Kier felt the words like an electric shock. Of course. Tillman knew about him and Jessie. The way she walked so close. From the track.
"I should have realized," he said, standing. "He's already tried that once. I've got to backtrack. Alone."
"You'll have a lot better luck with me. Think about it. The two of us can walk right out in the open as long as we're together."
Kier considered. Doyle was right.
Chapter 32
The lessons we're taught as children must be learned again in hard times.
Kier and Doyle backtracked Kier's trail toward Jessie. When they reached the edge of the forest next to the pasture, Kier stopped. Using a small light, he examined the tracks in the earth near a puddle. All of the imprints were made by large boots. After proceeding another fifty yards, he once again examined the ground. He found a track-Jessie's boot-and a print immediately behind hers. Kier recognized it as that of the lone stalker on the mountain. A few yards farther Kier could see that Jessie had been scuffing.
The look on Kier's face told Doyle what he needed to know.
"He found her."
Kier nodded, his hatred of Tillman and fear for Jessie displacing everything else.
"What's your name again?" Kier asked, now able to see the man's face clearly for the first time. He was square jawed, with handsome Anglo features dominated by bushy red eyebrows and long, neat sideburns.
"I'm Quartz on the radio. The men know me by Doyle."
"Okay, Doyle, it looks like he's taking her to the house. I'd guess if we wait, we'll hear from him over the radio. If we follow them, we'll walk into a trap."
At that moment, Doyle's radio crackled. "Base to Iron. Do you copy?"
"That's the guy you killed back there. I'd better answer." Kier uncuffed him. "Base, this is Quartz. Iron went to check on some suspicious movement."
"This is base. Why can't he tell us that?"
"Don't know. Last I knew he was on his hands and knees in the bushes."
"It sounds like you better check it out. Find out for sure. Everybody else stay put and keep your eyes glued."
The man from base then completed a roll call. Kier counted twenty responses, which meant that at least that many ringed the house.
As the roll call ended, Kier's radio, set to a different channel, came on. "Dr. Kier, do you copy?"
"Tillman?" Kier asked Doyle.
"The very same."
"I hear you."
"I've got your friend Jessie. I think it's time we talked."
"Tell him yes," Doyle whispered. "We'll go in and see what he has in mind. Before we go, you've got to tell me where the sixth volume is."
Kier's mind whirled.
"Well?" Tillman persisted.
No option seemed good. Gambling everything on Doyle and his scheme didn't seem wise. On the other hand, it was direct, simple. He had no better plan. And stalling while his family, his whole tribe, could be infected with Tillman's virus made no sense. Jessie was in the most immediate danger. This would get him in the house, near her.
"Listen, Dr. Kier, I wasn't kidding. I've got your mother, your sisters, the whole damn tribe. I've got them. Every one of them has viruses inside them. They'll be in a world of hurt within a week or so. I've put a little goody in the Tilok reservoir that raises their susceptibility to this disease like a tinder-dry forest feeds a fire. I've got the only stuff that'll kill the virus. Come and talk to me, or your tribe and your girlfriend here die."
"Okay," Kier finally replied and ended the transmission.
"Where's the volume?" Doyle asked again.
"Not yet."
Claudie's kitchen had been turned into a command center. Maps were spread around, their corners held in place by cups of stale coffee and butcher knives. Judging from the glass filled with cigarette butts and ash, somebody was a heavy smoker. Probably they were nervous. The only sound in the place was the creaking of the hot metal of the stove.
Tillman's arms were folded across his chest, his face a mask of arrogant confidence. Coldness glistened in his dark eyes. The man had a hard angularity that came from a lean, muscled body without an ounce of rounding flab. Four men in addition to Tillman stood by. They all wore taut faces and leveled guns at Kier, mindful of their fallen comrades. At first Kier did not see Jessie, but as he moved into the kitchen, his eye found the corner of the living room where she sat handcuffed and tied to a kitchen chair. He winced at the lines of dried blood on her swollen face.
He took two steps toward Tillman, a low moan escaping his lips. "Hold it!" Tillman shouted, holding up his hand. The guns in four hands quivered with tension.''One more step and you're dead."
Kier stopped, his gaze returning to Jessie. Around her torso were bands of heavy plastic tape confining her belly and upper arms. Her hands were cuffed in front of her. Each calf was fastened to a chair leg. She was totally immobilized, unable to do no more than blink her eyes in frustration.
Only Tillman appeared relaxed, leaning against a countertop with his gun holstered. Kier had surrendered his pistols to Doyle before entering. For appearances, Doyle held a gun fixed on Kier's back. Of course, it was a real gun, it was loaded, and it could just as well be used for killing as for appearances. Kier wondered if he had made the right choice.
"So, Dr. Kier Wintripp, tracker and survivalist extraordinaire, special deputy sheriff on occasion, youth leader, martial arts expert, and country vet-not to mention wine connoisseur-how nice of you to come and see us." Tillman's face broke in a self-satisfied smile. "Tell me, Doyle, could you have gotten him in here with the FBI story if I didn't have little Miss Muffet here?"
Kier reeled at Tillman's words, forcing himself not to turn and stare at Doyle. So it had all been part of the game.
"Frankly, I doubt it. He's a mistrustful bloke. Doesn't have much confidence in the government,'' Doyle replied. Kier could hear him smile.
''Well, we have that in common, Kier and I." Tillman pushed off the counter and moved to Jessie. "So tell me about the missing volume and the footprints." Tillman pulled a thin, black knife from his pocket. "I'm listening."
"Not much to tell. There was one set of tracks leaving the plane, and I found a hole big enough for one missing volume in the metal box."
Tillman unfolded the blade and began scraping the underside of his nails. "Did someone come from the plane?"
"I saw no tracks leading into the area, only a set of tracks leaving."
"You're a tracker. You know a lot more."
It was true. It hit him like a bolt from the blue. Kier did know more. Yet until this moment even he had been unable to solve the puzzle.
"It was a man who swaggers, makes a lot of noise. Puts his heel down heavy, a lot of snap, crackle, and pop. Except for once," Kier said. "One time he took a stalker's stride, with straight feet, one almost in front of the other. The two or three steps that followed were an Indian's walk. The rest was all city man. He was small and traveled fast. He couldn't find natural breaks in the forest. He just bulled his way through. Seemed headed in a lost man's circle that would have intersected with the county road. No blood in the track, but he did walk with a slight drag like he was hurt."
"Old man or young?"
"I can't always tell the age of a man by his track, but in this case it was an old man who wanted to make fools of us all. You will never find the book by yourself." Kier said it with the utmost conviction.
"What do you mean?"
"This man who has your book is the only living Spirit Walker of the Tilok tribe. He lives in the mountains. You will not find him unless he wants you to find him."
"And why would this old man be at the crash site minutes after the plane hit the ground?"