The Empire of Shadows (34 page)

“We'll stop at Long Lake,” the deputy said, once he'd clucked to the horse. “Mind if we stay with you, Mitchell?”

“Plenty of room,” Mitchell said.

They hit the road to Long Lake in about a half mile. It wasn't much different than the logging road, a little more rutted, a little less rocky. Nothing moved on the road. In fact they didn't see another soul.

Nearly an hour later they stopped to let the horse water at a little stream. Nobody spoke. Mike sat in the wagon, his head down. Tom cast one glance at him, then at Mitchell. Neither met his gaze. Tom had become more and more uneasy since parting with Chowder. He'd said nothing to Mitchell or Mike. In fact they rode in almost total silence. When they stopped, Tom got down and paced, looking back down the road from the direction they'd come. Mitchell watched him from the back of the buggy, his shotgun across his knees.

“You know, Dad,” Mike said, breaking the silence, “Mom will be there when I get back. It's not like I'll be alone.”

Tom turned to him, cocking his head to one side. Mitchell watched them both.

“Besides, we can prove I didn't kill Lettie. That's gotta be clear to everybody, once they hear about what happened at Forked Lake.”

Tom slowly shook his head. “What you know and I know might not be so clear to a judge up here, Mike. We have to be sure. You'll need a good lawyer, a proper investigation.”

“Sure, but Mom can take care of that, and we can get help from the Durants, right?”

“I suppose Mike, but—”

“Just go, Dad. Go back and catch him. I'll be all right.” Tom and Mitchell and the deputy, too, looked at Mike. “I won't really be cleared until Tupper is caught, anyway,” Mike added.

Tom didn't say anything. He dropped his head in thought and kicked at the dirt.

“Damnit, Mike, I want to go with you!” he said finally. “It's my place to be with you,” he added, almost as if trying to convince himself.

“I'm not a boy,” Mike said.

Tom stopped his pacing and looked straight at him. A grim smile crept across Tom's face, a light kindled in his eyes. “No, you're not. Haven't been for some time, though I've been late to see it.”

Mike smiled back. “Go!” he said.

Without a word, the sheriff handed Tom his rifle. Tom looked at Mike as he hefted the Winchester in one hand. “I'll be back,” he said at last.

“I know,” Mike answered.

Tom and Mitchell watched as the wagon rumbled away. Mike turned once and waved, raising both hands to do it. Tom waved back, almost shouting for them to stop. Sending Mike back alone hurt like nothing he could remember. It put him in mind of amputees during the war, and how they'd complain of the pain in their lost limbs. For the first time he thought he knew what they meant.

Tom and Mitchell turned and walked back. They were miles behind, with little hope of catching up. Neither of them mentioned that or even gave it a thought. They didn't need hope. They had everything they needed.

For the next two hours they alternately jogged and walked, going quickly along the hard-packed road, nearly as fast as the wagon had gone, so that they were approaching where the sheriff and Chowder had split off. The sun was dipping below the treetops by then, the cool of the forest creeping out from under the trees.

Then, miles off, they heard shooting, heavy firing, booming, echoing. They stopped, frozen by the sound, counting the shots that slowed quickly, sputtering, then dying. Tom and Mitchell looked once at each other and broke again into a trot. Another report rolled across the trees, followed by a long silence and then a second shot. Neither Tom nor Mitchell slowed as the forest settled into uneasy silence.

 

Mike and the deputy arrived at Mitchell's house late that night. It seemed to materialize out of the fabric of the night, a lighter patch of dark with edges and corners. No lights were on. No dog barked as they rode up. The buggy rattled into the yard.

There was a rustling and the noise of hooves in the yard in back.

“Damn deer after Mitchell's corn,” the deputy said. “Can't shoot enough of 'em.”

They walked into the darkened kitchen through the unlocked back door. The deputy struck a match and lit a lamp that he'd gotten from the back of the buggy, his face cast for a moment in yellow relief.

“Anybody home?” The deputy called. “Hello?”

Mike sat at a table in the center of the kitchen. He stared at the steel around his wrists. “Say, Vern,” Mike said. “Can't we take the cuffs off for now? I give you my word I won't leave the house.”

