The Empire of Shadows (30 page)

The bullets had not bounced off this time. Whatever magic had been his was lost. His grandfather had nothing to say about that. In fact, the old man had been nowhere in sight when the bullets started flying. Tupper winced at his wounded leg. He'd bandaged it in haste with a white shirt he'd pulled from the pack of one of the fishermen.

He knew better than to use colored cloth. The dye would kill him as sure as any bullet once it got into the wound. He moved his foot, stretching the calf muscle, which had a four-inch furrow carved in it. The leg would stiffen up if he let it. He'd be slowed. Slow was something he could not afford to be.

He flexed his hands. They still tingled. When his rifle had been shot away, his hands had gone numb. It was an evil magic, and Tupper thanked
Hodianok'doo Hedi'-iohe'
that his hands were returning to him. He looked at the rifle. It was of little use now. The forearm was shattered, the loading tube bent.

When it had happened, he was knocked on his back, dazed. He'd crawled back to the boat dragging the broken rifle. More stunned than he realized, he knew his grandfather must have been with him for him to even make it that far. His luck held, though, and he'd gotten well away, pulling with hands that could not feel the oars. Even when the bullets started again, he'd been hopeful. The range was long, the night black.

Then the boat erupted in splinters. There was a burning slash across his leg, like a rope of fire. He could see through a hole in the stern. Water was running in. The lake bled through another hole beside him. Blood and water mixed in the bottom as shots splashed close by, or whistled past.

Still, he did not stop rowing. A shot cracked into the blade of an oar. splintering the tough wood lengthwise, ripping the oar from his hand, and tearing open his blistered fingers. Tupper regained it as best he could, but he slowed, his rhythm thrown off. He went slower once he got himself going again, for fear of breaking the oar altogether. His bleeding hand slipped on the handle. The boat filled, though he stuffed clothes in the holes. Finally he pulled for shore just before the lake smothered the craft entirely. As he stuffed a packbasket, he considered himself lucky. Pursuit was nowhere in sight. He didn't understand it. He didn't question it. He just started walking.

 

Later that morning Mary and Rebecca sat on one of the stumps that dotted the broad lawn of the Prospect House. They'd eaten early, then gone down to the pen to feed the white buck. He'd been restless, but ate from Rebecca's hand once he'd settled down.

“Remember when Snowflake bit Mikey?” Rebecca asked. She'd taken a notion to name the deer a couple of days before, and had called him by it so many times since that Mary could swear he was starting to answer to it.

“His hand was all bloody. Snowflake was bad then, but now he's good. When Mikey and Daddy come back they'll be surprised.”

“Yes they will, 'Becca,” Mary said, though her throat tightened almost too much to speak. Rebecca had somehow come up with the idea that Mike was with Tom. She seemed quite convinced and had mentioned it more than once. Mary prayed that repetition would make it so.

Once the deer lost interest in food, they went to sit and watch the lake, while Rebecca's heels beat an uneasy rhythm on the stump. They sat like that for some time watching, as if Tom and Mike might come rowing up to the dock at any minute. They were there when a man rode up to the Prospect House from the direction of town. He tied his horse to one of the posts of the verandah and came ambling across the lawn toward them with an intent but curious cock to his head.

“Would you be Mary Braddock, ma'am?” he asked.

“I am,” she answered, standing to meet him.

“Have a message for you. Your husband described you well,” he said, holding out a folded piece of paper. “I'm Sol Sabattis, Mitchell's brother.”

“My husband?” Mary said, brightening but confused. “But who's Mitchell? I'm sorry, I don't know any Mitchell. What was the last name again?”

“Sabattis, ma'am.”

“I don't understand. What does this have to do…,” she said, but stopped when she saw the writing in the note. Rebecca watched Sol as Mary read.

“You're an Indian,” Rebecca said. Sol just nodded. “Do you live in a tepee?”

“'Becca!”

“It's all right, ma'am,” Sol said with a grin, then, to 'Becca, “I live in a regular house, with a porch and a green door; but when I was a boy my granddad used to say how he lived in a long house when he was little. It was covered with bark.”

