The Empire of Shadows (32 page)

Mitchell shrugged. “Depends. He's heading for an area that's seen lots o' logging. We're lucky, he might get spotted. If we're not, we might lose his trail. Logging chews up the forest. Could be tough tracking.”

“Great,” Tom said, spitting out the word. “Let's go.”

A few minutes more and Mitchell stopped dead. Tom ducked down on one knee. Mike stood watching, too tired to recognize the danger. Tom waved him low. Mitchell bent and circled in a widening radius. When Tom felt it was safe, he advanced to where Mitchell was searching.

“He stopped here,” Mitchell said, not taking his eye from the ground. “He's careless.” Mitchell poked at some leaves with his toe, turning up a mason jar buried there. He picked it up and sniffed at the open lid. “Peaches.”

“Peaches?”

“Peaches. See for yourself,” Mitchell said, holding the jar for Tom to inspect. “Probably doesn't know we're behind him. If he did he would've been more careful.”

Tom didn't see how. The jar had been buried. Mitchell seemed to sense his skepticism. “There's other sign he didn't bother to cover. Crumbs there by the log,” he said, pointing them out, “and this.” He held up a piece of brown paper no bigger than a postage stamp.

“Need to be careful, but move fast. He's not more 'n a mile ahead, maybe less. Run when we can.”

“Let's go,” Tom said, waving Mike to follow.

They moved at a grueling pace, walking fast most of the time, and running when the way was clear. Mitchell didn't seem to tire, though he went fast enough that he slowly widened the gap between him and Mike. They were going at a jog, Mitchell well ahead, when something caught his eye and he skidded to a stop. He peered at a large hemlock just to the right as Mike and Tom jogged up.

Mitchell cocked his head and was frowning, when suddenly he called out, “Stop!” Mike skidded on the leaves, his feet going out from under him. He felt his foot hit a root under the leaves, felt and heard something snap. There was a whoosh as a limb of the hemlock swept above him like a scythe.

“Sonofabitch!” Tom said, the big branch just missing him. “You all right?”

Mike got up as the branch swayed back and forth above him. He brushed himself, unhurt but scared.

“Sorry,” Mitchell said. “Moving too fast to spot it. You okay?”

Tom examined the branch, which had been held back with a length of rope rigged as a tripwire and buried under the leaves. “Damn lucky, I'd say. Might not have killed, but it sure would have done some damage, enough to slow us down at least.”

“He knows we're here,” Mitchell said, “or he's just being careful. We'll need to go slower. Gotta be close.”

By the time they took their next break they were all breathing hard and dripping sweat onto the brown carpet of leaves.

“Holding up okay?” Tom asked when he saw Mike shuck off his pack and drop onto a log.

Mike wiped his forehead with a damp kerchief. “Sure,” he said with a gulp of air. “Besides, can't let a couple of old guys get the better of me.”

Tom laughed but kept it low, just a rumble in his chest. “Got news for you. Mitchell could run us both into the ground.”

They took a quick drink and started again. The terrain became more rolling, the forest thicker, spotted with pine and spruce. The forest floor was cooler, the air more fragrant. They jogged, the packbaskets bumping on their backs, straps chafing shoulders. Mitchell stopped once more, Mike and Tom after. He stood listening, head cocked to one side.

“What is it?” Tom asked when he came up.

“Loggers. Thought I heard axes. We need to close up on Tupper if we can,” Mitchell said. “Keep spread out. Have a care.” He started again at a trot, following Tupper's invisible trail along the side of a long ridge.

The pines were thicker, their needles sometimes slippery under foot. As they went, the sound of lumbering became louder. They could hear the chunk of axes and the calls of men from somewhere above them, up on the ridge. Still, the trail they followed seemed to skirt the logging, keeping within earshot but out of sight. Then a shout echoed from above. It carried like the ringing of a bell.

“Timber, timber, timber!”

They heard a long creaking groan as some giant of the forest went over. There was a whoosh, an impact, and a second, long, groaning shriek, another whoosh, an impact and another groan of tearing wood.

Each falling tree seemed closer than the last, marching down the ridge. Tom, Mike, and Mitchell stood frozen as the shrieking wood and crashing limbs thrashed toward them. They gathered speed. The third tree, then the fourth rocked the trees above and shook the ground beneath their feet. A wind went before, like a tornado it whistled around them.

“Run!” Mitchell had to shout over the noise. “Run!”