Vern seemed sympathetic, but said, “Waaall, ah don' know. MacDougal tol' me ta keep a tight rein, you bein' a runner an' all.”

Mike tried not to show how he felt about that. He had half a mind to throttle Vern a little till he changed his mind, or whatever passed for a mind in his case. But in a reasonable tone he said, “I got ya. I'm your responsibility.”

The stove clattered as the deputy got a fire going. A puff of smoke blew back into the room where it rolled to the ceiling, scenting the place in a way that had Mike thinking of his parents' kitchen when he was a boy.

“But MacDougal's not here,” he went on, “and…”

There were footsteps on the stairs somewhere off in the darkened house. Mrs. Sabattis emerged from the gloom into the light of the kitchen, wearing a long nightshirt and slippers. She looked once around the room, staring for an instant at the deputy and Mike, where her eyes flickered over the glint of the handcuffs. She shooed the deputy away from the stove.

“I'll get some water,” he said, fetching a bucket from under the sink. More footsteps could be heard, a pair of them.

“Anyway Vern, MacDougal's not here,” Mike continued. “I'd take it as a personal favor if…” Mike stopped and turned. Rebecca came running.

“Mikey!”

She jumped into his lap, knocking him back and almost upsetting the chair. Mike hugged her as best he could with his shackled hands. She gripped his neck in a fierce hug.

“You little ginger snap! I've missed you!” he said, amazed at himself for saying it, because he'd never thought he'd miss the little pest.

“Ew! Your face is scratchy,” she said, pulling away, “and you smell bad! You need a bubble bath!”

Mike laughed and let her slip to the floor.

“Mom!”

Mary came down the stairs behind Rebecca, her thoughts doing somersaults. She didn't know what to expect. What she hoped was that Tupper's body was in the back of a wagon, covered with a sheet. Thinking of Tupper, she prayed that Tom and Mike were unhurt. For a horrible moment she imagined all sorts of things, but she put them out of her head almost as quickly as they sprang up. Those things were unthinkable.

She yearned to see Tom and Mike again, to hold them and know they were back. Anything else wasn't worth thinking. Little butterflies were let loose in her belly and made her head feel light. Mary set her jaw when she got to the bottom of the stairs, ready for whatever might come. But she wasn't ready for what she saw.

Mike seemed to have aged years. His face looked drawn, burned by the sun, and blotched with insect bites. A spotty growth of beard gave him a grizzled look. There were dark circles under his eyes and his clothes were dirty and torn. She tried to hide her shock, but she wasn't sure she did.

The pans clattered on the stove. The deputy went to fetch water. Mary stood for a moment, her hand going to her mouth in shock. She held her arms out to Mike, but as she did, Rebecca turned away from him with a trembling mouth and tears running down her cheeks. She ran and clung to Mary's leg, stopping her as Mike stood. Mary didn't see the cuffs at first. Rebecca's tears distracted her. She though perhaps Rebecca was so happy to see Mike that she'd been overcome. That notion died when she saw the glint of steel, the short length of chain.

 

Chowder had let MacDougal do the tracking, not that he had much choice. He could not fathom how anything could be tracked through the dense undergrowth in these forests. In many places he couldn't even see the ground, it was so thick with ferns or grasses or other sorts of low-growing things he didn't have a name for. The going was rough and exhausting. Where they passed through areas that had been logged it was worse. The limbs and branches left by the loggers formed an impenetrable tangle on the ground. New growth of birch and poplar and beech formed thickets only slightly less dense than hedges. Thorny blackberry tore at their clothes.

Chowder was grateful the trail stuck mostly to the logging roads in those areas. It seemed not even Tupper wanted to fight through if he didn't have to.

The sun became an orange glow behind the trees as the afternoon wore on. Chowder couldn't tell for sure if it had set, but it was close. It had been hours since he'd parted with Tom and Mike. He wondered how long it would take them to make it back to Long Lake. He hadn't told Tom that Mary was there, figuring he'd enjoy the surprise. He grinned. Mary had been quite a catch, and he'd always been more than a little jealous of Tommy for doing the catching.

