The next time the blade caught, he shut the engine down fast, but not fast enough-the chain pulled right off the bar. That set him to swearing, and by the time he had the carburetor cover off and realized the chain-tensioning screw was gone entirely, he was truly in foul spirits. He was hunched over the chain saw, still wearing his ear protection, and he had no idea that he wasn’t alone until he saw the shadows.
Two of them, man-shaped but not man-size, because the slope faced west and so at this time of day, the sun spread the shadows out large, turning them into a pair of giants. When he pivoted to find the source, he saw two strangers of nearly equal size standing about ten feet apart. Similar-looking too, both men blond-haired and blue-eyed and square-jawed. They were on his land, and he was doing nothing wrong, but there was something about the way they stood and studied him that brought a sense of authority to them, and as he took off his ear protection, he found himself asking, “Everything all right, fellas?” instead of saying, Who in the hell are you?
“Seems to be struggling with the chain saw,” the one with longer hair said, and Claude was just about to acknowledge the obvious truth of it when the other one spoke.
“He surely seems to be, yes. Not much progress made yet either.”
Claude blinked at them. That was a hell of a strange way of talking.
“Can I help you?” he said.
“With any luck,” the long-haired one said. “Would you be Claude Kitna?”
“That’s my name and this is my property. Now who are you?”
The man looked over the mountainside as if the answer were hidden in the rocks.
“I see no need to hide a name,” he said. “Do you?”
Again, Claude was about to answer when the second man spoke.
“There’s no harm in it.”
They were some sort of strange, no doubt about that. Claude wiped a greasy palm dry on his jeans, wishing he’d brought his weapon and his badge, though he wasn’t exactly sure why.
“I’m Jack,” the first man said, “and this is my brother, Patrick. Now we’re all acquainted.”
“Terrific,” Claude said. “And I’m the sheriff here. Maybe you weren’t aware of that.”
“We certainly are.”
“All right. What are you doing on my land?”
He couldn’t see his house from this spot on the ridge. Surely they’d driven up, but he didn’t recall hearing an engine. With the ear protection in and the chain saw whining, though, it was possible he’d missed it. That was the only reason they’d been able to just appear out of the woods like that, two huge and silent shadows.
“You’re police, as you mentioned,” the one named Patrick said. “Have many accident calls down along that highway, Two-Twelve? A nasty stretch of road.”
“Imposing,” his brother agreed with a nod. Claude didn’t like either of them, but he felt like he needed to pick one to focus on, because they stood an odd distance apart and circled around a little as they talked. He chose the young guy, the military-looking one.
“You put your car off the road?”
“No, sir. We remain firmly planted on the asphalt, thank you.”
“You got a funny way with words,” Claude said.
“I apologize.”
“Don’t need an apology. Also don’t need my time wasted. Now, tell me what in the hell you’re doing here.” Claude straightened up, the chain-saw blade in his hands. It made for a piss-poor weapon, just a long, oily string of teeth that weren’t even particularly sharp and didn’t do much damage unless they were buzzing. As blades went, this one wasn’t much use once you had it removed from the motor. Couldn’t stab with it, couldn’t slash with it. All the same, he wanted something in his hands.
“We have an interest in a car that ran into some trouble on Two-Twelve during the last snow,” the longhair, Jack, said. “A rental. Hertz, I believe.”
Claude could see her then, the tall woman with the lead foot, and he had a sudden, sure sense that this had turned into a dangerous day.
“Lot of accidents on Two-Twelve in the snow,” he said. “And I don’t discuss the details with anyone who hasn’t got a badge.”
“Should we show him a badge?” Patrick said.
“We certainly could. I’m not sure which variety would impress him most, though.”
“That’s the problem with our collection. I’ve told you this before.”
“I’ve heard the argument. All the same, I like to hold on to them.”
The men were far enough apart now that Claude had to turn his head to see one or the other; he couldn’t keep them both in sight. His palms were sweating, and the sweat mixed with the grease on the chain-saw blade and made it slippery. He wiped one palm on his jeans and tightened his grip.
“Gentlemen, I’m going to ask you to leave my property. If you have a question about a car accident, I don’t give a shit if you’re Hertz adjusters or FBI agents, you’ll direct it through headquarters. Am I understood?”
“Her car was on the road overnight,” the long-haired one said. “And she didn’t spend those hours in the snowdrifts. You know where she went, Claude?”
Somehow, Claude knew that repeating his instruction wasn’t going to be worth anything. So instead he answered the question.
“I have no idea. Might check the hotels.”
“I think you do have an idea. The tow-truck driver remembers you calling someone to come get her. A man on a snowmobile? The tow-truck operator was quite certain you’d know who that was.” The long-haired one took a breath and lifted his right index finger, tilting his head as if he’d just recollected some forgotten detail. “By the way-he’s dead.”
“Oh, yes,” the other one said. “He is indeed. Excellent thought, Jack. It was incumbent upon us to notify the authorities of his passing.”
“Consider it done, Patrick.”
Claude felt himself begin to tremble then. Like a damn dog. Something gone so wrong in the world that he’d literally begun to shake? What in the hell was the matter with him? He took a shifting step sideways to stop the tremors. He’d seen plenty of hard men, never once had to keep himself from shaking in their presence, not even when he was young and green. These two, though…
They aren’t joking, he thought. Roger is dead, and they’ve done it, and they aren’t scared of telling you this. The idea of consequence isn’t a notion with which they are familiar.
When the one called Jack removed a semiautomatic handgun from a holster at his spine, Claude let the chain-saw blade fall free and lifted his hands. What else was there to do?
“Come on, now,” he said. “Come on.”
“Pick that blade back up and pass it to my brother.”
Claude looked toward his house, not so far away but screened by all those pines. And empty too. There was no help coming, but still, to be so close to home and yet so helpless felt wrong.
“Nobody’s going to save you today,” the one with the gun said, reading Claude’s thoughts. “Now, pick up that blade and pass it to my brother.”
When Claude bent to retrieve it, he knew what he had to do. Go down swinging, by God. He’d be damned if he’d simply stand here with his hands in the air and let a pair of boys like these do what they wanted to him. Claude Kitna had lived too many proud years to end them like that. The chain-saw blade wasn’t much but it was what he had, and if he moved fast enough…
In his mind, it played out better. He was going to lunge upward and whip the blade at the son of a bitch’s face, and it was likely the trigger would be pulled then, but at least he’d have the man on his heels. If he missed with the shot, and Claude got the gun, things could change mighty fast. It was going to be a matter of speed, and though he was no longer a young man, he wasn’t an old one either, not a man without a burst left in him. Claude bent slow and gathered the blade from one end and then moved, sudden as a panther, whipping it backward and then lashing it forward.