"Do you? I wish I could be as certain. Nathan, I killed her."
Slaughter didn't know what to say.
"What's in those two baskets?" the first guard asked.
"Sandwiches and coffee," Rettig answered.
"That's just fine. You bring them over to this table."
"Hey, there's plenty to go around. Don't eat it all."
"Who us? Why, we'll be sure to throw them scraps from time to time. Don't worry."
Rettig frowned.
"I told you, don't worry," the guard said. "They'll be fed. I promise."
Rettig debated, then nodded, motioning for Marge to set the basket on the table.
"No, I don't like this. Something's wrong," the second guard said. "They're giving us this food too easily. What is it, drugged?"
"It's only coffee and sandwiches," Rettig said.
"And in a while we'll be sleeping like babies. Hell, no, they eat this first. We're not dummies."
"If you say so." Rettig picked up the two baskets, moving toward the cells as the second guard stopped him.
"No, we check it first."
"You think we've got a hacksaw in the meatloaf?"
"How about a rifle up your nose, friend? First we check the basket."
So they sorted through the sandwiches and looked inside the thermoses and shook them. Everything was fine.
"Okay, you stand back here while I distribute them." The first guard walked past Rettig, left some sandwiches before each cell, set down plastic cups, and then the thermoses. "All of you listen. Just as soon as I step back, you can reach out for them. Since you've only got two thermoses, you'll have to pass them to each other, but the moment you're done pouring, put the thermoses back out in front where I can see them. I don't want somebody throwing them."
Slaughter kept his gaze on Rettig. "What about outside?" "Don't ask. All the animals are going crazy. Everybody's got their doors and windows locked. There's random shooting. Prowlers. Two of our men have been wounded." Slaughter shook his head. "We found two hippies by the stockpens." Slaughter waited. "They'd been clubbed to death."
And Slaughter made a gesture as if he didn't want to hear any more. He glanced at Marge, then at the sandwiches and plastic cups and thermoses. He cleared his throat. "Well, listen, thank you, Marge."
She didn't answer, only started from the room. Slaughter looked at Rettig. "Hey, take care of her." "You know it," Rettig said, and then the two guards scowled at Rettig. "Yeah, okay, don't get excited. I'm already gone." Then Rettig scanned the cells and paused, and he was leaving. "See you, Chief." "Take care now."
The door was closed. The room became silent. The group studied the guards.
"Get started," the first guard told them. "Let me see if the food's been drugged. I'm hungry."
Slowly they crouched. Slaughter was the last to reach out for the food. He chewed, his mouth like dust, the meatloaf sandwich tasteless.
"Here, I'll pour the coffee." Troubled by the shooting outside, he reached through the bars and unscrewed the cap on the thermos. He poured the coffee into several plastic cups and passed the cups along.
But one cup he was careful to keep only for himself.
Because as he had poured, a slender pliant object had dropped with it, splashing almost imperceptibly, so soft and narrow that it hadn't rattled when the guard shook both the thermoses. He didn't dare look around to see if anyone had noticed. He just went on as if everything were normal. Then he stood and leaned back on his bunk and chewed his sandwich, stirring with his finger at the coffee. This he knew. He wasn't going to drink the damned stuff, although he did pretend to, and then his finger touched the object. It was like a worm. He felt it, long and slender, pliant. But what was it? For a moment, he suspected that it was an explosive, but that wouldn't do much good because there wasn't any way to set it off. Besides, the noise would draw attention. Rettig wouldn't give him something that he couldn't use. This wasn't plastique then, so what else could it be? He leaned to one side so that no one saw him as he picked the object from the coffee, glancing at it, dropping it back in the coffee. It was red, just like the worm he had imagined. But he couldn't figure what it was or how to use it.
"Christ, this coffee's awful," Dunlap muttered.
"Just shut up and drink," the first guard told him. "I was right," he told the second. "The food's been drugged. They'll soon be asleep."
"Or worse."
"That's all we need. Well, they can throw up all they want to. I'm not going in to help them. You remember that," he told the prisoners. "If anybody's sick, he's on his own."
They set down their plastic cups.
"It's true. This coffee's rotten," Dunlap said.
"Don't drink it then," the medical examiner said.
The first guard started laughing.
Slaughter stood and walked to the bars. "Well, I don't know what's wrong with the rest of you, but this coffee tastes just fine to me. If you don't want it, pass the other thermos down."
"Be careful, Slaughter," Owens told him.
"I know what I'm doing. Hell, I'm thirsty."
"Suit yourself." From the far end, Lucas passed the thermos down. They moved it, hand to hand, along the cells, and Slaughter set it by the thermos he had poured from.
"I'll save this for later."
"If you're not too sick," the second guard told him, grinning.
"You don't know what you're missing."
"I think you'll show us soon enough."
Slaughter shrugged and went back to his bunk, pretending that he sipped and liked the coffee. "All the more for me." And he was yawning. As he lay back in his bunk, he wondered if another worm was in the second thermos and if he would figure out what it was and how to use it. On the wall, the clock showed half past midnight.
NINE
In the barricade, Altick waited. He and his men had been hearing noises for some time, but that was normal. Night sounds in the forest. Animals come out to hunt or graze or simply wander. Coyotes howling. Nightbirds singing. There had been no evidence of danger. They had formed a circle within the barricade and stared out toward the darkness, reassured by what from all signs was another pleasant night spent in the mountains. Then the noises stopped completely, and the men inhaled, their stomachs rigid.
Silence in the mountains was something to be afraid of. One man jerked. An antelope or something big like that was suddenly charging down a wooded slope, its hoofbeats thundering, as if in panic to escape what chased it. There was scurrying through bushes, branches snapping, and abruptly the night became silent again, and they were sweating.
Altick tapped the man beside him. In the almost perfect fullness of the moon, the other man could see Altick pointing. Over to the left, a sound so vague, so indistinct that maybe it was only their imagination. Over to the right, another sound, and now there wasn't any question. Something cautiously approached them. From the forest on the far edge of the barricade, leaves brushed. Then a twig broke, and whatever was out there had encircled them.
Now take it easy, Altick thought. Three things out there can't encircle you. But then he heard a subtle fourth and then a fifth and howling.
"Jesus."
The howling wasn't like wolves or coyotes. It was unlike anything Altick had ever heard, first from the woods before him, then behind him, then no longer singly but in concert all around him. He remembered how the enemy had tried to spook him with their noises like this back in Nam. They'd shout or laugh or play rock and roll. Sometimes they'd talk in English.
But this howling. He'd never heard anything like it. Hoarse and crusty. At the same time, high-pitched and strident. Altick told himself that in Nam he'd endured about the worst thing that a man could live through. This could surely be no worse than that.
You hope, Altick thought. Again he tapped the man beside him. While they'd worked to build the barricade, Altick had explained the significance of each tap and gesture so they could understand each other without talking. Now he passed the sign that emphasized the need for silence. They would have their guns and flashlights ready, and he passed another sign, reminding them to hold their fire until whatever might be out there reached the barricade. He wanted to be certain of a target, but the howling was persistent and unnerving. Lord, it wouldn't stop.