Hunting Season (24 page)

“Uh, I didn’t tell you what I set up. In case he comes again and we’re not there.”

“Yes?”

“I did the Ditch. You know, those steel plates out on the main street? I set them one of them as a pit trap. Took out them center support bars.

Anyone walks on that steel, he’s goin’ down twenty feet into the Ditch.

That’s all concrete down there. Break his legs, prob’ly. Then we’ll have his ass.”

“Yeah, that should do it. Which panel?”

“Second up from the power plant. That way, comin’ in, he’ll walk on several of them, and feel safe. Uh—”

“What, Jared? It’s late.”

“Tomorrow? I’m gonna be runnin’ errands all day—laundry, grocery store, stuff like that? Then this lady friend called me. Wants to get together tomorrow night.”

“Jared, we’re almost finished with this thing. I need you there tomorrow night.”

“I haven’t had a night off in a long while,” Jared whined.

“I’m a young man. I’ve got my needs, for Chrissakes!” He winced, knowing what was coming next.

“Do not take the Lord’s name in vain, young man. This is your father we are avenging, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“He wasn’t my father for very long, was he?” Jared said, and again winced, waiting for the explosion. But the old man didn’t say anything.

That was almost worse.

“Look,” Jared said, rushing to fill that ominous silence.

“It’s just one night. Why don’t we leave it all alone, let the place cool off. Let my trap do its job. Go in on Sunday instead, during the day. Change the pattern, screw this guy up, whoever he is.”

“Because, for one thing, we’re close to finishing. There should be enough copper. The sooner the truck is pressurized, the sooner I can get out of there. And for another, I’ve got to feed our prisoner.”

Jared formed a quick image of Lynn’s taut body.

“Shit, she’s in pretty good shape. She’ll survive.”

“And how would you know that, Jared?”

“I just mean, one night ain’t gonna kill her,” Jared said quickly.

“Look, I promised this woman I’d go see her, all right? I’m a man, damn it. I’ve got needs.”

There was an angry silence on the line.

“You’ve got a short circuit between your brain and your dick is what you’ve got,” Browne said.

“Well, go on, you ungrateful pup. I’ll do this thing without you. Go hump your slut. I hope her husband comes home with a shotgun and catches the both of you.”

Browne slammed the phone in Jared’s ear. Jared put the handset back on up on the wall, sighed, and finished his beer. Hell with him, he thought.

He’ll get over it. He’ll want me back when we catch whoever the hell has been racking around out there. Old man is half-crazy anyway. He felt a surge of resentment. The old man loved the memory of dead William a whole lot more than he loved Jared. He wondered why. Must have something to do with the way everything turned to shit for him

after William left. The cancer. The closing of the arsenal. That shit with his pension. He shook his head. Screw it. It was almost over anyway.

He dropped down into the ratty old recliner and popped the television on. Three fat women in miniskirts were wrestling across a stage while a talk-show host watched with mock alarm and the audience screamed for blood. He smiled as he wondered what kinds of things might be down in that tunnel. The old man himself had probably sent thousands of gallons down there during all those years he’d been working there. Bet there’s some regular mutant shit down there by now.

He settled back to watch the fun, when the lights cut out and the television went black.

“What the fuck?” he muttered into the sudden silence, getting up out of his chair. Then he realized he could see, because the orange security light on the power pole was still on. That meant that the power company had not dropped the load. He squinted out the kitchen windows, but there was nothing moving out there in his yard. Or in the dog pen, he realized. He squinted harder but could see no sign of his dogs. Was that pen door shut? They might all three be in their igloos, but usually one was stretched out on the concrete. He tried a light switch in the kitchen, but nothing happened.

He went to the junk drawer by the sink, resurrected a flashlight, and went outside. He checked the power box, where the overhead wires came down to his meter. There was no sign of trouble. Then he called to his dogs, to see if they were stirring. There was no reaction, so he walked over to the pen and found the door slightly ajar. This time, he swore out loud: “How the hell did this happen?” He listened for the sound of baying and rooing in the distance, but the only dog he heard was that little yapper belonging to that crazy old deaf woman who lived a mile down the county road. He was sure he had latched up this gate after feeding them.

