Wellspring (Paskagankee, Book 3) (10 page)

She
produced a Maglite flashlight and shined it down through the hole, examining as
much as she could of the room’s interior. It looked exactly like some kind of
ancient underground bunker. As far as she could see, no other bodies were
present. “There are two sets of bones here,” she said. “Probably human,
although we’ll have to wait for lab analysis to be sure. But that’s it. There’s
no other guy.”

“What
are you talking about?” Melton said. He trudged forward reluctantly, the
saturated ground sucking at his work boots, producing an audible
slurp
with each step. “How can you not
see it? Lying right next to the bones is another guy, and this one looks alive,
his skin color is—”

He
stopped short and stared in horror down at the secret room under the hole he
had dug less than an hour ago. “Oh, my God,” he whispered, his already pale
face turning chalk-white. His eyes widened in panic and he stumbled backward
and almost fell, wind-milling his arms in a desperate attempt to maintain his
balance. For a moment Sharon though he might drop right into the pit, but then
Bo grabbed him by one arm and steadied him.

“What
is it?” Sharon said, and for once, Bo had nothing to add, he simply stared
mutely at Dan Melton like a moviegoer waiting for the killer to be revealed in
the final scene.

Melton
swallowed hard and made an obvious effort to get his emotions under control.
“The guy…the guy is gone.”

***

“I’m telling you,” Melton said,
“there was another body at the bottom of that hole, and it wasn’t just a loose
collection of bones, either. The skin color was normal and the dude appeared as
alive as you or me. He looked exactly like some guy sleeping one off, except he
had no clothes on.”

Sharon
had prevailed upon Bo to fire up the Ridge Runner’s coffeemaker, and the three
of them sipped coffee and stood at the bar, trying to pretend they weren’t all
soaking wet and freezing cold. And in Melton’s case, terrified beyond all
reason.

“Well,”
she said. “Not to dwell on the obvious, but if there was another body down
there, where would he have gone?”

“Beats
the hell out of me. But I know what I saw.”

Sharon
turned to Pellerin. “Did you see another body down there, Bo?”

He
shrugged. “I didn’t see anything until just now. I got here no more than two
minutes before you drove up. I never even went behind the building until we all
went together.” Sharon glanced at Melton for confirmation and he nodded.

“Maybe
you saw something else and only
thought
it
was another body,” she suggested. “Uncovering those bones would startle anyone,
and—”

Melton
shook his head resolutely and raised his hand, cutting her off. “There was
another body in there. It was a man, maybe mid-to-late thirties, and although
his eyes were closed and he wasn’t moving, I would bet a hundred bucks he was
alive. I know what I saw,” he repeated.

Sharon
looked between the two men and then drained her coffee. “I have to get back
outside. I’ve got work to do.”

3

Bronson Choate urged his seven year
old Jeep Cherokee up the rutted dirt trail leading to his cabin. Twenty miles
per was about the best speed he was ever able to achieve on the mile-long
weed-strewn cow path serving as his “driveway,” and even then he was grateful
for his safety harness. It was about the only thing preventing him from being
bounced right out the driver’s side window.

A
merchant marine engineer based out of Portland, Bronson typically spent six
weeks at sea, followed by four weeks at home. He considered the relatively long
drive from Portland to his cabin in Paskagankee well worth the time, given his
love of solitude. Hunting, fishing and hiking were the perfect methods of
relaxing after the grueling work schedule he was forced to endure—four
hours on, eight hours off, over and over, for weeks at a time—while at
sea.

Plus,
with the low cost of living up here at the far end of the known universe,
Bronson was able to bank most of his salary, and had been doing so since
signing on right out of high school fifteen years ago. His plan was to work his
ass off for another ten years and then retire. He figured by the age of
forty-three he would have enough cash salted away to live quite comfortably off
the beaten path for the rest of his life.

And
that was good enough for Bronson Choate.

The
Cherokee ground on through the dense forest. The drizzle had been falling
steadily during the drive north, and although it was still only early
afternoon, between the low clouds and the thick canopy of centuries-old fir
trees it felt to Bronson more like dusk. He had flipped his headlights on over
an hour ago, but here in the dense forest the beams seemed to wither and die a
few feet from the car, gobbled up by the looming darkness.

At last
the little cabin materialized in the mist, the unrelenting mass of Paskagankee
forest encroaching on it from all sides. Hauling construction materials way out
here ten years ago while building his home had been no picnic, but Bronson had
never doubted his struggles would be worthwhile in the end, and he had been
right.

He
pulled to the side of the narrow pathway and shut down the Jeep. Parking was
tricky, but if done properly, left him just enough room to turn the vehicle
around between two trees when it was time to drive away, rather than being
forced to back out through a mile of wilderness.

Bronson
yanked on a watch cap and slid into his jacket. He hefted his canvas duffle off
the passenger seat and worked the nylon strap over his head, allowing him to
carry the bag while keeping both hands free. Then he opened the Jeep’s door and
stepped into the falling rain.

Standing
water filled the potholes in his forest driveway, some of them upwards of eight
inches deep, and Bronson reminded himself to tread carefully. Breaking an ankle
this far from help would be a problem, especially given the historically spotty
cell coverage in the Paskagankee area. Even after the recent construction of
their very own cell tower, residents of the remote town could never count on
receiving a steady signal from one location to the next, or even from one
moment
to the next.

The
steady, days-long precipitation had saturated the ground, even here under the
thick forest canopy, and Bronson slipped and slid to his front door. He was
fumbling around in his pocket for the house key—he hadn’t used the damned
thing in nearly two months, where the hell was it?—when furtive movement,
sensed rather than seen out of the corner of his eye, caught his attention.

