he said. ''You mustn't say his name."

"Why not?"

"It's our practice. When someone dies, you mustn't speak their name for four days."

"When someone…?" The full impact of what Joe had just said hit Daniel. 'You mean…?" He forced himself to finish the sentence. "He's dead?"