The Totem 1979 (42 page)

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.

It must have hidden other noises because suddenly he felt the pressure on the barricade. He heard the snap and scratch of something climbing. As he switched on his flashlight, he was slammed aside, his gun went off, and he was struggling with a thing that clutched him. All around him, he saw flashlight beams and muzzle flashes, diving bodies, heard the shots and screams and gasps of struggle.

The scene was a swirl of chaos as he rolled and punched with his gun and pulled the trigger at the obscene thing that grappled with him. He was suddenly in Nam again, and that remembrance was familiar, helped to give him courage, but the thing that faced him, swinging with its club, was more grotesque than anything he’d survived in Nam, and for an instant he was fearful that his shock had slowed his reflexes. The club swooped toward him, and the angle of his flashlight showed the spike at one end, streaking toward his eye, as he stumbled to avoid it, firing again. Abruptly something struck his back. Oh, Jesus! He swung to fire. Too late. Shadows swarmed, and he was falling.

Chapter Ten.

“What’s that?”

“Your imagination.”

“No, it’s shooting.”

“It’s just thunder or a rockfall.”

The ranchers and the men from town went back to their drinking.

They had their Jeeps and trucks parked in a circle on an upper mountain meadow. They had posted guards who watched the darkness, and they’d built several campfires which they sat around. They ate and drank and checked their rifles. They were anxious, glad to be enclosed in something, and with that accomplished, Parsons sat among some hunter friends, pretending to be one of the guys.

So far he had taken chances, inciting a mob, imprisoning those five men back in town, particularly Slaughter. There’d be trouble about that, he knew, but not as much as he could make for Slaughter. After all, so many people had gone along with this that few were left to make accusations.

But Parsons couldn’t keep the pressure on. If for a brief time he had taken charge, he’d have to self-efface now, ease off, let inertia carry forward. Because the men had come this far, they’d keep going, and he’d have to make it seem as if from now on he just went along with what they all intended. That had always been his method, and he knew that it would work again. They’d solve this problem; he would still have power; and the valley would continue. With the precedent of 1970, he didn’t see how clearing out these hippies could be anything but good for him. He’d have to do this with some care, though. He would have to stay in the background.

What was more, he’d have to take care that these men weren’t drunk when they went up to face the hippies. Image was important. There couldn’t be any accusations that this group was just a drunken mob. He whispered to a few subordinates, and acting as if on their own, they went around to tell the men to stow the whiskey. Anyhow, the night was well upon them. They’d need sleep if they expected to wake up by sunrise and start moving. There was plenty to do tomorrow, a lot of miles to cover yet, a long trek through the high, thick, twisted mountain ridges.

Chapter Eleven.

They were waiting. They had crept up to the forest fringes, staring at the once familiar objects in a circle, at the fires and figures near them, hearing voices, watching shadows.

They were nervous, glancing toward the moon and trembling. On occasion, they couldn’t resist the urge to howl, but the men across there only turned in their direction as they spread their blankets by the fires. Then the forest fringes were deserted. They were backing toward the high ground, moving deeper through the forest. They were eager for the taste which, although it sickened, they nonetheless craved, but this was not the moment or the place. Higher, deeper in the mountains where the quarry would be less protected-that was what they wanted. So they shuffled through the underbrush, and far beyond the upper ridges, they heard rumbles that rolled down like thunder. The echo of gunshots. They moved toward it.

Chapter Twelve.

Slaughter waited in the darkness. He was lying on his bunk, pretending to sleep as through his half-closed eyes he glanced out through the bars toward where the two guards, having dimmed the lights, were tilted back in their chairs, their heads against the wall. He knew he had to move soon, but if too soon, he would rouse them.

