Necessary Evil (12 page)

''I don't know. You've only been out for a few minutes, but I just got here. I haven't been to the truck."

With his head pulsing, Tillman rolled and looked toward the motionless vehicle. He could see nothing but the glow of the taillights. He struggled up, determination overcoming his pain, dizziness, and caution.

"Let's go." Then he paused. He had killed clever men and cunning animals. It was a mistake to let his anger drive him.

"You circle that way," he told Brennan.

"Why not just turn on the M-16s and be done with it?" Brennan asked.

"How do I explain a bullet-ridden vet's truck at the bottom of the canyon? If I'd wanted that, I'd have stuffed a grenade in the cab." He asked, "Did you hear the grenade explode down over the cliff?"

"Yeah, seven or eight minutes ago. I hung back like you said."

Tillman shook his head, trying to remember.

"There's no cover to approach the damn thing," Brennan said, nodding at the track. "I say we just unload an M-16 and be done with it."

"Nobody asked you."

In a matter of two minutes, Tillman had circled around and begun his approach. He went slowly, completely in control. As he got closer, he expected a trap.

But they found the track abandoned, its doors left ajar, and the snow gliding inside. All the footprints led to the cliff. Tillman followed the trail along the cliff until it abruptly ended. His captives and their rescuer had climbed over the edge to escape. In the beam of Brennan's flashlight, he looked for individual tracks, but the trail from the track along the cliff was stirred up as if they had gone back and forth. To sort it out and count prints would take time he didn't have. He looked down the face of the cliff, but could see no more than twenty or thirty feet in the dark. At the edge of the abyss where the tracks ended, he found no sign of a rope. Casting about, he found a heavy branch with a barely discernible rope burn. They had used a line and somehow pulled it down after themselves.

''It would take serious climbing gear to get down that cliff,'' Brennan said.

"Maybe somebody left pitons in that wall."

"I doubt it. And without gear it wouldn't be that easy to use them."

Obviously the truck's vet cabinets had made a hiding place. The person who hid in the compartments had circled behind Tillman, clubbed him, and led the family over the cliff.

Perhaps it had been the veterinarian. But then who had been in the other vehicle? He had no time to go down the cliff after them, and without equipment in a snowstorm, it would be extremely dangerous—probably impossible. Kier and the FBI woman were far more important to find. What were the odds that a woman and two kids could survive in this weather anyhow, much less on a cliff?

"They're dead or on their way to being dead," he said. "We'll send men back to make sure."

Returning to the truck, he yanked open the storage compartment doors and examined every space. Most of the storage areas were chockful of medical supplies and equipment. He found only one cavity possibly large enough for a man to hide in, but far too small for Kier Wintripp.

At the tailgate, Tillman shouted, "Push." He threw his chest against the truck. Brennan heaved as well, but the truck didn't budge. They began rocking it on the edge, until they felt it slip just an inch, then again. At last it groaned, slid forward, then plunged down over the cliff. The crashing sounds it made on the way down were smothered in the pillows of snow.

Normally a comfortable ally, the darkness now thwarted Tillman. He could not penetrate its murky depths, and the mysteries it enfolded were likely to multiply. He needed to improve his odds. At Elk Horn Pass on the road to Johnson City a cellular phone would enable a man to call anywhere in the world. He would dispatch someone on a snowmobile immediately. If only the weather cleared, even slightly, an infrared-equipped attack helicopter would perform wonders. With the thought of that power unleashed against one Indian and an FBI woman, Tillman's mental edge returned. With it came the realization that until now he had never met a hunter that was truly his equal. Even lacking the technology, given enough time, he would hunt and kill Kier Wintripp.

Stalking Bear stood on a ledge under a rock overhang that created a shallow cave. Claudie's two boys sat huddled beside him next to a coil of rope. From above came the sound of the truck grating on the edge of the rock. After a moment the scraping of metal ceased, and for a couple of seconds there was silence. Then a crashing noise ended in a muffled thud far below.