He was sure of it. Then he remembered the sounds he had heard the other night, and he hurried back into the trailer to get a gun. If somebody was out here fucking around, he wanted to be ready for the bastard.

He went back into the bedroom, got the .45 out of the bedside table, checked to make sure it was ready to go, and then went into the tiny utility closet to check the power panel. He cycled all the circuit breakers, but nothing happened; the trailer remained dark. Then he distinctly heard the sound of footsteps crunching outside. He backed carefully out of the utility closet, which was in the hallway leading from the living room-kitchen area back to the bedroom, and squatted

down in the doorway of the trailer’s second bathroom. The footsteps stopped. It sounded like the bastard was outside, right at the back of the trailer. Amazingly, the next sound he heard was that of a Zippo-type cigarette lighter cap being flipped back and the flame ignited. Bold as brass: The guy was lighting up a goddamned cigarette! Which meant at least one hand was occupied.

Jared stood up and moved swiftly down the hallway to the edge of the kitchen, where he popped his head quickly around the corner for a look and then withdrew it. Nothing but the orange glow of the security light in the window; no silhouettes.

He waited. He was beginning to perspire, and his sweat smelled a lot like beer. Maybe he should call his grandfather. The phone was in the kitchen. He would have to go into the kitchen to reach it, but he knew the trailer’s squeaky floors would give him away if he tried that. The next sound caught his breath right up in his throat: a shotgun being racked, again, somewhere out behind the trailer. He immediately got down on the floor, really sweating now. What the fuck is this? Then footsteps crunching again, but getting quieter, as if the guy was circling the trailer.

After hearing the shotgun, Jared was afraid even to put his head up.

Sumbitch had let his dogs loose so he’d be free to walk around out there. Shit!

Get to the fucking phone, a voice in his head told him. Call the old man. Hell, call 9 II! He crept around the corner of the entrance to the kitchen, trying to keep the floor from creaking, and reached carefully for the phone, listening very hard for sounds from outside. It was just out of reach. He grabbed a magazine off the table, rolled it up, and then used it to tip the phone off its wall jack, catching it just before it could clatter onto the floor. Then he hit the red button on the handset and heard the welcome sound of ringing. He felt a wave of relief.

“Nine one one. What is your emergency?” a male voice asked.

“Guy’s outside my trailer,” he whispered as loudly as he dared.

“Bastard’s got a gun, I need some help out here.”

“Sir? I can’t hear you, sir? Give me the address please and state the nature of your emergency.” The voice sounded unnaturally loud, and he squeezed the earpiece to his head to keep the noise down.

“I need a deputy!” he said.

“There’s a guy with a fuckin’ shotgun outside my trailer. One three eight County Line Road.”

“Gee, that’s too bad,” the voice said, and then, to Jared’s horror, there came the booming laugh of a fun-house scary monster. The huge sound reverberated in his ear as he swore and dropped the handset on

the floor like a hot potato. The laughter went on, loud, very loud, as he backed away from the phone, waving the .45 around him, like cops did in the movies, until he was back in the hallway again, down on all fours, scrunching backward like a baby toward his bedroom.

Then a sound. Behind him. Something behind him.

He whirled around, and there was an enormous figure all in black looming over him. It was wearing a hideous mask, and there were bright round mirrors where the eyes should have been. Jared gasped but didn’t hesitate. He brought the .45 up and fired, but all that came out was the pop of a primer. Then from the figure came the loudest sound he had ever heard, a roar, a lion’s heart-grabbing, ear-pounding roar. The sound was so loud that Jared dropped the useless gun, clapped his hands to his ears, and scooted backward, nailing his way back into the living room, rounding the hallway corner on his hand and knees, scuttling toward the front door, which he never used, the bottom of his jeans warm and wet. There was a nightmarish scramble to get the door unlocked and open as a second roar came down the hallway, louder than the first. He screamed and then tumbled through the doorway, right into a tangle of wet, rubbery strands. It felt like a huge spiderweb. He fought furiously to get away from it, but the more he fought, the tighter it enveloped him, until he could do little more than twitch, and then the horrible mirror-eyed figure was filling the doorway and pointing something at him, something shiny and bright. He knew he shouldn’t look at it, but he couldn’t help it. There was an incredibly bright flash of purple light and he was just gone.