Shaking Tom and Mary out of his thoughts, Chowder watched the thickets and dense patches of young spruce where the shadows were starting to gather. The light was changing by the minute, and even the open areas were becoming fuzzy. MacDougal hadn't slowed. In fact, the sheriff had only stopped for a few minutes in the hours of tramping they'd done. Chowder was beginning to wonder if they'd stop at all. He couldn't imagine how they'd track by lamplight.

They were working their way up a narrow draw. MacDougal was in front, the deputy behind, and Chowder in the rear. There were boulders to the right and a steep slope to the left hemming them in. The ground at the bottom was all in shadow.

For Chowder there was no difference between the deafening boom of the rifles and the impact that knocked him off his feet. It was as if he'd been hit by the sound. He was stunned to find himself on his hands and knees. For a split second his brain could not register what had happened. His left leg didn't seem to work as it should, and a searing pain started to replace the numbness there. He felt his thigh. His hand came away bright red. This passed in no more than two seconds, but it seemed much longer. More shots came from left and right. MacDougal had disappeared, the deputy too. Chowder pulled out his pistol, but couldn't see what to shoot at. He was alone, kneeling in the open.

Chowder tried to get to his feet and run, but the best he could do was hobble, dragging his burning leg. A bullet whistled past, hitting a tree in front of him, splattering little pieces of bark. Chowder tried for the tree, the closest cover.

Something hit him in the shoulder, exploding out the top of his chest. He fell into the leaves, his face digging into the crinkling, soft bed. He could not get enough air. His breathing was labored and something bubbled and burned in his lung. When he tried to lift himself his shoulder moved in a way it never was meant to, grinding and burning so bad he fell on his face. The firing stopped.

Chowder rolled onto his back, his head propped against a log. He fumbled with his good hand, rustling the leaves for his pistol. He looked down at the hole in his shirt. He was glad it wasn't his best one.

Sitting up a little, he managed to shuck off his pack, though the pain of moving his shoulder reduced his vision to a small speck of light, with sparkling stars flitting around in the blackness. Somehow he managed to get a kerchief out of his pack and tie off the wound in his thigh. Another shot boomed, then a second, but they didn't seem directed at him. Chowder collapsed against the log, trying to catch his breath.

He closed his eyes and floated in a swirling red mist. He was spinning through the forest, the trees rotating above his head. He'd have to get that under control if he ever expected to walk out. He'd make himself a crutch come morning, he figured, trying to plan, to focus on something beyond the pain, the spinning, and the bubbling.

When Chowder opened his eyes someone was there. He didn't think it was McDougal or the deputy, so he shot him. He just brought up the pistol at his side and blasted him dead center. The man didn't fall down or drop his rifle, though he doubled over like he'd been kicked by a horse.

Chowder shot him again. The man just said “Damn!” and stumbled away, holding his gut. Chowder started to feel better. Movement caught his eye off to the left somewhere. Someone was running. Chowder shot at him, too, shot until the pistol clicked and clicked. A rifle boomed. Something hit him. He couldn't see. Something was in his eyes and he was so dizzy he had to close them. He didn't see the man standing over him, didn't feel anything more.

 

Tupper heard the shooting. He stopped and listened. At least three or four people firing, one a pistol, the rest rifles. He doubted it was more than a mile or so back.

“What the hell's that about,” he said. His grandfather didn't answer. The spirit seemed puzzled, just standing there.

Tupper took a step back, the first backward step he'd taken in weeks. He took another, not knowing why exactly. All the shooting—it was about him. There was no way he could know that.

He wasn't even certain anyone was on his trail, though he'd traveled as though someone was. He looked at his broken rifle, good for only one shot, and that iffy. It might even blow up in his face. He wasn't sure. There was a lot he wasn't sure about.

But if men were shooting at each other, someone might have been hit, someone might have dropped a rifle or pistol. He thought about his food, which was running low. He'd have to start eating bunchberries soon.

He told himself these things, and they were true, but there was another truth; he'd been chased by men he'd never seen, men who were probably behind him now, shooting at something. He wanted to see them, know what sort of men they were. They'd come closer than he liked to admit. Knowing who they were was a thing worth a risk, a thing of great value when he went into town. Tupper took another step back, but stopped when he heard more shooting.