He listened for Claudie's screams, but heard none. He had gambled her life on the assumption that the men would be in a hurry and would be distracted. They would be searching the ground for tracks and staring over the edge of the cliff.

Using a rope he had pulled her up the tree next to the truck to the first branches. From there she could climb to over forty feet above the ground, hidden in the pitch black of the heavy boughs. By laying a clear path that dead-ended along the abyss, Stalking Bear hoped to distract the men from Claudie's hiding place. To lower themselves they had passed a rope around a tree leaving two strands dangling. Once safely on the ledge, they had pulled in one end, snaking the rope back around the tree and down over the cliff.

Even if the men didn't find Claudie, he questioned whether she could climb out of the tree. He waited perhaps an hour before he began searching the face of the rock with his hands. Climbing the cliff unassisted would be difficult, but not impossible. The two boys huddled together and he suspected they were cold. He considered how he might ascend, then felt one last time and discovered what he was looking for—there was a line dangling from above.

Two tugs on the line were answered by two tugs from atop the cliff. Claudie had made her way out of the tree and was signaling her success by dropping the rope to him. Fastening his rope to the one hanging above, he and the boys continued down the cliff to a treacherous but passable trail. Claudie traveled by a different route to a cave near the bottom of the canyon far below them where they were all reunited.

Knowing their pursuers would send more men, Stalking Bear led them to a cave three miles distant and there built them a camp.

A wise man treats every new cave as if it had a bear.

—Tilok proverb

K
ier suspected that, for Jessie Mayfield, a root cellar had the ambience of a snake pit. The heated rear porch had large windows and a spacious workbench against the outside wall. Under the workbench Kier kept his chainsaws, hoses, and gardening paraphernalia, although he did no gardening in the conventional sense. Against the wall nearest the house stood some shelving put together in a manner similar to a series of bookcases. One six-foot segment of shelving on the end could be swung away from the wall to reveal a trapdoor. The construction was elaborate, but it all worked to effectively hide the opening to the cellar.

''Actually, it's not that bad,'' Kier said, sensing her hesitation at the black hole before them.

Tentatively, she placed her foot on the first rung, testing it with her weight. When she seemed satisfied, she climbed down the ladder with deliberate, careful, steps, reaching the earthen floor without difficulty. At the bottom, Kier snapped on a single naked light bulb hanging from a wire. The place was walled in with two-by-six boards—moldy and probably rotten. He began sliding the tongue-and-groove boards on one wall, lifting them out of slotted uprights until he exposed a heavy metal door set in a concrete wall.

"The wine cellar is through here," Kier said pointing into the concrete vault.

''Every time you want a bottle of wine you go through this ritual?" she asked, sounding incredulous.

"When I'm here I leave the boards out."

"Unbelievable."

They walked into the climate-controlled cellar. It was about eight feet by fourteen, board lined on the walls, ceiling, and floor. Wooden bottle racks on all four walls surrounded a small table in the middle.

"Don't tell me you sit here and drink wine."

"Only when I'm tasting."

"I've got to tell you, this is like finding a cathedral in a whorehouse. Nobody, but nobody, would ever guess this was here. Or that you're a wine guy."

"I was more or less counting on that." He paused and allowed himself a half-smile.

"Are you laughing at me?"

"I'm just enjoying your amazement. Surely you'll grant me that. We should move our stuff out back in the woods. We can bring the binders down here."

"We'll be trapped if they catch us in this cellar."

"We've got to be out of here before they come." He put the bag with the food in the corner before they ascended.

Back in the cabin, Kier picked up one of the five journals on the table. He wanted to devour them.

"There's almost nothing in plain English except this diary fragment," Jessie said, leaning over his shoulder. Together they studied it again.

"This guy is certain that Tillman, the architect of whatever is going on, is a monster," Kier said. "I told you about our little meeting at the clinic."

He turned to Volume One. "In the applied lab they were looking at disease processes and the interaction with genetic variability. It looks like they were doing some work on a virus. They call it AV-TR4 and I can't figure what it is. But it's not unusual to be working on viruses. Man-made or otherwise.

