An igloo-shaped round orange tent had been set up, a fire was burning in a circle of stones on the bare ground in the middle of the clearing.
Adolph Karl sat on the ground, leaning against a pack board and drinking from a large leather-covered flask. His son Richie sat on his haunches by the fire, cooking sausages in a fry pan set on a small wire rack over the flames. Frank Marriott and Marty Karl were playing cards on a blanket spread before the tent. Marty took the flask from his father and drank. He passed it on to Marriott.
Newman made a slight downward pressure on Janet's arm with his right hand. He held the Winchester in his left. She dropped to the ground and lay flat watching the camp. Newman remained standing for another moment, looking at the camp. The tent would be for Karl, he thought.
He'll sleep in it and the rest of them will sleep outside. It's only big enough for him and maybe one other. If he sleeps there alone it's a chance to get him and slip away. But not with a gun… with a knife? Could I do it with a knife? Maybe Chris can. He did it before. Maybe Janet. Maybe I can.
He heard something move in the brush. He half turned and a heavy object exploded against the side of his face. He stumbled backward. He wanted to use the Winchester but he couldn't find it. It wasn't in his hand. He was closer to the fire, and then he was very close to it.
He closed his eyes for a moment and opened them and looked at the mottled tan of a puffball almost in his eye. He smelled dirt. He was on the ground.
A voice said, " I was taking a leak when I spotted him prowling around with a gun, Dolph."
The voice was familiar.
"Here's the gun," it said.
Another voice said, "Get him on his feet and look through his pockets.
See who he is." Newman didn't know the voice. But he knew the first one. He was trying to remember where he knew it from when he felt himself jerked upright. He swayed slightly as he stood. Someone's hand held the back of his shirt collar. Someone unbuckled the pistol belt. He smelled body sweat and bad breath and whiskey. His vision was fuzzy, but he could see Adolph Karl and he remembered. He felt his stomach shrink in upon itself. He half-turned as a hand took his wallet. He saw the huge man and he remembered more. He remembered the voice. The huge man had hold of the back of his shirt collar, holding him up easily with his left hand. With his right he tossed the wallet to Karl. The huge man looked at Newman as Newman looked, twisting half around, at him.
"Mother fucker," the huge man said. "I know this guy. He's one of the guys I saw in the alley."
Karl looked at Newman without expression. Richie Karl pointed a shotgun at Newman. Karl took Newman's driver's license out of the wallet and looked at it. He looked at Newman and back at the license.
He turned it so he could see the picture better. Then he put the license back in the wallet and tossed the wallet into the fire.
He looked at Newman again. "He's the guy that fingered me," Karl said.
"The fucking asshole."
CHAPTER 24.
"What are you doing here?" Karl said.
Newman was motionless. He fought against the impulse to look for Chris and Janet. They must be out there. Janet had seen it. She'd been right beside him on the ground. Chris. Did Chris know? He was separate from Janet. What if he'd started back? What if Janet couldn't rescue him?
The huge man had transferred his grip to Newman's upper arms, one hand on each.
"What are you doing here?" Karl said. There was no tone in his voice.
It sounded mechanical.
Newman stayed still. His face hurt. His head ached. His stomach felt bottomless. He was nearly dizzy with fear.
"Marty," Karl said. "Stick his face in the fire till he answers me."
Karl's younger son stepped toward Newman. He was as tall as his father, and fleshy, with an insufficient moustache over a Cupid's-bow mouth. He wore a black sweat shirt on which was printed "The Helmet Law Sucks." He put his right hand behind Newman's neck and began to bend him forward. Newman stiffened his neck and swelled the big trapezius muscles he had earned through years of weight training. Marty couldn't bend him, but the huge man could. He pressed forward and down on Newman's arms, forcing Newman toward the ground, forcing the knees to bend. It's humiliating. Torture isn't just pain, it's public humiliation. He strained against the pressure of Marty's hand and the huge man's force. He was losing. Where the fuck are they! His knees touched, he could feel the fire.
Chris Hood stepped out from behind the orange pup tent and hit the huge man across the back of the head with the butt of the Springfield. The huge man let go of Newman and pitched sideways and sat down. Without the pressure of the huge man Newman uncoiled like a released spring.
He straightened, tearing loose from Marty's grasp. He pushed Marty away from him and jumped for the woods. Richie Karl brought the shotgun up and from the shelter of the trees Janet Newman shot him five times. Hood turned the Springfield at Karl and Frank Marriot shot him in the chest with a.357 magnum. Hood died at once.
Newman turned toward the sounds of Janet's shots and she caught his hand as he reached the dark shelter of the forest. He went ahead of her, she followed, holding on to his hand in the darkness as they blundered as fast as they could through the woods. As they ran, Newman had a vague sense of downhill. He bore left in the darkness, feeling the panic boil in him and fighting to keep it down. They came across some granite outcroppings and stopped.
"Is this the place we were?" Newman's breath was coming in gasps. The sweat ran off his face.
"I don't know," Janet said. She was panting.
"Shh."
They listened. There was no sound of pursuit. He tried to keep his breathing silent so he could listen. The woods were empty of human sound except their own.
"Where's Chris?" Newman said. His breathing was still harsh and labored.
"I think they shot him," Janet said.
"Jesus Christ," Newman said. "Are you sure?" "I saw him fall," Janet said, "then we ran. I don't know. I think so." "Oh, good Jesus," Newman said. "We're on our own."
Janet nodded.
"Jesus, Jesus," Newman said.
"We can do it," Janet said.
"What if he's not dead," Newman said, "and they've got him?"
Janet was silent.
"We'll have to help him," Newman said.
"If he's not dead."
"We have to know," Newman said. "Jesus, what a mess."
"Nothing's changed," Janet said. "There's one fewer of us and at least one fewer of them. The odds are still the same."
"Except they know we're here." Newman's breathing was easier. He looked at his wife in the dim light where the stars shone into the clearing. "You shot the one with the shotgun."
"Yes."
"Just like I showed you." "Breathe, Aim, Slack, Squeeze," she said.
"He would have killed me."
"That's why I shot him."
"How do you feel?" "Scared, out of wind, mad. Like you," she said.
"But you killed a guy. You've never done that before. Does it bother you?"
"No. It had to be done. I don't mind. I won't mind next time either." "You are a tough cookie," Newman said. "Thank God."
"No, I don't think that's it, Aaron. It might be hard if it were right close and you had to wrestle and gouge or if you knew the person. But at fifty feet with someone I don't know it's easy. Squeeze the trigger. Just like you put the brakes on in a car. Something happens, you react. Didn't you ever kill anyone in Korea?"
"I don't think so. I was a radio operator at battalion level. I heard shots fired in anger, but I didn't kill anyone I can recall."