Spencerville (38 page)

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."