He had a hand on her that she knew meant keep still. He turned, crouched and silent, toward the door, which was locked. Feet came across the pine needles toward the door with a sound they wouldn’t have heard if they weren’t all attention. Someone tried the door, paused, knocked, waited, pounded impatiently, waited again, then kicked in the door with a sudden crack. For a moment she could see a man silhouetted against the morning, could see him hesitate, looking into the shuttered gloom of the cabin, could see the gun in his hands. Then Painter, beside her, exploded.
She didn’t see Painter move, nor did the one at the door, but there was a cry from his throat and a flurry of motion and he had seized the intruder, who made one sound, a sound Caddie would never forget — the desperate, shocked shriek of seized prey — and Painter had locked the man’s head between his forearms. The man sank suddenly, as though punctured, his head loose on his body.
Painter, legs wide apart, supported him roughly — worried him, she would think later, bike a cat, turning him this way and that to see if there was any life left in him — and then dropped him. “Sunless bastard,” he said, or she thought he said. Beyond, in the tiny clearing, the copter’s blades notated lazily, not quite done.
“Come in TK24,” the radio said. “Come in TK24. Have you achieved 01?” It spoke in quick, harsh bursts, all inflection lost in an aura of static.
Getting no reply from TK24 (who was dead), it began a conversation with someone else; the someone else’s voice couldn’t be heard, was pauses only, long or short. “Roger your request to return to base.” … “No, that hasn’t been verified as yet. He doesn’t come in.” Negative, negative. Listen, you’d be the first to know.” That’s what I understand. The cabin was his 01. Then the wrecked plane.” A laugh, strangled in static. “Government. A real antique. He wouldn’t get fan.” Positive, that is 02 of TK24 and we’ll hear soon.” Right, positive, over. Come in TK24, TK24…”
On the glossy seat of the copter were charts covered with clear plastic. On one of them were circles in red grease crayon: one circle was labeled 01. The other circle, from what Painter could read of the map, was about ten miles off, up a sharp elevation, and was labeled 02.
Caddie came toward him, passing slowly the folded body of TK24, and feeling as though she had entered somewhere else, somewhere totally other, and had no way to get hack. “You killed him.”
“You’re staying here,” he said. “Up there on the mountain a plane’s crashed. It might be him, If it isn’t, I’ll be hack tonight or tomorrow.”
“No.”
“Get my rifle.”
“I’ll get it. But I’m coming with you.”
He looked at her for a moment, looked at her — in a new way, with that new bond between them, looked — no. She felt a chill wave of something like despair. He looked the same. Nothing had changed, not for him. All her surrender had been for nothing, nothing…. He turned away. “Get the horses, then. We’ll take them as far as we can.”
If he wasn’t made for walking, he was made less for climbing. Only his strength hauled him up, his strength and a fierce resolve she didn’t dane break by speaking, except to tell him where she had found the easiest ways up. He followed. Once, she got too fan ahead, lost sight of him, and couldn’t hear him coming after her. She retraced her steps and found him resting, panting, his back against a stone.
“Monkey,” he said. “A damned monkey. I haven’t got your strength.”
“Strength,” she said. “Two hours ago you killed somebody, with your hands, in about ten seconds.”
“I saw him first. It would’ve taken him even less. He had a gun.” For the first time since he had turned those yellow eyes on her at Hutt’s place the night she was being sold, she felt that he was trying to read her. “They want to kill us all, you know. They’re trying.”
“Who?”
“The government. Men, You.” Still his eyes searched her. “We’re no use to them. Worse than useless. Poachers. Thieves. Polygamists. We won’t be sterilized. There’s no good in us. We’re their creation, and they’re phasing us out. When they can catch us.”
“That’s not right!” She felt deep horror, and shame. “How can they… You’ve got a right to live.”
“I don’t know about a right.” He stood, breaking his look. “But I am alive, I mean to stay that way. Let’s go.”
The government. Men, You. What did she expect from him, then? Love? The leo had bought hen as men hunt leos. They were not one kind; never, never could she and he be one. He could only use hen, on not, as he liked. She climbed fiercely, tears (of rage or pity, for herself on for him, she didn’t know) breaking the chill morning into stars.
They found O2 fitted snugly into the trees at the end of a rocky pasture. Its wings were folded back, neatly, looking at rest like a bind’s; but bits of the plane were scattered over the pasture violently, and its wings were never made to bend, Painter went near it cautiously. The long shadows of the forest crept across the field, quicker as the sun sank further. One crazed window of the plane flared briefly in the last sun. There was an absolute stillness there; the wrecked plane was incongruous and yet proper, like a galleon at the bottom of the sea. There was no pilot, dead on alive; no one. Painter stood by it a long moment, turning his head slowly, utterly attentive; then, as though he had perceived a path, he plunged into the woods. She followed.
He didn’t go unerringly to the tree; it was as if he knew it must be there, but not exactly where it was. He stopped often, turned, and turned again. The long blue twilight barely entered here, and they must go slowly through the undergrowth. But he had it then: an ancient monarch, long dethroned, topless and hollow, amid upstart pines. Insects and animals had deposited the powdered guts of it at the narrow door.
“Good afternoon, Counselor,” he said softly.
“If you come any closer,” said a little voice within the tree, “I’ll shoot. I have a gun. Don’t try…”
“Gently, Counselor,” Painter said.
“Is that you? Painter? Good god…”
She had come up beside him and looked into the hollow. A tiny man was wedged into the narrow space. His spectacles, one lens cracked, glinted; so did the small pistol in his hands.
“Come out of there,” Painter said.
“I can’t. Something’s broken. My foot, somewhere.” From fear, exposure, something, his voice sounded faint and harsh, like fine sandpaper. “I’m cold.”
“We can’t light a fire,”
“There’s a cell heater in the plane. It might work.” She could hear in his voice that he was trembling. Painter withdrew into the trees toward the blue dimness of the pasture, leaving her alone by the tree. She squatted there, alert, a little afraid; whoever was looking for this counselor would come and find him soon.
“You don’t,” said the tree, “have a cigarette.” It was a remark only, without hope; and she alniost laughed, because she did: the pack she had put in her shirt pocket, for Painter, a lifetime ago…. She gave them to him, and her tin of matches. He groaned with relief. In the brief, trembling bight of the match she glimpsed a long, small face, thick, short red hair, a short red beard. His glasses flashed and went out again. “Who are you?” he said.