Indian men did not weep. For all the white man's culture that had taken over in him, this one thing had never changed. Now he wanted to cry. For reasons he couldn't fathom, he didn't move. Minutes ticked by. He noticed a tear on his face, and could feel its track as it ran-a terribly odd sensation.
He was oblivious to the approach of the old man-until he felt his grandfather's hand grasp his arm.
"I thought you would never stop," Grandfather said. "I have been following you, waiting to see where your thoughts would carry you
… You were going so quickly."
Grandfather's eyes sparkled with interest, the gaze penetrating. Somehow Grandfather had always managed to stand ramrod straight, even in old age. Only the creases in his face and the long, flowing gray hair betrayed his years. The Spirit Walker never spoke in terms of "worry." Worry was not a habit he considered appropriate to this or any other life.
"You watched me walk away?"
"It was important."
"Never mind. Where is the sixth volume? Were you at the jet?"
"Did you not see my track?"
"Yes, yes. You laid a white man's track."
"Didn't it cry loudly?" The old man barely cracked a smile.
"Yes. Too loudly. Now where is the volume?"
"Why do you ask?"
"I need it so I can at least pretend I'll trade it for Jessie."
"I do not have it."
"I need it for Jessie to live. I need to save our people."
"From what?"
"A disease, a virus, from the man who owns the plane."
"I have the cure for the disease. I gave it to the newspaper man."
"What do you mean?"
"A man on the jet, he gave me a thick book… told me to give it to a man at the New York Times, along with the big case. He said it was the cure for the Tilok. He stayed with the plane. He said others would come."
"What book?"
"He said it explained everything about the cure and about the plane."
Kier was stunned. The man who threw the grenade had been friend, not foe-only there had been no way to know. He had died believing Kier and Jessie were part of Tillman's private army.
"Where is the case that has the medicine for the cure?"
"James Cole has half of the medicine-the other half I hid. James is on his way to the New York Times with the diary and half the medicine-he went where the man on the plane told me-to a reporter in San Francisco."
"Do you know anything of Claudie?"
"She is safe in a cave. I am now a godfather to the two boys. Claudie and her boys are very strong."
"We've got to save Jessie. Somehow I need to fake a trade for Volume Six. And I have to have something in my hands to prove I've something to trade, to stop him from hurting Jessie."
"Let's go get her."
"How?"
"Come on. I'll show you."
Chapter 33
Powerful men are moved by their wills; great men by their spirits.
Although the horizon was now exploding with the red dawn, the light remained low, darkness holding itself fast in the shadows where Grandfather and Kier moved soundlessly. As he went, the old man called out occasionally like a chickadee.
Once, when he must have seen or felt Kier's frown, he said, "It is so that if there are any watchful ones, they might mistake the spirit of the one who passes."
Since they were making no sound, Kier took him to refer to some spiritual sense. He only shook his head and wished he had a gun. Then he recalled his pack, and reached a hand to Grandfather's shoulder.
"I have a gun off that way, at the head of the pasture."
"I don't think there is time if we are going to do this before full daylight," the old man said.
They made their way to the edge of the forest. At then-closest, the trees were a good fifty feet from the house. Kier wondered how they would get across the opening in the gray light of the dawn. When they reached the last patch of brush, they lay flat and looked over the foot-high bunch grass. Two men were visible, one at the edge of the front porch, the other by the back door. Each had an M-16. Without guns, it was hopeless. Kier glanced at Grandfather, who simply nodded before turning and grabbing the nearest Scotch broom. It had been uprooted and fashioned into a hedgework that a man could hide behind. Back on his belly, Grandfather moved it out into the grass, then motioned to Kier, his first two fingers making a walking motion; then he pointed to himself. Obviously, he intended to show himself in the clearing as a distraction.
"When I get inside, you turn out the lights at the fuse box," Grandfather said. "White men see nothing anyway. But you must move in your spirit."
Inwardly, Kier winced. Nobody is invisible, not even Stalking Bear, he told himself. Still, he would keep himself so flat to the ground he might as well be a spirit.
"I will also make you invisible," the old man whispered, trotting off into the forest.
Kier waited. The odds of this working were miniscule. Grandfather was the stealthiest man he had ever known, but he still had to lug around a body susceptible to a bullet. Once inside the house, lights or no lights, everyone but Grandfather and him would have a gun.
However insane it was, there was no time to ponder it, for Grandfather was now out in the open. About one hundred feet away, he had emerged from the forest. But he didn't just walk. Instead, he danced and chanted. It was an elaborate pantomime that told the story of a great hunt.
"What the hell?" The man on the back porch by the fuse box advanced toward Grandfather, while Kier began to crawl.
The man went for his radio. "We've got some old Indian out here, crazy as a coot."
"Repeat, did you say old?"
"Wrinkled as a prune. Just dancing and chanting."
"Bring him in," Kier heard Tillman say.
Both men now walked quickly to Grandfather, while Kier crawled as fast as he dared toward the rear door. More men came out of the front door, walking around the kids' toys, and another man came around back just an instant after Kier had slipped under the back porch.
Kier hunkered down while the new man took up position above him. His eyes peered through the space between the planking. From the shadow of the man's feet, he knew he was standing well back toward the house. No solution came to mind. Damn. He was stuck. Crawling out from under the porch was out of the question. He would be dead before he got over the porch railing. And now Grandfather was captive, waiting, helpless-like Jessie.
The chair was from Europe of all places. Before this Jessie had thought it was comfortable. It was unbelievably stout, but even if it hadn't been, she would have had no opportunity to free herself. A man stood next to the chair, guarding her. Periodically Tillman would appraise her from a distance, like a dog checking its dinner bowl. It was only a matter of time before he tried to complete what he had started in the forest, she knew. His humiliation burned in his eyes. Now it was a contest.
Incredibly, she was starting to believe that the man Doyle was not really one of Tillman's mercs. He had signaled her twice with an almost imperceptible nod. She wondered if he could be FBI. It could easily be some elaborate trick, just as Tillman had said.
Pain shot up her back through her shoulder blades, and her knees felt as though they had needles in them. Being immobilized was far more painful than she would ever have imagined. She couldn't move anything that counted, and the only time she could get up was to use the bathroom-and each time she did, they retaped her more tightly than ever. Although caked in blood, the cuts on her face appeared superficial in the mirror.
Her first indication that something unusual was happening came when she heard about the old Indian over the radio. She was almost certain it would be Grandfather. Then they were bringing him in. Two men picked up her chair and put it close to the wall dividing the kitchen from the living area so that she could not see or be seen.