The rain was now lashing down in sheets, the booms of thunder following hard on the flashes of lightning. Another stochastic element in his favor. He checked his watch: ten thirty. He had another twenty minutes before Mindy was in position.
He crept through the sodden grass and into some heavy bayberry bushes, the goggles displaying his surroundings in a sickly green light, the rain blurring and obscuring the outline of the trees and bushes. It was like moving, half blind, through a ghostscape.
He worked his way through the heaviest brush until he came up behind a ruined building: the boys’ workhouse complex. He slipped through a broken window frame into the moldy interior, water pouring down from holes in the upper floors and the roof. The boys’ primary task had been to make shoes, and old pairs lay everywhere, thousands of them, curled up like autumn leaves, scattered about among broken glass, tools, iron shoe stands, and rotting wooden forms. He moved along the edge of the wall, gun at the ready, taking care not to step on glass.
In a moment he was in the long, echoing central corridor of the workhouse. The muffled sounds of the storm penetrated the walls.
Down the corridor, he came to the rear door, which was hanging on a single hinge. From the door, he made a quick dash through weeds into the workhouse dormitory. Passing rows of rusting iron bedsteads and graffiti-scratched walls, he paused to let an especially intense barrage of lightning and thunder pass. Each flash illuminated the interior in spectral light, the rusting bed frames casting flickering shadows onto the walls, a single graffito scratched in large letters above one bed: I WANT TO DIE.
He hurried on. At the far end of the building, he passed several small rooms heaped with broken filing cabinets, burst cardboard boxes, bundled records and file folders, soaked and rotting. A large rat, sitting on top of a heap of paper, watched him pass by.
He was soon back out in the storm, the rain harder than ever. He had gotten past the ruins and into the oldest section of burial grounds, now returned to forest. As he made his way through the densest stand of trees, he came across old grave markers sunken in leaves and vegetation, row upon row of them, delineating ancient mass graves. Here and there, bones peeped from the leaf litter and tangles of ground cover.
Keeping to the woods, he approached at last the back of the shed in which the two backhoes were stored. On his previous foray to the island, he’d noted they were almost brand-new Caterpillar 450E backhoe loaders. Earlier in the day, he’d studied how to hotwire and operate this particular model, but he’d hoped to find the keys in the ignition.
He waited, well hidden, listening and looking. Each flash of lightning allowed him a hard-edged glimpse of his surroundings, and there was no sign of Nodding Crane. Which meant nothing. He knew in his gut the man was close.
Now Gideon slowly circled the shed, keeping hidden in the surrounding cover, moving with infinite caution, examining the edge of the roof as he did so. It was made of timbers laid onto the old brick walls, and covered with corrugated tin sheets screwed to sleepers laid across the rafters. Everything was rotting, but not yet to the point of collapse.
It confirmed a key fact: the roof would support the weight of a man.
He approached the back corner of the shed, where the bricks had tumbled, leaving a hole. One quick darting move and he was through the hole, inside the shed. The two loaders glowed bright green in his goggles.
Keeping flat against the rear wall, he crept up to the closest Cat, reached up and eased open the cab door, which had been left ajar. With one quick movement he swung himself up and ducked inside, silently closing the door.
The key was in the ignition.
He checked his watch: Mindy had now been in place for at least ten minutes.
Time for round one. He set the controls, placed his hand on the key, and turned the ignition.
The machine sprang to life with a deep-throated rumble. Very good. It had an easy joystick control that almost any idiot could use, or so the literature claimed. He quickly lowered the stabilizers and raised the loader bucket into a vertical position, above the cab, as protection against what was about to happen. Then he activated the backhoe joystick controller and took a deep breath.
With a smooth movement of his fingers, he raised the massive quarter-ton bucket fast and hard, like a man pumping his fist over his head. It struck the inside of the roof with a crash, bucking it upward with a groan of rotten timbers and a shower of water. For a moment it seemed as if the whole roof would come off; then the bucket punched up through the rotting timbers and rusted tin and the roof slammed back into position with a crash, showering him with debris.
With another violent motion he jammed the bucket sideways, the boom tearing a long hole in the roof. Then he retracted it, closing the bucket on a roof beam and pulling down hard. Everything came crashing down: rotten timbers, boards and twisted pieces of corrugated tin, along with a gush of water. A couple of wild pistol shots clanged off the loader bucket, indicating he had guessed exactly right: Nodding Crane had taken position on the roof of the shed, where he not only commanded a bird’s-eye view of the burial field and the trenches, but also could fire on anyone coming for the backhoes.
Without hesitation Gideon folded the boom into traveling position, raised the stabilizers, jammed the shift into forward, and drove the machine out onto the field, swinging the loader rearward to form a shield against small-arms fire. Almost immediately, a fusillade of shots ricocheted off the back of the loader, ringing it like a bell, but protecting Gideon inside the cab.
The bastard must’ve gotten the surprise of his life when the backhoe punched through the roof. A damn shame he hadn’t broken his neck. But it proved Nodding Crane wasn’t the invulnerable, all-seeing killing machine Garza had described.
Gideon drove the backhoe across the muddy field at full throttle. The fire from behind grew more accurate, bullets snapping through the roof of the cab, spraying him with plastic and insulation. He crouched low, driving blind as more bullets blew holes in the windshield. The loader couldn’t provide one hundred percent cover.
He ducked up briefly to check his position, saw he was almost there. Two more bullets went past, one practically parting his hair. Another moment — and then Gideon halted the machine, flung open the door, and jumped out, taking a flying leap from the edge of the trench and falling over the lip. He tumbled down and landed in a wallow of mud and water at its bottom, then scrabbled back up to the rim, sweeping the field with his night vision. The shooting had finally stopped.
He had possession of the trench; Mindy had not yet revealed herself; his adversary had miscalculated and—with any luck—might even be hurt.
A feeling of something like euphoria swept over Gideon. So far, he was kicking Nodding Crane’s ass.
65
He turned his attention to the exposed wall of boxes. Down here in the trench, he was safe from fire — and Mindy, he hoped, was in position in the trees, ready to take down Nodding Crane if he tried to advance over the field. Nevertheless, there was no time to waste. He pulled off the goggles, stuffed them in his backpack, donned a headlamp, and switched it on. A wall of pine boxes greeted his eye, ten boxes high and five wide. Once fresh, the little coffins were already streaked with mud. Lightning split the sky and the rain continued to pour down. The stench was almost unbearable: it reminded Gideon of a combination of rotting meat, dirty socks, and liquid cheese.
He examined the numbers of the top row: 695-1078 MSH, 695-1077 SLHD, 695-1076 BGH. He thought: 1076 minus 998 equals 78. So Wu’s legs would be seventy-eight boxes back. A quick glance told him the number he was looking for wasn’t in the exposed row of boxes. He yanked a pickax out of his pack and swung it at a box at the bottom of the row, piercing it with the point. Prying the box from the wall, he caused the entire row to come toppling down with a crash, many of the boxes breaking open, decaying arms and legs flying everywhere, tags fluttering. The stench rose up like a wet fog.