''Then they've got a ton of research on some sort of immunity issue. They keep referring to 121258-533561289. Which they abbreviate to 1212.

" 'Whether 1212 is typical of the Tilok race or an anomaly is not yet evident,' it says. Apparently they were studying the Tiloks from a genetic standpoint."

"What do you suppose 1212 refers to?"

"Maybe a gene nucleotide sequence. I don't know. These tables here reference 1212 and contain the nucleotide sequences for part of a gene. I'm sure of it. Maybe they think Tiloks have some important genetic immunity."

"Could a particular group of Native Americans have an immunity not common to the rest of us?"

"Sure. Cherokees don't get Alzheimer's disease at near the rate of other races."

''Do you think they were reproducing Tilok genes in animals to study some genetic trait of the Tiloks?"

"We're getting far out now."

"Why all the diseases in the plane then? Could they be correlating disease processes with genetic profiles?"

Kier shrugged. "Maybe the government knows why all that disease was in that plane."

"The government wouldn't condone experimenting on Tiloks or hauling around a freakshow of deadly organisms."

"Who says these people would be truthful with the government? We can't assume anything until we know exactly who and what we're dealing with."

He was about to continue reading when a muffled scream came from the back porch. Miller's voice, calling through the gag, sounded his desperation. They went through the back door.

"What do you want?" Jessie asked, loosening the gag.

"I have my rights."

"Okay," Kier said. "We'll untie you and you can sit in the living room."

''If we sit around we're dead, man. If they have the slightest inkling you were near that plane, we are in the ground six feet down. You get me?"

"I was figuring on leaving you here to explain things," Kier said.

"You can't do that. If you leave me, it's murder."

"Why are you so afraid of your own people? The National Guard, they protect our country." Kier gilded his words with sarcasm.

Miller said nothing.

"Well, we're packing to leave. If you're right about them coming, they should have you untied in three or four hours."

"You mother f—"

"What are you afraid of?"

"They'll kill me and you know it. They'll shoot the cabin to pieces and burn the place to the ground. Then they'll ask questions."

"Now tell me, how do you know they'll burn the place to the ground?"

Miller glanced around, starting to look as though he might talk. "Will you take me with you?"

"If we believe what you say."

"There's a chemical—steno for short. A few molecules will slowly kill you. If you got in the plane, you could have it on you and in you. They'll be scared to get near you, so they'll burn the place, because fire neutralizes the chemical. But they may send somebody in. They'll want the black books you took. Damn. It hurts to talk." He touched his broken jaw. "They told us if we went twenty feet from the plane, we' d be quarantined. If we went in the plane—we were dead."

"What kind of sickness?"

"I don't know. . . It's a chemical. Top secret." He seemed to be loosening up now. "It's probably just a line. Nobody knows for sure. Maybe there was radioactive stuff. I don't know."

"Why are these black books so important?" Kier asked.

"I don't know."

"So why does the sickness spread if it's a chemical?"

"I told you it only takes a few molecules of the stuff to kill you. It can spread just by touch, like poison ivy. But they said it spreads easier than that. It can atomize in the air."

"Who's the leader? Who hired you?"

Miller knotted his fists and looked from side to side, straining at the rope across his chest.

"How do you know about the books?" Kier asked.

"If we found any books, they told us we'd get $100,000 extra. If more than one of us found them, we'd split the money. Of course, they were supposed to be in the plane, so we figured unless it busted open and the books fell out, we'd never see the money."

Kier leaned close to the man. "And how did you know to be there when the plane crashed?"

Wham!
Something slammed against the front door. Suddenly, bullets were flying through the sides of the cabin, chewing wood, and sending splinters like darts through the air. In an instant, Kier grabbed Jessie, literally sliding her into the hole, motioning her to drop. As she stumbled down the ladder, Miller's head exploded in a red fog, splashing blood everywhere. Kier tossed the volume through the trapdoor, then jumped for the hole, catching the third or fourth rung down. By pushing a button near the top of the ladder, he was able to cover the trapdoor with the cabinet. In a minute, the gunfire ceased. Then there was silence. Something slammed against the front door. Then came the sounds of one man walking, and something— maybe the bed—being thrown against the wall.

