Hannibal Rising (17 page)

Amanda had been hit in the back of the head. The slug ruptured her face, taking part of her nose and cheek with it. She was still on her feet but her eyes were empty of life and her legs starting to give way.

“Amanda!” Charlotte cried. She was riveted in horror and dismay.

“Down, damn it!” Fargo lunged, wrapped an arm around her ankles, and yanked at the very moment that the rifle belched lead and smoke a second time.

The killer missed.

Fargo had Sam on one side and Charlotte on the other. They couldn’t stay there; they were too exposed. “Run!” he commanded, and since he couldn’t count on them to obey, he grabbed both and raced around the bluff, pulling them. Sam matched him but Charlotte dug in her heels.

“Amanda! I can’t leave her!”

“She’s dead!” Fargo pulled harder. They would be dead, too, if they didn’t find cover, and quickly. He rounded the bluff as another shot struck a tree and flew another twenty feet, veering back and forth to make it harder for the shooter to hit them. The next instant they plunged into heavy cover.

The vegetation was so dense that Fargo doubted the killer could see them but he wasn’t taking chances. A spruce flanked by high weeds offered haven. He flattened and tugged the women down beside him.

“Amanda,” Charlotte said, and sobbed.

“Quiet.” Fargo let go and raised his head high enough to see over the weeds. There was no sign of pursuit but it could be the shooter was too smart to show him or her self.

“What do we do?” Sam whispered. “We can’t fight a rifle with our bare hands.”

Fargo was all too aware of that. He looked around for a downed tree limb or a fist-sized rock.

“Why did they shoot Amanda?” Sam wondered. “Why not Charlotte or me? Amanda can’t inherent anything.”

“Maybe they’re toying with us,” Fargo speculated. “Or maybe they were aiming at Charlotte or you and Amanda stepped into their sights.” He hadn’t been paying attention to what Amanda was doing.

“We must report this,” Charlotte said, tears moistening her cheeks. “We must get to the hunting lodge and send word to the sheriff.”

“I agree,” Sam said.

Fargo rose up for another look around. He couldn’t see much for all the trees. The lodge had to be a quarter of a mile away, maybe more. Reaching it would take some doing.

“Well?” Charlotte prompted.

Fargo squatted. “It could be that’s what they want us to do. Panic and run for the lodge and right into their guns.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I’m a good guesser.”

Sam said, “Our other option is to stay put. The shots were bound to be heard. Pickleman will come. Or maybe Roland or Tom.”

“If they’re still alive,” Fargo said.

Charlotte hissed in anger. “First Emmett and then Charles and now Amanda. I want to find the vermin who killed them. I want to see them suffer for what they’ve done.”

“It’s a pity we weren’t allowed weapons,” Sam said.

Fargo had never missed his Colt and Henry more. This was why he never went anywhere without them. In times of danger a gun was a man’s best friend.

“Do we try for the lodge or not?” Charlotte asked.

“We try,” Fargo replied. “But we do it my way.” He lowered onto his belly and crabbed backward. “Do as I do. And from here on out no talking unless I say it’s safe.”

The sisters mimicked him. Charlotte’s dress snagged on a rock and she started to swear but stopped at a sharp gesture from Fargo. He was a ghost compared to them. He glided along making very little sound; they made a lot. It didn’t help that their dresses kept catching on the brush, or that Charlotte kept swatting at a fly.

Fargo halted after only a hundred feet. “We’re making it too easy for them,” he whispered.

“What are you talking about?” Charlotte asked.

Samantha understood. “I can’t help it. I try to be quiet but I don’t have much practice at it.”

“We should wait for dark,” Fargo proposed.

“And leave poor Amanda lying back there for the coyotes to eat?” Charlotte shook her head. “I should say not.”

“They’ll feed on you, too, if we’re not more careful.”

“Look. It’s not that far to the lodge. All we have to do is reach it and we’re safe.” Charlotte began to rise and jerked her arm away when Fargo went to stop her. “I’m tired of skulking about. Let’s run for it and to hell with the assassins.”

From out of nowhere streaked a knife. Spinning end over end, it struck Charlotte in the chest with a sickening
thuck
. The blade buried itself to the hilt. She cried out and clutched it.

