Curran dropped onto the porch step and ran both hands through his hair. “You’re on watch.”
“Good guess.”
He shook his head and uttered a shaky bark of laughter. “Thought you were a creeper.”
Handy sat down beside him. “Just wanted to watch the sun come up, Brother.”
“Is it that late?”
“It’s that early.”
They both turned toward the deeper woods, sitting companionably. Sure enough, the sky behind the farthest ridges had lightened just enough to make the outlines of the trees look more distinct.
“Polished off the tequila, I guess,” said Handy.
“I didn’t mean to stay down there all damned night.” He leaned into Handy’s shoulder and gave him a nudge. “I didn’t kill the bottle. Saved you some.”
“About killed me, though.”
“Sorry.”
“Yeah.”
Far in the distance, a yellow warbler called. A half-minute later, it called again, and there was an answering call closer by.
“What spooked you?” Handy’s voice was so quiet it was nearly a whisper.
Curran shifted. “I’m not exactly sure,” he said. “Too much booze and not enough sleep, probably.”
“Sitting down in a hole all night.”
“That too. It’s claustrophobic down there. For a minute, I thought I heard something on the radio.” He bowed his head and rubbed his tired eyes with his fingers.
Handy looked at him. “Heard what?”
Curran hesitated. “A couple of clicks.”
“Clicks?”
“Clicks.” He sniffed. “Yeah, I know, it sounds lame, but it seemed deliberate. Somebody was testing the waters.”
The eastern ridge had brightened to a pearly gray-white, and now they could make out long tendrils of fog threaded through the treetops and filling the snaking line of the river valley. More birds had taken up the morning salute, and in a quiet pause came the distant, clockwork rattle of a woodpecker.
“I need to grab some sleep,” Curran said. “I may not know what the hell I’m talking about right now.” He got to his feet and swayed slightly. “Feckin tequila,” he groaned. “My head’s already breaking.”
“Could be worse,” said Handy.
“Yeah, I could have drunk the whole bottle.”
“Nah,” said Handy. The woodpecker stutter-knocked on the morning again. “You could be that guy right now. Pounding your face on a tree for breakfast.”
Curran groaned again. “Bite me, Brother.”
“Sleep.”
Inside, it was still dark. He fell onto the longer sofa like a sack of grain and sleep weighted him down at once. As he lost his tether on the conscious world, he heard Talus patter downstairs, toenails clipping lightly on the wood. Arie began to stir in the room over his head. Four days, she’d said last night. Soon she’d be in the kitchen, throwing wood into the stove to heat water. Then Renna started humming something sweet, and he drifted on the sound.
Here comes day one, he thought, and dropped into sleep.
-15-
IT WAS LATE AFTERNOON when Gilch returned with news.
“Found it,” he told Russell and Doyle.
“Tell me,” said Russell. His torn lips spread in a ragged smile. The tattered flesh was hidden under his scarf; nevertheless, that smile caused Alex to take an unconscious step backward.
No matter. They had them.
“The cabin,” said Gilch. “Nice little setup, tucked away so that you could miss it if you didn’t know to look. It’s two stories. There are some windows, but plenty of blind spots.”
“How far is it?” asked Doyle.
“Close,” said Gilch. “Up the river about two klicks, then over the ridge. If we haul ass, we can be there in a little over an hour.
Alex had sidled away and perched on a downed log, digging into the mulchy bark with the point of his knife. “You see anyone?” he asked
“No. I didn’t want to get that close,” said Gilch. He turned back to Doyle. “Most of the windows look out the front, so I circled around and came down on it from the back. It’s steep behind there—no good way for anyone to bolt without going straight up hill, and they sure as hell aren’t going to drag the old woman that way to escape.”
Doyle nodded. “Good. We’ll only need one guy in back, just in case.”
“Did you see the dog?” asked Russell.
“No, Chief,” said Gilch. “But I found tracks. Lots of them.”
“Good,” he said. “Listen to me.” He eyed them one by one. “I want the dog.” He reached under the scarf and fingered the tags and tidbits of his upper lip. It was a habit he was no longer aware he had. “I want all of them—you know that. Remember, if we can take them back with us, great. If you have to kill them, fine. But I want that fucking dog.”
They’d heard this rap many times. The dog, the dog. But they nodded assent.
“Grab your shit,” said Doyle. “We’re going fast and we’re going quiet. Stay together.” He looked at Alex. “Pay attention, cretin.”
Alex scowled, but said nothing.
Making decent time near the river wasn’t a cakewalk, but despite the mud, the piles of river rock, and the brambly thicket they occasionally had to hack through, Gilch had estimated the time correctly. They finally left the riverbed and began the final ascent of the ridge. It was full dark when he signaled them to stop.
They gathered in a huddle. A fine mist was not so much falling as it was simply appearing around them. When they got up close, the combined reek of their bodies and clothing was a miasma.
“Holy crap, what a stink,” Alex muttered.
“That’s your asshole, asshole,” said Gilch. He gestured due west, where the trees dipped from the ridge summit into a moderate gulch and then leveled out before the next ridge rose. “They’re over there,” he said. “I marked trail. We can camp in that swale tonight, no problem.” It was dense forest, and whatever might be under the canopy was securely out of sight.
“Hell, we could throw a bonfire down in there and nobody’d see it until their eyebrows were scorched,” said Doyle. He looked to Russell for confirmation.
Russell nodded. “Single-file,” he said. “No talking. Sleep in your bags, but no tents. Keep your boots on.” They hunched miserably in the chilly damp, leaning close to hear Russell’s quiet voice speaking through the folds of his scarf. Minuscule droplets of fog clung to their clothing and hair, giving them a silvery, powdered appearance. “If it looks the way Gilch reports, safe for a fire,” he said, “we’ll make hot rations.”
“We’ll move before first light,” said Doyle, “and we aren’t going to alert them. If any of you so much as cut a loud fart, I swear to God I will slit your throat.”
They were making camp, such as it was, ten minutes later. As luck would have it, they happened on a goosepen. It was the old name given to enormous standing redwoods that had been hollowed at the base by a lightning strike. Some strange twist in the natural order kept the tree alive and growing despite its wound.
Down in the gulch, the forest canopy was all but impenetrable, blocking out even the falling mist. In the dry, sweet-smelling duff outside the goosepen, they had a fire—small and brief—to heat the last of their dried soup and tea. There was no whispered conversation, none of their usual nervy bullshitting. They were sick of the hunt. Russell was glad to see it. Tomorrow, they’d go into the fight at full tilt, happy to end it.
Garret drew the short straw for first watch. The rest of them crawled inside the shelter, and by the time he moved a short distance from the camp, there was little noise anywhere. With winter closing in, even night critters wanted to curl up and quiet down.
He’d positioned himself up a small rise in the V of a downed alder. From that vantage point only the top of his head was visible. He could watch their camp from one direction, keep an eye on the likely points of ingress from the other, and lean into the notch for comfort. Not too much comfort—he couldn’t risk falling asleep, not now, not when they were on the verge of finishing what he’d begun thinking of as Russell’s road trip of vengeance.