Tom followed Mitchell as he bounded ahead. They ducked behind a huge maple. The forest erupted behind them. Branches, bark, leaves, bunches of needles and pinecones rained down as an enormous white pine exploded where they had been. A cloud of dust rolled over them. Shafts of light stabbed through the forest canopy. “Mike!”

 

Tupper heard the crashing of the trees behind him. He grinned. With luck his trail would be lost in the carnage. He wasn't sure he'd been followed, but he'd expected it and had moved as fast as he could despite his wounded leg. He told himself that only an expert, a man born to the woods would be able to pick up his trail. But such men could be found and were maybe already behind him. It was wise to go and go quickly.

As his grandfather had reminded him, “The rabbit does not stop to see if the fox still follows.” Like a ghost, Tupper flitted from tree to tree, until the noise of the loggers was lost in the distance.

“Are we there yet, Uncle Chowder?” Rebecca asked in a weary little voice from the back of the shay.

“Pretty soon I think, 'Becca,” he said, though he wasn't all that sure.

They'd been on the road nearly three hours. The sun was strong, the road rutted and dusty. Like brown talcum power, it rose up as they passed, settling on everything. Their throats were dry. In their haste, they'd forgotten to bring water. Rounding a bend in the road they saw the silvery flash of water and a lone house amid a field of stumps.

“Hey there,” Chowder said. “See, what did Uncle Chowder tell ya? There's the town.”

Rebecca jumped up. “That's not a town. A town has lots of houses, lots and lots.”

She was right. They drove another mile and more before they came to anything that looked like a town, passing a few cabins and houses on the way, none of which looked too prosperous.

Cresting a rise in the road, they saw a scattered cluster of houses, a church in the distance, and what appeared to be a general store.

The town did not hold their attention, though. A small group of men were milling about the shore of the lake. Two seemed to be examining a pair of boats.

“Oh,” Mary said, putting a hand on Chowder's arm, “that's the sheriff, MacDougal, the one in suspenders, with the high boots. Sol Sabattis, the one I told you about, he's the one kneeling.”

They pulled to a stop a moment later. The sheriff walked toward the shay, squinting at Chowder once he'd recognized Mary.

“What good you think you'll do here, I'll be damned if I ken,” MacDougal said to Mary.

“It's no help you'll be, that's certain.”

Rebecca gave the sheriff a sour look.

“Och, an' ye brought your little missy with ya, too. Ain't that just grand.”

“It's my right to be here,” Mary said. She had her hand on the whip and looked as if she might use it.

MacDougal ignored her. Looking at Chowder, he said, “And you'd be Sergeant Kelly.” He extended a hand as he looked Chowder up and down.

“At your service, boyo,” Chowder said with a smile that was no smile at all.

“A Mick! Don't that beat all. Come to show us rustics how things're done,” MacDougal said with a wry grin. “Suppose I won't hold that agin ya. Glad of the help, if ya gotta know. Not much of a pool o' trained detectives up this way,” he said, throwing a thumb over his shoulder at the deputies behind him.

“Detective Sergeant Kelly,” Chowder said, trying figure whether or not he should take offense. “Here to help. That's all. What's your interest in those boats?”

MacDougal hooked his thumbs behind his suspenders and set his legs apart.

“Well,
Detective Sergeant Kelly,
this is how matters stand. Missus Braddock's boy is on the run. There's those that say he killed a pretty, young maid, but I suppose you ken that.”

MacDougal paused, but when Chowder said nothing he went on. “Seems he's joined up with his father an' Mitchell Sabattis. Don't suppose you knew that. The three o' them're chasin' this Tupper fella all over hell's half acre. Was a gun battle on the lake last night. Found one boat shot up, the other bashed, an' three kinds o' shell casings. That's how I know Mike was there,” MacDougal said, as if this were proof of his detective skills.

“Exemplary police work,” Chowder said, as if he meant it.

MacDougal huffed. “Well, it sure didn't come from Sol. He can be one dumb Indian when it suits 'im.”

“I'm sure,” Chowder said without inflection.

“An' another thing, Chauncey Busher's dead. He's the guide Braddock set out wi' after Tupper.”

“Mister Busher's dead?” Mary said. She tried to sound shocked, but wasn't sure she pulled it off. She'd certainly suspected as much.

“He told me the beaver poem,” Rebecca said. “He's not dead. I saw him last week.”

She looked up at Mary for confirmation, but all Mary could do was offer a distracted frown. Though Mary knew that going after Tupper was a thing fraught with danger, she somehow never believed that anyone but Tupper might be losing his life because of it.