“No!” Fargo said.

Charlotte wrenched on the knife. It came out—and so did a fountain of scarlet, spurting like water from a hose. She gasped and tottered and bleated, “God, not me, too.” With that she toppled.

“Charlotte!”
Samantha scrambled to scoop her sister into her arms but Fargo was quicker. He scooped Sam into his and darted in among a cluster of pines. She fought him but he held fast, saying into her ear, “Do you want to wind up like her?”

Sam went limp. She sobbed and covered her mouth and then pressed her face to him and cried.

Fargo let her. The pines protected them for the moment. He was sorry about Charlotte but she had been too stubborn for her own good. Her death meant Tom or Roland had hired the brother and sister killers. Or did it? The pair had killed Anders. The pair had killed Cletus Brun, Tom’s partner in the hunt. That made it unlikely Tom had hired them. Which left one person, the one he never would have suspected, the one he had liked from the start since they had so much in common. “I’ll be damned.”

“What?” Sam asked through her tears.

“Nothing.” Fargo figured she had endured enough in the past few minutes. The revelation could wait.

Sam sat up. She sniffled and wiped her sleeve across her face. “Do you think they’re still out there?”

“At least one of them is.”

“I bet you could make it to the lodge without me to slow you down.”

“No.”

“I don’t want you to die on my account.”

“This isn’t about you,” Fargo told her. “It’s not about your brothers or your sister or the chest your father buried. It hasn’t been since the steamboat.”

“Then what?” Sam asked in puzzlement.

“It’s about
me
. Those bastards tried to kill me on the
Yancy
. That made it personal. You could say you want to be shed of me as your partner right this second and I wouldn’t leave. I’m not going anywhere until I’ve paid them back.”

“An eye for an eye—is that your creed?”

“You’re goddamn right it is.” Fargo was growing angrier the more he talked. Reining in his temper, he finished with, “I’m in this to the end whether you want me to be or not.”

Her hand found his. “I couldn’t make it without you.”

Off in the woods something moved. Fargo caught a glimpse. He doubted it was a deer. Putting a finger to his lips, he backed away and motioned for her to follow.

For one of the few times since Fargo met her, fright showed in Samantha’s eyes. She had lost two brothers and seen her sister killed and she knew she might be next. He didn’t blame her for being scared.

It was cat and mouse and they were the mice. Fargo could never be sure they had given their stalker the slip. He stayed low, always hugging the shadows, always staying close to trees and thickets so the assassin wouldn’t have a clear shot or be able to throw another knife.

They had been at it for nearly ten minutes when Fargo drew up short. Up ahead the undergrowth moved. Either the killer had circled around in front of them or it was an animal. But he was wrong.

Out of the vegetation came Tom Clyborn. He was searching the ground and hadn’t seen them. He was so close that when he did, he gave a start and blurted, “Sam! Fargo! Why didn’t you say something?”

Fargo seized Tom’s forearm and forcibly pulled him down. Tom resisted and opened his mouth to object but Fargo clamped his other hand over it. “One of the killers is after us. Keep still and keep your voice down.”

Tom desisted. When Fargo removed his hand he whispered, “You’re being stalked?”

Sam nodded.

“I haven’t seen hide nor hair of anyone since I left you earlier. Have you seen any of the others?”

“Charlotte and Amanda,” Sam said, and sorrowfully informed him, “They’re both dead.”

“Charlotte too?” Tom bowed his head. “Damn it. Now there are only three of us left.”

“So far as we know.”

“Eh? Oh. You mean Roland might be dead, too?” Tom gazed about. “Where’s the killer? Which one is it, Fargo? The man or the woman you told us about?”

“It could be either. Or both.”

“I hope it’s the woman. She’ll be easier to fight.”

Fargo remembered how skilled the mystery woman was with a knife and how she hopped around like a jackrabbit. “I wouldn’t count on that if I were you. They’re both good at what they do.”

“What’s your plan?”

Sam said, “We’re trying to reach the hunting lodge. Pickleman needs to be told, and whether he wants to or not, I’m getting word to the sheriff and we’re ending this stupid hunt once and for all. The will be damned.”