“Like a tree?”

“Just like a tree. It was as snug as could be, according to him.”

“That sounds like fun,” Rebecca said, and started asking lots of questions while Mary read the note with fumbling fingers. It was dated the day before and read:

Mary let out a long sigh and for a moment she actually felt as if she might fall down. “Thank God,” she whispered, her fears for Mike at least partly assuaged. She let the note drop to her side as she looked out at the lake, momentarily forgetting Rebecca and Sol.

They were safe, or at least they were a day ago. Relief drained the high color from her face, and she shook her head at her foolishness for ever doubting either Tom or Mike. She smiled at Rebecca and patted her head. Turning back to Sol, she said, “I can't thank you enough, sir. This is most welcome news. You were right, 'Becca,” Mary said. “Mike
is
with Daddy.”

“Told you, Mommy,” she replied, as if she'd read the note herself.

“Tell me about Mitchell,” Mary asked Sol. “Anything you can about what he's doing with my husband. And what happened to Mister Busher? There's so much I don't understand. I'd be most grateful for anything you can add.”

It didn't take long. Sol wasn't any more of a talker than his brother, and didn't know all that much about the situation. He only said, “My brother is the best guide at Long Lake. Not a thing that walks, crawls, or swims he can't track and kill, ma'am. He ran into your husband on Forked Lake, from what I hear. They been after this Tupper fella ever since. Couldn't tell what happened to Busher,” he added, not meeting her eye.

Mary noticed, but didn't ask more. There was a part of her that didn't want to know. As she got over her initial relief, she still worried about Tom and Mike. Whatever had happened to Busher, it hadn't been good. Tupper, it seemed, was every bit as dangerous as Tom had said, and perhaps more. Though Mary asked a lot more questions, she didn't get many more answers. Finally, with a sigh, she asked if Sol could take back a note.

“Be glad to take the note ta Long Lake. Can't promise it'll find Mitchell or your husband, ma'am.”

“I know,” Mary said with a frown. “I'm relying on you completely.” Mary scribbled a note on the other side of Tom's.

After Sol had gone, Mary went with Rebecca down to the water's edge. 'Becca liked to throw pieces of bread to the fish and seemed to have a bottomless supply stuffed in a little pocket. “I told you, Mommy. I told you Mike was with Daddy,” she said as she started throwing bread into the water.

“You were right. Right all along,” Mary said. “You are soooooo smart, you little daisy-face. Oh, I almost forgot. Daddy said to give you this.” Mary kneeled and gave her little girl the longest hug she could remember, and a kiss just the way Tom always did, one on both cheeks and one on the nose. Mary had just gotten to her feet when she saw a boat rounding the point. There was only one man in it, so she paid it no mind until it was almost at the dock.

“Ah, Missus Braddock,” she heard a voice say. Looking up, she noticed it was Owens at the oars.

“Why, Mister Owens, back from Raquette Lake?”

“Yes ma'am. Did what I set out to. Send the clients home happy, I always say.”

“I'm sure you do,” Mary answered.

Owens gave Mary a devilish smile as he tied up his boat. “Why, yes I do, Missus Braddock,” he said. His tone was suggestive, and he held her eye longer than was proper. Turning to get his gear out of the boat he said, “Saw your husband a couple days ago. Didn't see me, though.”

“Really?” Mary said.

“Yup. Pretty dark at the time. Busher was with 'im.”

“I see. No one else? No sign of that maniac, Tupper?”

“Nope. Suppose he was makin' himself small. Then again, wasn't me looking for 'im,” Owens said, making it sound as if he'd have caught Tupper already if he was. Rebecca giggled as a little school of fish rose up from the shadow of the dock to fight for bits of bread.

“Used to like that when I was a tyke,” Owens said with a nod toward Rebecca. “You want to go catch some real fish, missy?”

“Oh yes! Could we, Mommy? I would love that sooo, sooo much! Could I
feel
one?”

