A part of Hannah-a very large part-wanted to go to Grand. Not to help him, because she didn't see how she could, but to experience what he was experiencing. She once interviewed an astronaut after the space shuttle Challenger exploded, and it shocked her when he said he envied them in a way: that they had died with their boots on.
Now she understood.
It seemed worth the danger, even the risk of dying, to be out there getting this story and phoning it in to Karen as it happened. The only reason she didn't was because it might hurt Grand. The scientist obviously had a feel for these things; if anyone could find out what was in the thicket and live to tell about it. Grand was that person.
So Hannah watched. Scared for Grand, frustrated at being on the sidelines, and also proud about having found the thing before Gearhart but now questioning the wisdom of not summoning him. She wished Grand would let them know what was out there, whether it was a stag or an owl or possibly their killer. But he was just standing there.
She crawled up slightly and stuck her head a little higher. Maybe Grand would see her and make some kind of sign.
He didn't. She inched up a little more. Stones fell from underfoot and clattered down the mountainside.
"Hannah-" the Wall quietly warned her.
"I know," Hannah whispered back.
She did. She was supposed to keep still and quiet. But the eyes weren't on her, they were on Grand. She turned back and looked down at her photographer. The Wall was lying against the mountain, cheek to rock, as though he were hugging the side of a trench.
"Wall, give me the camera with the telephoto lens," she said, softly but insistently.
"Why?"
"Please?"
"The professor said no pictures-"
"I know," she said. "I only want to try and get a better look."
"No," he said. "Just sit still."
"I can't! I promise I won't take any pictures," Hannah said. "I have to see."
The Wall hesitated. Then, with a sigh, he rose up slightly on his left hand. As he did stones fell away from under his feet.
"Shit!" he snarled.
The Wall froze as more stones fell. They clattered into rocks below and caused a small cascade. But the cliff-side didn't give out beneath him. Slowly, he lowered himself down.
"That's it," he said.
"What's it?"
He hunkered back down without removing the camera. "We're going to do what the man said. Wait."
"Wall-"
"You'll know what's out there soon enough," he said.
Hannah didn't bother arguing. She continued to look out at the milky, cloud-hazed forest.
This was maddening. Hannah was extremely disappointed at herself for not having gone with Grand. A reporter shouldn't be hiding behind a bunch of rocks. She should be in the middle of the investigation. Two could move as quietly as one, and the animal was as much her find-her responsibility, her risk-as it was Jim Grand's.
Just then, Grand moved. Instead of the back of his head she saw his face. But he was too far away for her to make out his expression or hear if he was saying anything.
She shrugged with her palms up and widened her eyes even though she knew he couldn't see them. If he wanted her to come over, he would have gestured in some way. So what did this mean? Was he getting ready to walk back or run back or go farther into the woods?
What? she screamed inside, her fingers curling slightly as she shook her upturned hands.
As the young woman watched, something moved. Not in the woods, but to her immediate left. Hannah turned and looked in that direction. A moment later she slowly raised her right hand, reached into her shirt for her dog tags, and held them tightly.
She swore silently.
She should have phoned in the damn story.
Chapter Forty
Only once in his life had Malcolm Gearhart gotten to a point of frustration and rage that was so absolute that he lost it. That was when Company A, 3rd Reconnaissance Battalion, 3rd Marine Division, was in action against the Vietcong near Danang. Gearhart, his best buddy Emanuel "the Man" Slatkin-"of the Brooklyn, NY, Slatkins," as he was proud of saying, always pronouncing his home state En-Why-and three other men were part of Lieutenant Leonard Ax's advance party that had deeply penetrated heavily controlled enemy territory. The Vietcong suddenly opened fire from six different concealed positions, cutting off the five men from the main party. When Lieutenant Ax was cut down at the start, Slatkin took over the deployment of the remaining troops, organizing a base of fire while managing to kill four Vietcong and silence an automatic weapons position on his own. While Gearhart concentrated on the killing, that short little pecker Slatkin kept everyone's spirits up, kept them fighting, and helped keep them alive until the main body could cut through, drive the Vietcong back-the bastards usually didn't like to hang around for a fair fight-and get them the hell out.
That was when Slatkin stepped into a Hanoi Two-Fuck. They called it that because first you got screwed in a figurative sense; and second you literally got fucked when a thin, sharp eighteen-or-so-inch stake, usually bamboo but sometimes steel, attached to a horizontal arm, came slashing at you from camouflage hiding and penetrated your belly. Penetrated with such incredible force that it came out your back and dragged you with it, pinning you to whatever was behind you. Often, it was another soldier.
There's a moment, just before the Hanoi Two-Fuck impales you, when you know it's coming. It's a moment filled with the worst sound in the world: a click that means you stepped on the hidden trigger, like a tiny landmine, that launches the arm. Even keeping your foot on the trigger won't save you. Once it's sprung, it's sprung. Dropping won't save you either because the stake conies too fast and will still get you in the chest or head.
Gearhart was to the right of Slatkin. about three feet away, when they heard the click. They looked at each other. They knew what the sound was, though for a second they weren't sure which of them was going to get two-fucked. The ground was thick with vines and rocks and it was impossible to know whether you'd stepped on the trigger or not.
They just stared into one another's eyes for what seemed like forever until the Two-Fuck came shrieking from behind some goddamn plant and, covered with leaves, smashed through Slatkin. Two-Fucks were often set up in pairs, since the instinct of a soldier was to go to his buddy and the Cong could get two for the bloody price of one. So all Gearhart could do, all anyone could do, was watch as Slatkin was dragged back, his toes lifted off the ground, his heels digging through the ground, and was whammed into a tree.
They had to leave Emanuel Slatkin of the Brooklyn, En-Why, Slatkins hanging from the tree there while they searched the ground for the other Two-Fuck and disarmed it. Fortunately, Slatkin only lived for about a half minute after being skewered. But during those thirty seconds, Gearhart screamed inside with a helpless pain that he'd never experienced before or since. Only after he was sure the man was dead did he let it out. And there were times he thought he was still screaming, still wanting to punish the fucking Cong. Or any one or thing that killed with that kind of cold sadism.
Like now.
Standing by the fifth wheeler, looking again for anything that might tell him who or what was behind this, Sheriff Gearhart was getting close to popping-very close. He hadn't been able to finish the job in Vietnam or in Los Angeles, but he was damn well going to finish the job here. The job he was supposed to be able to do better than anyone else.