He was cursing to himself. He had been safe. A cell to keep him occupied while everything went on without him. Now the force of choice was on him once again, and if he didn’t act, he knew that Rettig then would understand him. Did it matter? Yes, he finally decided. He would not relive his past humiliation. He had come here for a fresh start, and if he ignored this opportunity, he would never feel whole again; he would have chosen a progressive pattern of defeat; he’d just keep moving pointlessly. Of course, he could pretend to Rettig that he hadn’t understood the objects in the coffee, but he didn’t know if he would be convincing. Even so, he wouldn’t be convincing to himself. He had to do this.

Cursing to himself, he studied both guards. Then he sat up slowly in his bunk. Because he finally had understood these objects in the coffee. They were obvious, so much so that he wondered why he took so long to realize their purpose, that he wondered how much smarter Rettig was than he had ever guessed. The plan was simple to the point of genius. Perhaps that was the reason Slaughter took so long to figure it. The objects in the coffee were pure phosphorus. The liquid kept them from igniting. That had been the word that solved the puzzle for him. Still thinking that these things were explosive, he had wondered how to detonate them. Detonation made him think of fuses, a bright light burning. But the blast would warn the guards. These things must have a silent function then, but if they were indeed explosive, how the hell could he ignite them? Since he didn’t smoke, he didn’t carry matches. Bright light, matches and their phosphorus, ignition, and he had it, suddenly in high school, watching as his teacher drew the worms of phosphorus from jars of water, waiting as the worms, exposed to air, abruptly were on fire. Later he would think how close he’d come to missing the significance, but now he understood and didn’t have a choice.

He got up slowly from his bunk and walked with caution toward the bars. He saw that all his friends were sleeping. He stood motionless and waited for some action from the guards. There wasn’t any, and he knelt to reach through toward the second thermos. Then he slowly opened it and poured the coffee into plastic cups. Another red worm slid out, dropping. So there was another one, and he was reaching in the cup to grab the worm and drop it quickly into the cup that held the other, the coffee safely over them. There was one thing that still bothered him. He knew that phosphorus was poison. If some portions had dissolved, the coffee might make them sick. But then he thought that its foul taste might not be from the phosphorus but from the way the coffee was prepared to make it taste so bad. Rettig hadn’t wanted anyone to drink it. So they all had tried a sip and spit it out. They maybe would be fine.

He watched the guards and guessed that there wasn’t any point in waiting further. He dipped his finger into the coffee, grabbed the worms, and as they dripped, he pressed them around the bolt that locked his cell. He wouldn’t have attempted this if he’d been in a new and well-made jail. But this place had been built in 1923. When he had first come down here, he had been appalled. Oh, sure, the locks would hold if someone lunged at them or tried to break them, but the metal wasn’t pure enough or thick enough for him, and he had asked permission to revitalize the jail which the town council had denied him. What did he expect? they asked him. Hacksaws or a bomb. There had never been that kind of trouble here, and if he did his job right, none of that stuff would get in here. Well, he had a trick to show them now, and he was grateful that they hadn’t acted. Phosphorus burned at high temperatures. Although not sufficient to melt steel, the heat would weaken this poor metal, and the lock seams weren’t that good to start with. Hell, he didn’t have a thing to lose. He had to try.

He stepped back, but the phosphorus remained inert. Or maybe he was wrong, and these things weren’t what he had figured. No, the coffee still was dripping from them. They weren’t yet exposed to air. The coffee had to dry, as suddenly he saw what seemed to be a spark, and in a flash the phosphorus was burning. White hot, sparks, a thick cloud rising. He was staring toward the guards. The hiss was louder than he’d expected, like a thousand sparklers blazing on July Fourth, and one guard moved a little in his chair as Slaughter lunged against the cell door.

But it held. The phosphorus kept blazing around the bolt and lock seams, and he lunged again, and this time he could see the seams begin to part. The guard was shifting in his chair and in a moment would be fully wakened. Slaughter lunged against the door again, the metal clanging, and abruptly he was weightless, stumbling forward, almost falling as he realized that he was out, the cell door swinging free, the phosphorus still hissing, blazing. He kept stumbling, his arms out for balance, as the guard was sitting upright in his chair, and Slaughter lunged against him. While the guard fell, upsetting his chair, Slaughter grabbed the rifle, and he swung to grab the rifle from the second guard who now was sitting up as well, his face grotesquely startled, wincing from the rifle blow against his shoulder, falling. Slaughter dropped one rifle, aiming with the other, and the two guards paused where they were halfway to their feet now, and the worst part had been managed.