“Sure. Eat one, too, if you like,” Owens said.

Mary paused to consider that. “I don't know, Mr. Owens. We never did fishing before.”

“Catching fish is a thing I know. I'd even take you for free, as a treat to the little miss here.”

“My name's Rebecca, but my mommy and daddy call me 'Becca; Mike, too.”

They made plans then for later in the day, after lunch. Mary figured she wasn't going to do much before Chowder arrived, anyway, so it could do no harm.

“Anyway, been out in the woods a few days,” Owens said, rubbing his hands on dirt-shiny pants lags. “Imagine I might be a tad offensive, 'less I scrub off a layer or two.”

 

They pushed off before the sun crested the mountains on the eastern shore. The boat leaked.

“She's sprung,” Mitchell said. “Joints're loose.” He'd never said a word about Tom running it up on the rocks, though Tom could see he cared about the thing like a father for a child. Mike fished out an old shirt and started sopping up water, while Mitchell and Tom rearranged their gear to keep it dry. They hadn't gone all that far when Tom spotted something in the water. It was a piece of Tupper's oar blade, a long, narrow sliver with a jagged furrow dug into one edge.

“Bullet,” Tom said when they fished it out.

Mitchell nodded. “Good.”

Mitchell pulled for another half mile or so, while Tom worked the paddle and Mike glassed the shoreline and sopped water. Looking ahead, he said to Mitchell, “Rock coming up on your right.”

Mitchell looked puzzled and glanced about as if taking his bearings.

“No rocks here.”

“Well, I'm looking at one,” Mike said, glassing the water again.

“Not a rock,” Mitchell said without looking. He pulled toward the thing, which was no more than fifty yards off by then. Waves were lapping over whatever it was, showing something just below the surface.

“It's a boat!” Mike shouted. “It's Tupper's boat!”

They pulled alongside the submerged craft. Just a bit of the stem and stern poked above the surface. A few rocks sat in the bottom, enough to keep it down, but not enough to sink the buoyant spruce boat entirely.

“Hasty,” Mitchell grunted.

Tom agreed, but said, “Never would have seen that at night. Would've been miles beyond here if we hadn't waited till first light.” Mitchell said nothing. He just pulled for the shore.

“He's gone on foot then,” Tom said, looking at the line of tress stretching for unbroken miles in either direction. “Wonderful!”

“Not wonderful,” Mitchell said as they beached the boat. “Not wonderful at all.” He shook his head, but he was clearly resigned to what they had to do. He managed a grin, though, and added, “Still, even a breeze leaves tracks in the forest.”

“Maybe so, Mister Sabattis,” Mike said, “but it's a damn big forest. Busher said Tupper could disappear in there and never be seen again.”

Mitchell shouldered his pack with a grunt. Shrugging into the heavy leather straps, he said, “That's how I think about the city, but I know that ain't so. Besides, Busher ain't me.”

They started by inspecting the shoreline north of where they'd landed. Mitchell led, his dark eyes scanning the shore and the forest floor. He talked as he went.

“Everything leaves tracks, if you know what to look for,” he said. “Twigs don't break themselves. Leaves lie natural-like if undisturbed. Moss bruises easy. You have an eye for those things, they'll tell you all you need to know.” He went so fast that Tom and Mike wondered how he could spot anything. They made no comment, trusting that he knew what he was about.

After a short while Mitchell stopped, then kneeled, looking left and right. Pointing to the ground he grunted, “Blood.” Turning left, he plunged into the forest. Tom followed. Mike knelt where Mitchell had, trying to see what he'd seen. A bit of moss scraped from a rock was all he noticed.

For the rest of the morning the three stalked Tupper's trail. It took them through dense undergrowth and groves of birch so white they lit the forest floor. They followed a meandering trail that only Mitchell saw, through endless stands of hardwoods and tangled, stumpy ground where loggers had taken the spruce and pine. They scrambled around downed trees, over rocks and hills, ravines and bogs, while the sun climbed to its zenith.