“When did it happen? How?” Mary asked.

“Not real clear on the details. Don't have the body yet, just the report. Sol tol' me that much.”

“Tupper's a maniac,” Chowder said. “You should be grateful Braddock's taking a hand in this.”

“Braddock's got his son in mind more 'n anything about catchin' Tupper, with all due respect, ma'am,” he said with a nod toward Mary. “Not that I blame him. Done enough pokin' around the last day or so to know a thing or two. I ken that your son an' Lettie were not alone that last day when they were—” MacDougal caught himself, then thought of a more delicate way to phrase it, “when they went for a walk. I ken there was someone spyin on 'em, and not one, but maybe two.”

“What do you mean not alone? Who else was there?” Mary said, frowning.

“Have a good idea it was Tupper. Matched a wagon track to the one he left at Merwin's; got a big nick in the rim. But someone else maybe was watchin', maybe somebody even Tupper didn' ken was there. Hard to tell.”

“What would Tupper have been watching Mike for, and someone else besides? This is bizarre!” Mary said. She was frowning and pacing beside the carriage.

“Couldn't agree more, ma'am. I'd like knowin' a few things myself,” MacDougal said. “But you're not helpin' here, Missus Braddock. We need ta get a move on. We're off ta Tupper Lake to head them off. Signs point to them headin' there.”

“The three of you?” Chowder said with a nod to the other men.

“Ey.”

“You could use a fourth. I'm coming along, if you don't mind.”

“I don't,” MacDougal said.

Chowder half expected a different response and was caught off guard.

“I…” Chowder started off, before he realized he wasn't getting an argument. “I'm glad to be of service,” he said with a shrug.

“That's grand, then!” MacDougal chuckled. “You ready to go?”

 

“Mike! Mike!” Tom shouted as he ran back to where the tree lay in a settling cloud. There were shouts from the ridge above and the sound of running feet.

“Mike!” Tom clambered over the tree, fighting his way through the splintered, twisted branches. Broken boughs lay thick on the ground. Tom kept calling and digging, Mitchell too. He saw a flash of color and doubled his efforts, digging and clawing with frantic strength. The taste of fear rose in his throat. Mike lay motionless.

Tom bent low over Mike, feeling at his neck for a pulse, putting an ear to his chest. Loggers came running.

“Mike,” Tom said, shaking him and slapping his face.

“Fuckin' fools!” someone said.

“What the hell you doin' down 'ere?” another man grumbled.

“Who's hurt? Not one of ours, is it?” another asked.

“My boy, goddamnit,” Tom said. “You dropped a fucking tree on him.”

Four men stood over them talking at once.

“You crazy? Can't ya hear when we call
timber?
” one said.

“If 'n he's stupid enough ta stand under a fallin' tree, well—”

Mike began to rouse. His eyes fluttered.

“Serve 'im right, he got his head busted. Stupid sport. Can't take a shit in the woods 'out a tourist poppin up.”

Mike groaned and opened his eyes. A couple of the men laughed. Mike looked up at Tom. “Sorry—I…,” he started to say, wheezing, his words almost lost in the laughter.

Tom was on his feet. He turned to one of the men and with a snarl, kicked him in the stomach, a sideways kick that would have pleased old Master Kwan. The man went down like a tree. Pivoting to his left, he caught a second startled logger with a slashing chop to the neck and a right to the solar plexus. He spun again, lashing out with a foot, taking the legs from under a third, dumping him in a heap with a tremendous blow to the chest. He ducked under a fist, grabbed a shirt and, using the man's momentum, threw him to the ground. Mitchell stood to the side, leaning on his shotgun, a faint grin painting his creased features. Tom turned back to Mike

“Ribs,” Mike said, holding his side.

“Okay, Mike, just lie still. We'll get you taken care of.”

“Tom,” Mitchell said, hardly raising his voice.

A logger charged from behind. Tom, still in a crouch, didn't rise to meet him. He dove at the feet, sending the man tumbling forward into the fallen tree. Tom rolled to his feet. The biggest of the four was almost on top of him. He aimed a vicious kick at Tom, his boot whistling so close to his head he could smell wet leather. Tom diverted the blow, letting it glance off his arm, which threw the man off balance just a little. Tom came out of his crouch and hit the man square in the nose, a blow that splattered red across them both and knocked him hard on his back.

Tom turned to face the others. Two were up but showing no fight. A third rolled on the ground, groaning and holding his stomach. A glance at Mitchell showed he'd shifted the shotgun to the crook of his arm and his finger to the trigger.

