Chapter 21
Tom Duggan took them along ice streams to obscure their snowshoe tracks, and the rising winds ensured that they could not be followed back to the vet’s. By the time they returned, the wind was such that the snow was blowing sideways past the windows, as though the house were in a spin. It was a kind of madness, this town she had lost herself in.
Polk lay on the bed with his arms at his sides, his feet propped up on the pillows. His shirt was tugged up to his chest, exposing flesh as pale as turkey meat. He was very weak, but his only complaint was thirst. He kept glancing up at the ceiling as though he saw someone there.
Tom Duggan took a chair next to him, and in a quiet voice he told him about the gas station.
“Blow it all up.” The old man chuckled. “Burn it all down.”
Rebecca leaned against the cologne-stained dresser. She felt wasted, observing the room rather than existing in it. She had killed a man and stood over him as he died. Like suicide, murder took precious little effort in relation to the decision to act. The will to murder was all.
Kells was redolent of the gasoline and smoke, having carried all the fury of the explosion back with him. To leave the bedroom, he had to walk past Rebecca.
“You knew they would be there,” she said. “Why did you do that to me?”
He stopped in the doorway. “What did I do?”
“You made me kill him.”
“No. He made you kill him.”
She remembered the way she had looked at Kells after the killings at the country club. She wondered how people would look at her if she ever made it out of Gilchrist. Then she thought how strange it seemed to contemplate any existence outside the town. This was how murder occurred, she realized: The killer believed she was acting inside a closed system.
Tom Duggan was standing now, looking down at Polk.
“No hospitals, Tommy,” Polk said. “No transfusions. Diseases in the blood.”
Even his paranoid rantings were losing fervor. “We’ll see, Marshall.”
“In the end, Tom. In the end...”
“Don’t talk about the end,” Tom Duggan said. “Don’t worry about anything.”
As they were leaving, Coe met them in the hallway. He was rested now and excitable again. The patchy stubble on his face made him look slightly goofy. “He asked me for the phone number to the inn,” he said.
They followed Coe back to the vet’s office. Rebecca moved clumsily, as though inhabiting a new body, uncertain how well it worked.
The speakerphone was ringing. Inside, Kells stood behind the vet’s desk. Mia and Dr. Rosen were there, and Dr. Rosen asked Kells what he was doing. Then the telephone was answered.
Kells said, “This is Clock. I want to speak to Luther Trait.”
The rest of them held fast. Rebecca remained inside the doorway, near Tom Duggan.
Muffled words, then Trait’s unmistakable voice through the exaggerated speakerphone. “This is Trait.”
“We took out your fuel supply and four more men. That brings your total population down to about forty, by my count.”
Trait paused, then answered with confidence. “Gasoline means nothing to us right now. Once the snow clears we will take delivery of whatever supplies we need.”
Kells said, “You will not last here that long.”
“You underestimate me. As I have underestimated you — until now. There are some Marielitos here who would like to meet with you to discuss the killing and mutilation of their countrymen.”
“They have to catch me first. How long until their frustration turns on you?”
“We all share a bond here, the persecution we suffered at ADX Gilchrist. We all wear the same battle scar.”
“All except one.”
“Yes. Except one. I wonder why you didn’t ask to speak to him?”
“Inkman will betray you. You must know this by now. The takeover of this town was a classic CIA coup, only Inkman is bankrolling it with your lives instead of cash. We put up governments and tore them down again, and walked away unscathed every time. Does the term ‘puppet dictator’ mean anything to you? How long will it be before he kills you and takes over?”
Trait emitted a practiced laugh. “You are trying to play me,” he said. “Inkman views your presence here as a threat. I do not. To me you are an opportunity, a challenge. The takeover here was too easy, too efficient, too programmed. We are warriors. What is a warrior without a war?”
“A criminal.”
“Your death will be the rock upon which this community of warriors is forged. I think you being here might turn out to be the best thing that could have happened to us.”
“You will find I am not a problem to be solved. I am more of a problem-solver.”
“Is the writer there with you?”
The rest of them turned. Rebecca thought she was going to fall to the floor.
Kells was silent, waiting. Rebecca wanted to rush away.
She heard herself speak. She heard herself say: “Yes.”
A long pause on the other side.
“You stayed,” said Trait.
Bewilderment and terror. Simply to have made an impression on a monster such as Luther Trait was appalling.
He continued, “I said we would meet again on my terms.”
She searched for a response. Kells’s eyes were dark, his killer’s face sharp.
Trait went on, “I won’t be responsible for what happens if my men find you first. But tell me where you are right now, and I will come get you. I will treat you well. You know you can’t win here. What chance do you have against a crew of motivated killers? You know Clock must fail. You have one chance to survive — and I say this to anyone else listening as well. Kill Clock in his sleep. Kill him before he gets you killed. You will be spared and rewarded.”
Her anger surprised her. “I won’t be your prize,” she said quickly.
“All in time,” he said. “I said if there were no jails or laws, you would align yourself with a warrior like me. Only, for now, you picked the wrong warrior. But this town is getting smaller by the hour. Look outside your window tonight and you will see.”
The click told her Trait had hung up.
Kells turned off the vet’s phone with a beep. He was contemplative for a moment. “He’s thinking about Inkman now.”
Tom Duggan said, “What did he mean about looking out our window?”
Kells was listening now. Rebecca heard it too.
Noises outside. A soft thumping, rhythmic, like feet running hard through the thick snow.
Kells dashed from the windowless office past Rebecca into the hallway, and she followed him into the TV room. She was certain it was Jasper Grue.
Kells sidled up to the front window. He showed her an open hand to quiet her footsteps on the uncarpeted floor as the noise of the tramping grew closer. Kells drew the Beretta from the back of his pants and held it at his side, turning to the glass. The room was dark enough for her to see the snow blowing outside. She gripped the wall as Tom Duggan appeared behind her.
Kells relaxed, standing full in front of the window, the gun hanging loose.
A riderless horse pranced into view. He was black and kicking in the delirious snow, snorting lungfuls of steam, an orange and brown blanket leaping off his back. He spun around and around before the window, triggering the outside motion light which illuminated his dark coat and ebony eyes, spooking him into wheeling and galloping away.
Rebecca moved to the cold window as the snow-kicks faded from view.