He crossed the room. Pushed into the corner between the bunk and the wall was a hardboard closet. The guns were in there: though he had to go around, opening drawers, before he discovered some shells. I looked out the window and saw that it was growing much darker. Not good; Subotin would be growing restive, waiting for Brightman to show. For a moment, I wondered if this whole scheme wasn't crazy, but it was the best I could think of. And I wasn't being naive; capturing Subotin was a long shot, but keeping Brightman from killing him might even be harder. I knew something else: Brightman killing me wasn't entirely out of the question.
Now, though, he brought me the gun. It was a venerable double-barreled Stevens, from the era of exposed hammers and twin triggers; the sort of gun I'd learned to shoot with. I opened it and loaded both barrels, then put two more shells into my pocket. I tried to look him in the eye then; but he couldn't meet my glance. Yet instead of confirming my suspicions, this suggested another: that, rather than killing Subotin, he'd contrive events so that Subotin killed him. It was a paradox. Brightman had been resurrected in front of my eyes, but so far as he was concerned, he was dead — and better off for it, just as he'd said.
But I'd have to cross that bridge when I came to it. I looked at my watch. "It's almost four. The quicker, the better. Give me till half past to get into position, then wait for my signal. Do you speak any Russian?"
"Yes."
"Okay. I'll shout 'Stoy!'—'Stay where you are'—when I'm ready. Wait and see what happens then before you reveal yourself."
He nodded. "All right." And then he stuck out his hand— though whether this was a sign of alliance or a farewell, I couldn't be sure.
I went to the door and stepped out. The air was cold and raw, the day darkening swiftly. The sky held all the shades of a bruise; with the drizzle, the trees in the little clearing had lost definition while the surrounding forest blurred to a dark, indefinite smudge. Slipping the gun into the crook of my arm, I stepped down from the cabin.
Then it happened.
Three hard cracks—a flurry of splinters flying into my hair. Throwing myself to the ground, I scrambled desperately under the cabin.
23
Everything happened so quickly now that there was no time for thought. My breath was knocked out of me as I hit the ground, and as I rolled and twisted under the cabin a stone slashed my knee and something reached down from above to gouge at my cheek. Yet I felt nothing — not even terror: I just kept rolling until I banged up against one of the pilings that held up the cabin. Wedged against this, I sprawled flat on my belly. I was in a low, dark crawl space. Six inches above my head were the floorboards of the cabin; on either side were assorted bits of junk and debris — old boards, a rake, a screen, a splintered scrap of plywood that cut at my hand; and all I could see in front of me was a maze of pilings and the narrow strip of light where the foundation ended. And then another shot rang out and I pressed my face into a puddle of mud and dead leaves. Somewhere over my head, the shot smashed through the cabin, the sound feeding back with a nasty whine. I began wiggling back even farther, till my head hit a joist. That stopped me and then I listened for a moment. Subotin was calling something, but I couldn't hear what it was.
And as I peered at that gray strip of light all I could see were the stalks of dead grass around the foundation. Now came two more shots, quick, one on top of the other, and I wormed back some more. Sensing light behind me, I began slewing around. A cobweb stickily matted over my mouth, I pushed an old bucket out of my way, but then I scrambled ahead, elbows working madly, and rolled into the open. I pulled myself up — and just then a voice hissed, "Thorne? Is it you?"
I spun around — almost more startled by this than by the shots. But then I realized it was Bnghtman, on the other side of the wall; there was no window, but he was whispering, his lips pressed to a crack.
"Listen! He thinks you are me. He must. Run! Get into the trees. There's a path that takes you down to the stream—stay in the stream! Hurry!"
I could scarcely understand this — I was too confused — but even as my brain fought to get control of my tongue, I heard Brightman rolling away and sensed Subotin, on the far side of the cabin, making his dash through the clearing. I looked up. The dark, oysterish light swam and pulsed in front of my eyes. Here, behind the cabin, the clearing continued for perhaps fifty yards, the black massed shadows of the trees beckoning beyond. There was no time to think, to "decide"; I just started to run, running for my very life, head down, lungs gasping, one step fleeing another. Leaping over rocks, blundering through bushes, I barely knew where I was going, for in the dying light the world had lost all definition. Everything floated in murk, space itself had discovered new rules. Before me, the safe shadow of the forest seemed to retreat forever, like a mirage; but vague, remote forms suddenly came into focus an inch away from my face: the bare bones of a birch, the bright beaded pattern of a spider's web, a withered seed pod hanging from a bush. And in the same way, even as I began to feel I was running through a hopeless dream, the dark trees suddenly reached out and grabbed me.
Only then did I allow myself a single look back — the clearing was empty. At once, taking a breath, I began running again. Then, a moment later, I stumbled onto a path. The path to the stream: for the first time I realized I was doing just what Brightman had told me. And why did that raise a doubt? But my desperation was still too intense to consider this question and I merely followed the path until, just as he'd said, it joined up with the streambed. Jumping down over the edge of the bank — which gave me the protection of a parapet — I finally stopped and turned around.
Struggling to catch my breath, my face pressed to the scurf of dead grass along the top of the bank, I looked into the dark whorls of shadow that spread back, into the forest. But there was nothing to see, and all I could hear was the rush of my breath in my throat and the whispering wind in the trees. I was safe — for the moment. But where was Subotin? What had happened to Brightman? What should I do?
He thinks you're me… Run… Stay in the stream…
Now Brightman's words came back to me… and with them, cold as the shadows around me, a swirling mist of doubt: the same small doubt I'd felt in the cabin, but now a thousand times magnified. Had I walked into a trap? All at once, every hint and fear and suspicion I'd felt these past weeks seemed to become crystal clear. I cursed — swore aloud: right there, staring back into the woods, my lips against the mud of the bank — for I was sure I understood now. Admitting the truth about my father let other truths in as well. Why had / been chosen to play May's protector? Because Brightman knew he could always control me — my father's guilt gave him an even greater hold over me than he'd had over Hamilton. But I'd gone too far; found out too much. That's why Brightman might have been forced to do a deal with Subotin — two wily foxes joining their cunning — a deal whose final clause was my elimination. So Subotin had let me see him in Harrisburg; I'd been intended to follow him here. Yes: the ambush in the clearing had been designed for me to walk into, and now that I'd escaped, Bright-man was trying to set up another. Stay in the stream…
But almost as soon as I thought this, my mind jerked away. It couldn't be true… Brightman, coming out of his cabin when I'd first seen him, had not been a man expecting to hear a murderous shot. And May — could she do this? After what had passed between us on Hamilton's barge, I simply wasn't prepared to believe it. Besides, Brightman was probably right. Subotin didn't know who I was; he could have had no idea that I was in the cabin at all. Subotin thought I was Brightman. It was probably the only reason why I was still alive. Knowing Subotin's background, it was hard to believe that he could have missed me as I came out of the cabin door; despite the bad light, it was just too easy a shot. But he'd not been meaning to kill, only to frighten: because his main interest remained the money, and for that he needed Brightman alive.