Another knot of loggers was coming down the ridge.

“Got a man hurt down here,” Tom shouted. “Need a doctor.”

“Only man's gonna need a doctor's you, mister,” one of the loggers said.

“Hell, 'Brose, give it up,” another said, holding his stomach. “That your boy, mister?”

“Yeah.”

“Who gives a shit?” the one called 'Brose said. “Sonofabitch's got a whuppin' comin'.”

“Oh, shut yer yap, 'Brose. You can have your whuppin' later, if you've a mind. The boy needs help. Go fetch Mama Dupree.” Turning to Tom, he said, “She's the closest we got to a doctor.”

The other loggers had gathered about by then. The man who appeared to be the foreman looked from Mike to the loggers. “How many o' you got hit by the tree? What the hell went on here?”

'Brose started shouting. He was hopping mad, literally jumping from one foot to the other, pointing and swinging his fists, saying how, “That big fella jus' up an' lit inter us fer no call at all.”

Now that 'Brose had a bigger audience he was getting brave again. Tom let him spout, restraining an urge to silence him for good. He turned back to Mike, ignoring 'Brose, which only seemed to make him louder. Mike's breathing was quick and shallow, his skin pasty pale.

The foreman cut through 'Brose's shouting. “Anybody call for Mama Dupree?”

“Tol' 'Brose ta fetch 'er,” the one logger said.

Looking at 'Brose, the foreman shouted, “Then what the fuck're you doin' here? Get goin'!”

“But that bastard…”

“I don't give a shit, 'Brose,” the foreman shouted back. “Your gang boss says go, you fuckin' better well go, goddamnit!”

“This ain't over, mister,” 'Brose said, pointing at Tom. “Got a reckonin' comin'.

“Run, you bastard,” the foreman shouted, after him. “Run or you'll spend the winter ice fishin'.”

'Brose broke into a trot, followed by a shoal of laughter.

Turning back to Tom and Mitchell, the man said, “How's he doin'?”

“He's not dead,” Tom said. “More than that I can't say. Got some busted ribs, looks like.”

Mike nodded, holding his side. The foreman looked at Mitchell and nodded with a grin.

“Hey, Mitch.”

Mitchell grinned back.

“Boys,” the foreman said to the rest, “this is Mitchell Sabattis, best darn guide an' boatbuilder in the North Country.” There was a murmur of recognition from the crowd. Tom cast a quick glance at Mitchell, who now stood against a tree, leaning on the muzzle of his grounded shotgun.

“We can sort out what happened later, not that I believe this fella kicked hell outa you fine specimens,” he said, laughing. They all laughed, except the three. “Meantime, we'll see to the boy. Rest o' you get back to work.”

The crowd melted as the foreman knelt beside Tom. “At least he ain't bleedin' much,” which was true enough. Aside from a few scrapes and a couple of rents in his clothes, Mike didn't look all that bad. “Considering you got a tree dropped on you, you're doin' fair ta middlin',” he said to Mike with a pat on the shoulder.

“Anything hurt besides the ribs?” Tom asked.

“Everything,” Mike said, doing his best to grin through the pain.

“Least his sense o' humor ain't hurt,” the foreman said. He stood a few minutes later as he saw a woman come rolling through the forest. She was six feet tall if she was an inch, and must have gone well over two hundred pounds. Her arms were huge and they swung freely from a massive set of shoulders, as she stumped through the woods with a black bag dangling like an afterthought. She had no visible neck, her head appearing to have been put on without one. Wiry hair was pulled back in a helmetlike bun. The legs that supported her were pink tree trunks framed by black boots and a line of brown lace at her hem.

“Christ,” Tom whispered.

“Not much to look at, I'd agree,” the foreman said under his breath, “but it don't pay ta have a pretty woman out here, not with my lot.”

A dirty apron hung down her front, covered in grease and smeared, brown blood. She wiped her hands on it as she came. She bent beside Mike, ordering Tom and the foreman to “Gimme room, you two.”

“Hello, sweetie,” she said to Mike in a very different tone. “Why, look at you. You ain't hardly hurt at all.” Pulling open her kit, she added softly, “We'll just patch you up a bit. Have you doin a jig in no time. Here, have a drink,” she said, offering Mike a flask. “Doctor's orders.”

It wasn't long before Mama Dupree had Mike on his feet, though he looked ghastly pale doing it. With Tom's help he hobbled toward the logging camp. It was on the other side of the ridge, about a half mile away. Mike was spent by the time they got there.