"One light is on, but nobody's here except a dead-ass Miller."

The voice came from directly above them.

"They knew we were coming." Then a pause, and more walking. "Well, looky here, four black books."

"Door out the back's open." A radio crackled. "You guys see anything?"

Kier couldn't make out the muffled reply.

"They must've had ten seconds, plenty of time to run out the back."

"This place is surrounded. We'd have seen them."

"In this damn snow?"

"There's tracks all over back here. Burn it and let's see what comes out."

"They'll find us," Jessie whispered. "Only a matter of time. How did they get here so fast?"

"Snowmobiles, probably," Kier replied. "It's been an hour and fifteen minutes since we left Claudie's. But it's incredible they worked this fast." He paused a moment. Then he stood. "You can hide here."

"I'm the FBI," she snapped. "Remember?"

"Forget the FBI stuff. This is in my backyard."

Kier could discern her determination even in the semidarkness of the small flashlight. Her hand gripped his wrist. They heard the rushing sound of fire. ''Listen to me. I can help you."

"Jessie. In the dark, alone, around my place, I can do something. You'd be a handicap. This isn't a computer thing."

"Well, it's not a house call for a sick dog either."

There was very little time before the fire would be too hot to allow their escape. He could hear the crackling flames overhead, and knew he had to come up while the structure was still standing.

''I can cover you,'' she argued, still gripping his wrist, pulling on him.

"Okay. But wait sixty seconds at least before you come." He reached down and grabbed the book.

Kier stepped to the ladder. At the top he gave her a quick salute. He pressed a button that activated the hydraulic arm moving the shelving away from the wall. Sliding through the trapdoor, he closed it quickly, squatted on it, then flipped down the metal tongue that fitted over a recessed steel loop. Instead of a lock, he placed a piece of wood through the latch, jamming it so the trapdoor wouldn't open.

"Jessie," he called out, his face to the crack. "I've changed my mind. Wait there until I call you. Get in the wine cellar and put the boards in place. If I'm not back in forty-five minutes, get out the best you can. There's a crowbar—"

"Kier, don't be an asshole."

"Please, Jessie."

"I'll kill you for this."

Then he swung the shelving back over the door.

Overhead, flames boiled under the roof. The heat was intense but bearable. A good portion of the rear wall was on fire; he had only seconds. Crawling to the still-open rear door, he saw one man nearby, mesmerized by the burning cabin, his M-16 at the ready. The hunter toyed with a grenade in his left hand.

Kier had to knock out the double-pane side window on his left, then dive through without being seen. Spying a chainsaw gas tank, he considered how he might use it for a diversion. The heat now felt ferocious on his back. He had to move or die.

He opened the cap and hurled the tank at the window to his far right. As he huddled behind the woodpile, the explosion blew past him. With the acrid stink of his own singed hair filling his nostrils, he threw an axe into the closer window, on the left, then got on his knees and used a maul to clear out the rest of the glass. The fire, gobbling oxygen, left nothing but smoke for his lungs. He had to get out. Launching himself through the window, he cleared the windowsill in a flat dive.

Work with what you have, Jessie told herself, standing on the ladder. Forcing herself to be calm, she considered that fighting the trapdoor would only distract Kier and perhaps draw the attention of their attackers. She retreated to the wine cellar, boarding up the interior wall so that she would be invisible to anyone who came to investigate. After the boards were in place, she closed the metal door, turned on the light, and caught a whiff of fresh air from a vent. She scarcely glanced at the wine bottles on their neat wooden racks or noticed the thermometer, which indicated fifty-seven degrees.

She had marked the time and would wait the forty-five minutes. Then, she would go up and give the world a piece of her mind.