“Damn Father, you mean,” Tom said. “This is all his fault. Him and his hate for us.”

Fargo broke in with, “We must keep on the move.”

“Lead the way,” Tom said. “I don’t have any idea where the lodge is.”

Fargo nodded and went to start off when an idea struck him. He scanned the forest and said half to himself, “It might work.”

“What might?” Sam asked.

“I thought we are heading for the lodge?” Tom said.

“The killer might not know you’re with us,” Fargo explained. “If the two of you go on alone, he might think it’s your sister and me.”

“What about you?” Tom wanted to know.

“I’ll climb a tree. When I see who it is, I’ll stalk them like they’ve been stalking us. When I’m close I’ll jump them and kill them and the two of you will be safe.”

“I like it,” Sam said.

“I don’t,” Tom declared. “What if you don’t spot them? What if they catch on that you’re stalking them and jump you instead? Or what if they decide to kill us before you jump them?” He shook his head. “There’s too much that can go wrong.”

“None of us might not reach the hunting lodge if we don’t do something.”

“I’ll take my chances. I say we stick together.”

“Please, Tom,” Sam said. “You’re being stubborn.”

“You’re damn right I am. My life is at stake.”

“I trust Skye, Tom. He’s doing all he can to keep us alive.”

“So it’s
Skye
, is it?” Tom smirked. “If you want to trust him, go right ahead. But don’t expect me to.”

“Be reasonable, will you?”

“The three of us should stick together,” Tom insisted. “I’ll watch your backs and you watch mine.”

Fargo bit off an impulse to swear a blue streak. They couldn’t afford to stay there squabbling. “I know you hired Brun and Anders.”

“What?”

“I know you hired them and the sheriff will want to know, too. But I’ll keep my mouth shut if you’ll do as your sister wants.”

“You son of a bitch.”

“Well?”

“Well nothing,” Tom spat. “For your information I
didn’t
have anything to do with Anders and I hired Brun to help me in the hunt and nothing more.”

Fargo almost believed him. But if Tom didn’t hire them, who did? Roland? And if Roland hired them, who hired the brother and sister?

“Will you do it if I beg you?” Sam asked her brother.

“I might have. But not now. Not after your scout has insulted me. We’re sticking together and that’s final.”

“You heard Skye. The killer will catch us.”

“You’re already caught,” said a voice.

Fargo spun.

It was the brother. He stood six feet away, a Remington revolver in his hand. “I should thank you for making it so easy.”

Tom Clyborn started to stand but the click of the revolver’s hammer turned him to stone. “Don’t!” he bleated, throwing his hands in front of him as if to ward off searing lead.

Fargo didn’t twitch a muscle. He knew how deadly this killer and his sister were.

The young man showed no more emotion than a rock. He said in a cold tone with the same hint of an accent Fargo had noticed before, “I do so hate cowards. Sit down, fool, and keep your hands where I can see them. The same applies to both of you,” he addressed Fargo and Samantha.

Fargo sank but he contrived to coil his legs under him. He placed his hands in plain sight.

“Who are you?” Samantha asked. “What do you want?”

“Don’t be stupid,” the young man said. “Someone in my line of work doesn’t ever say who they are. As to what I want, my work speaks for itself.”

“You’re an assassin,” Sam said.

“For want of a better word, yes.” The man took a step to the left, the Remington unwavering. “I don’t flatter myself when I say we are two of the best there are at what we do.”

“We?”

Fargo said, “Him and his sister.”

The assassin’s dark eyes flitted to Fargo. “You remember us, do you?” he sarcastically asked.

“Folks who try to kill me tend to stick in my mind.”

A hint of a smile touched the young man’s mouth. “Forty-three times we’ve been hired, and you are the only person we’ve ever failed to kill. Your reflexes are the fastest we’ve ever seen.”

Fargo said nothing.

“Who hired you?” Sam asked. “Will you tell us that much at least?”

“My employer will make himself known soon enough. He desires to talk to you before we finish it.”

“What about?”

“He didn’t say but I suspect it is the chest that your père”—the young man caught himself—“sorry, the chest that your father buried.” He paused. “You haven’t found it yet, have you?”