Kreiss pocketed the retinal disrupter and stripped off the hood and mirror-eyed horror mask. He looked down from the trailer’s doorway at the stunned figure of Jared McGarand, balled up in the capture curtain at the side of the steps. Then he stepped past Jared and picked up a garden hose that was attached to the end of the trailer. He turned it on and sprayed water all over Jared and the curtain until all the sticky strands had dissolved, after which, he dragged Jared under the end of the trailer that was perched up on the cinder blocks. He positioned him so that his body was under the trailer, with his head just outside the metal edge of the trailer’s frame. He went over to the engine-hoisting A-frame and brought back a large five-ton hydraulic jack stand, which he positioned under the edge of the trailer, about two feet away from Jared’s head. He pumped the jack stand until it engaged the bottom edge of the trailer and then actually

lifted it. Keeping an eye on jared’s inert form, he got a four-by-four from a stack of junk lumber and battered down the two cinder-block support columns until the trailer was supported entirely on the jack stand. Then he lowered the stand until the bottom of the trailer came to rest just barely on jared’s chest, pinning him firmly to the ground.

He went back inside the trailer. In the kitchen, he got the telephone recorder to play back Jared’s calls. There was only one: to that second man. He listened to it twice, then disconnected the telephone dial intercept equipment, the recording device from the kitchen phone, the four inside speakers, and the breaker box diversion switch. He turned the lights back on in the trailer. The television boomed to life and he shut the obnoxious noise down. He gathered up all his equipment and Jared’s .45, which he had previously disarmed by unloading it, leaving one shell case with no powder or bullet under the hammer. He spotted Jared’s truck keys and wallet on the kitchen table, and he took those, too. Then he went out the back door, climbed up to the roof edge, and retrieved the sound box.

He listened for the dogs, but the woods were still quiet.

He took all his equipment and Jared’s weapon out to the truck and then took off the disposable blackout suit, under which he had been wearing khaki pants and a plain white shirt. He put on a dark ball cap with an extended brim, which he pulled down low over his face. He put on a pair of blocky black-framed glasses, which had a mildly reflective coating on the outside of the lenses. The glasses were magnifiers, which distorted the image of his own eyes while allowing him to see very well up close. He strapped a voice-distortion box onto his chest, put on a wire headset with a very thin boom mike in front of his lips. He pulled on rubber gloves and retrieved a box-shaped battery lantern from the truck. That’s when he noticed the cover on the license plate.

He swore and bent down to examine it. It was not the plate cover that had been there originally, although it was very damn close. It was too new-looking, the metal too bright. He got out a Phillips screwdriver and took off the plate and its cover frame. He separated the plate from the frame and examined the back of the frame. He found the two stub antennas at once. Son of a bitch, he thought. This is a surveillance tag: Based on those antennas, it probably responds to a satellite interrogation signal. He looked down at the rear bumper. Gets its power from the plate light by induction. There were four rubber buttons glued onto the plate mounting to insulate the plate frame from the truck’s frame.

He stood up. So he’d missed one. The question now was whether or not he’d been followed here. He didn’t think so, but he’d better make sure. Jared wasn’t going anywhere.

He slipped into the woods and made a big circle out to the road, where he looked for any signs of vehicles. The road was empty. He knew the plate tag wasn’t a device used for following someone down the road. It could give a general location when the satellite transmitted a query signal, but it was not precise enough to do block-by-block surveillance. The question was, then, When would they query it? That would determine how much time he had out here. That tag changed the equation.

He walked back through the woods to where Jared was pinned under the trailer. He hauled over two cinder blocks and made himself a rough bench. He sat down and watched as Jared started to come around. He was whimpering and trying to move, and then he opened his eyes wide when he realized he could we? move. Kreiss switched on the lantern and pointed it into jared’s face. He switched on the voice-distortion box.