“Stay exactly where you are. Don’t move or even fidget,” Slaughter told them.

“How the hell … ?” They stared from Slaughter toward the dimming remnants of the phosphorus.

“What’s going on?” the medical examiner asked.

In the cells, the men were moving.

“Nothing. We’re just getting out of here is all. Remember,” Slaughter told the guards. “Don’t even scratch your noses.”

He was shifting toward the table, pulling out the drawer and grabbing for the keys. He watched the two guards all the time he edged back toward the first cell, Lucas waiting.

“Here. The big key,” Slaughter told him, and he moved again to watch the guards while close behind he heard the scrape of metal as the key was turned. The cell came open. Slaughter glanced at Lucas coming out. He concentrated solely on the guards then as the cells were in their sequence unlocked and the men came out.

“But how did … ?” Owens said.

“I’ll tell you later. You two, get on in there.” Slaughter pointed toward the guards.

They hesitated.

“Damn it, move, I told you.” Slaughter started toward them, and they raised their hands.

“Okay. We’re moving.”

“You get in the first one. You get in the fourth.”

“But why… ?”

“No reason. Just do what I tell you. I just want you separated. Move, for Christ sake.”

And they did, and Slaughter told the medical examiner to bind and gag them, using belts and strips of cloth torn from the bunk sheets. Slaughter watched them, aiming the rifle. Then the medical examiner stepped out, and Lucas shut the doors and locked them.

“Bring the keys. The other rifles.”

Dunlap was already halfway across to reach one door.

“No, we’re going this way,” Slaughter told him. “That way leads upstairs. This other one is where we’re going.”

Dunlap was puzzled.

‘You’ll see.”

Slaughter went across and took the keys from Lucas. He unlocked the second door and swung it open. Then he flicked the light switch in there, and they saw the damp, slick, brick-lined tunnel.

“It leads toward the courthouse. There’s no time.”

They hurried through. Slaughter stared back at the two guards in their cells. He waved and stepped inside the tunnel where he shut the door and locked it. Then he turned, and they were running.

It was slippery in here. Condensation on the ceiling dripped down on them, and the tunnel echoed from the clatter of their footsteps. Slaughter saw the vapor from his breath and felt the damp brick chill and kept on running. He was forced to stoop as he ran underneath the lights that hung from the ceiling. Then the tunnel curved a little, and they reached a second door.

“It’s locked. I have to use the key.”

But when he fumbled with the key, it didn’t work. The door stayed locked.

“What’s going on here?”

Then he realized the door had not been locked at all. What he had done just now was actually to lock it. He worked the key and turned the handle. Slowly, wincing as the door creaked, he pushed at the door, and they faced darkness.

“There’s a hall. Just follow it. You’ll reach some stairs.”

Now Slaughter flicked the lights off.

“But we-“

“I don’t want to be a target. Feel along the hall.”

They inched through the darkness. Here the floor was tiled. It echoed from their halting footsteps. Owens struck an object, cursing.

“Quiet,” Slaughter told him.

“There’s a table.”

“Quiet. People might be in here. “

So they kept inching forward. Slaughter felt ahead. We should have reached the end by now, he told himself, and then his boot struck wood, and he gripped the staircase bannister.

“We made it,” Owens said, and Slaughter didn’t take the time to caution him. He just continued up the stairs, and everything was dark up there as well, except that from some windows moonlight spilled in, showing the front door and the big main hallway.

“Shush,” he told them, and they stopped while, breath held, Slaughter listened. “We’ll use the back. For all we know, there are guards in front.”