He
froze, hand in his pocket, and glanced to the right. The movement had seemed to
come from somewhere beyond the corner of the cabin, back among the trees.
Bronson Choate was not what anyone would consider to be a jumpy person, not
given to flights of fancy or unfounded fears, but now he was reminded exactly
how isolated he was out here.

He
pictured his Ruger 9mm semiauto pistol, currently less than ten feet away but stashed
securely in a gun safe and out of reach behind his closed and locked front
door. Carrying the gun aboard ship was strictly prohibited, so Bronson’s policy
was to unload it and lock it up before leaving for a stint at sea.

He
wished he had it now.

Squinting,
Bronson willed the heavy rain to ease up for a moment so he could just freaking
see.
The rain paid no attention.

He
stared for a few more seconds in the direction he thought/felt he had seen
movement.

Nothing.

A light
breeze ruffled the evergreens and Bronson heard the soothing sigh that accompanied
the wind in the middle of the forest, but there was no sign of anything
unusual.

False
alarm.

Maybe you’re becoming just another pussy
in your old age.
He smiled at the thought. Rough, tough Bronson
Choate, veteran seaman, globe-trotting merchant marine, survivor of bar fights
the world over, from the Philippines to the Hawaiian Islands to Portland’s
roughest Old Port taverns, quaking like a little girl on the front steps of his
own house, frightened by nothing scarier than the wind in the trees.

He
shook his head at his foolishness and pulled the house-key from his pocket. He
slid it into the door lock and turned it.

And
again sensed movement, this time from his
other
side. A figure rushed at him from out of the gloom on his left, and Bronson
knew immediately he had been suckered. Whoever—
what
ever—had raised his hackles a moment ago on the right
side of the cabin had crossed behind it while he was staring like a dumbass
into the forest.

He spun
to the left and raised his hands to defend himself against the unknown
attacker, but the bulky duffel bag slung over his shoulder had thrown his
balance off. He slipped and lurched sideways.

Nearly
fell.

Recovered.

But by
now it was too late. The attacker raised one arm and slashed at his face.
Bronson reacted instinctively, ducking and turning his head, but he was too
slow and whatever the attacker was holding slammed into the side of Bronson’s skull.

A white-hot
explosion of pain bounced around inside his skull and he tried to counter with
a roundhouse right as he was falling, but his motor skills had vanished, he
felt numb and tingly, and the punch missed its target badly. He crumpled to the
ground, dropping onto his duffel bag like he was falling onto a mattress.
Small favors,
he thought.

He felt
consciousness slipping away and forced himself to focus on his attacker,
determined to identify the son of a bitch so that on the off chance the guy
didn’t kill him right here and now, he could hunt the fucker down later. Even
as the circuits in his brain were shutting down, shock flooded his system at
what he saw.

His
attacker was a man; no surprise there.

But the
man was buck naked.

4

The man went down in a jumble of
rubbery arms and legs and Jackson Healy wondered for just a second whether he
had killed him. He didn’t
care
, but
he did wonder.

He
would have preferred to shoot the guy, rather than rushing him without a stitch
of clothing covering his bare ass, but his Colt .38 was somehow rusted and
corroded all to hell and when he had pulled the trigger experimentally a few
minutes ago, not a goddamned thing had happened.

So he
had improvised. It was a talent Jackson had always been blessed with.

He
stepped over the unconscious man and tried the cabin door. A key hung from a
strange-looking lock built into the knob, and it had apparently already been
turned, because the door swung open noiselessly.

Jackson
stepped inside, then turned around and dragged his victim in behind him. It
seemed unlikely anyone would come along and see the man way out here in the
middle of nowhere, but there was no point in taking unnecessary chances,
especially considering he had no idea what in the hell was going on.

He
needed to find clothing. That was the first order of business and the only
thing Jackson was really sure of at this point. Things had been moving so fast
since he had opened his eyes, awakening out of a deep sleep and finding himself
at the bottom of a muddy hole, naked and being pelted with freezing-cold rain,
that he hadn’t had much of an opportunity to think about anything else.

The cabin
owner coughed weakly and moaned on the floor, and Jackson decided he’d probably
live. He guessed the guy would regain enough of his faculties to become a
problem again fairly quickly, and decided he had better hurry up and neutralize
the man.

He
padded down a short hallway into the tiny home’s only bedroom and began pulling
open dresser drawers at random. Before long he had found underclothes and stockings,
as well as a pair of denim trousers. He found a button-down flannel shirt
hanging in a small closet.

The
owner of the clothes looked to be relatively close to Jackson’s own height and
weight, and in any event he didn’t have any other options, so he stepped
quickly into them. They fit well enough and were certainly better than running
around naked as the day he was born.

Jackson
spied a pair of work boots tossed haphazardly under the dresser and fished them
out. He laced them up and returned to the cabin’s sitting room and found the
man he had attacked still lying on the floor. His eyes were fluttering, though,
and it seemed clear he would be recovering soon.

Jackson
knew he should leave now, cut his losses, get out while the cabin’s owner was
still incapacitated. Thanks to the man’s unwitting generosity, Jackson now at
least had clothing and boots to wear, and undoubtedly there was a nice, warm
coat hanging in the closet next to the front door. He should grab that coat and
go.

But
there was a problem with that plan.

Jackson
Healey had no idea where
to
go.

Hell,
he didn’t really even know where he was. His mind was foggy, his memories vague
and unclear. He had an almost dreamlike recollection of hitting somebody in the
head, hitting them in the head because…because…someone was chasing him….they
were chasing him and had almost caught up to him…

And
then it all came back to him.

Everything.

Shooting
the Krupp brothers in South America and stealing the Peruvian golden disk and
the strange immortality juice from the man who had stepped right through the solid
rock formation.