His moment of victory was upon him, but Trusov frowned bitterly. Gray might already be dead. The body lay still. Then it appeared to move. Trusov squinted. The movement might have been an illusion, caused by the sway of leaves. The body moved again.
Prone on the ground, Trusov positioned his Mosin-Nagant in front of him. His fingers were swollen from the wasp stings, and his trigger finger barely fit into the guard. He found the khaki shirt in his scope, then it was hidden by waving leaves, then visible again. A sure shot even through the brush.
Trusov's exquisite moment was at hand. Decades in the making. He nudged the rifle down the shirt for the pant leg.
His finger smoothly came back. A hair's width at a time, the trigger giving lovely resistance. The trigger came back and back.
The rifle fired and snapped back into Trusov's shoulder. The sound of the shot burst away and then echoed in the bowl. He worked the bolt, sighted in, and squeezed again, this time sending the projectile into the thigh. The body bounced as the bullet ripped into it.
The third shot was aimed at Gray's chest, but the target was mostly obscured by underbrush. The bullet flew true and the body jumped. Gray's head was not visible through the scope, hidden behind brush, but Trusov sent two more bullets where he estimated Gray's head to be.
Nikolai Trusov rose to his feet. He touched the fresh wound on his forehead, then the older wound, the deep gouge that had been with him since his first encounter with White Star. Now it was over. He walked toward the corpse of his enemy. Trusov had always been the careful soldier, so he moved slowly, a fresh shell in the breech. He pushed aside thimbleberry and syringa as he approached. Fifty meters to Gray's body, to his vindication, to his rapture.
The body lay still. As he drew near, Trusov could see two of his bullet holes, torn red gaps in the cloth. He could see burns on the cloth. Not much blood, though, so perhaps the burns and Trusov's earlier hit had killed Gray a while ago after all. The smell of seared flesh was now strong. He walked with more confidence, pushing aside syringa branches and stepping over bunches of cheat grass. Closer to the body, to the ineffable pleasure, to the capstone of his years of dreaming.
Five meters from the body, Trusov's mouth twisted with anticipation. And then he saw it was wrong. Everything was wrong. The Russian was allowed three seconds of astonishment. The pant leg was filled with grass. The burned shirt covered not a human body but the body of that quilled animal Trusov had hacked at with his knife the day before. Just behind the porcupine, a small fire had been ignited, using the dry grass, and the fire had scorched the porcupine's body, providing the fresh scent of burned flesh, Trusov's homing beacon. It was all wrong, shockingly wrong.
Trusov only had time to bring up his rifle a few inches.
His left foot danced when a bullet tore through his ankle. The Russian instinctively shifted his weight to save himself from falling. He desperately looked around for the source of his torment and tried again to bring up his rifle.
Then his leg buckled, shot through at the knee. A rifle's bellow came from uphill, from somewhere in the pines. Trusov kept himself upright with his good leg, and twisted around looking for a target but found only pieces of his shattered knee and splashes of blood on the ground behind him.
Trusov stabbed the ground with his rifle trying to catch himself, but a second bullet streaked through his left elbow, almost severing his forearm from his body. Trusov screamed and began sliding to the ground, losing his grip on his rifle.
Another shot, this one tearing apart his right arm. Trusov's arms were nothing but useless flails, hanging by strips of flesh from smashed elbows.
Toppling and twisting, Trusov cried out, a shriek of rage and perhaps of sorrow. But the sound was lost in yet another shot. A bullet flew through the meat of both thighs, spraying a nearby tree with fragments of the Russian.
Trusov landed on the ground near the porcupine. He tried to squirm toward his rifle, but neither his legs nor arms worked, and he lay still, his eyes open. Waiting.
Not for long. Owen Gray emerged from the trees, his reloaded Winchester on Trusov. Gray was almost naked, with mud and pine needles and seeping burns covering his body. His mouth was open and his breath was a rasp. He weaved as he came for the Russian, and fifteen feet away Gray had to stop. He tottered, then found his footing again and stepped ahead. Even Gray's rifle waggled unprofessionally, as if a bough in the wind. He held the weapon in his good hand.
Gray had only a meager recollection of having surfaced from the blackout a few moments ago, prompted by the porcupine's quills stabbing his hand. From somewhere — from the depth of his training or from the desperate need to beat the Russian — he had found the strength to take off his pants and stuff a few handfuls of grass into the remaining pant leg. Then with a match he had ignited a handful of dry cheat grass and had burned some of the porcupine's belly flesh, leaving a trail of scent for the Russian. Then he had draped his shirt over the animal and had crawled away to wait.
Now Gray stepped across pine needles and loose pebbles to the Russian. Gray's steps were small and uncertain, and he had to balance himself after each new step. He fought the blackness that wanted to take him.
The Russian stared back at him. He coughed, inhaled raggedly, and whispered, "That was good. Burning that animal's body, letting me think the smell was from you, drawing me to your trap."
"I don't feel like chatting." With difficulty Gray bent to the porcupine, to his pants. He pulled the spiral notebook from the pocket and ripped out a sheet. He fumbled with the paper but after a few seconds the fabled white star emerged.
Breathing shallowly and gurgling, the Russian stared at him. The red shell he had hoped to leave at Gray's body had fallen from his shirt pocket and lay beside him, insignificant in the grass.
"This is from me." Gray let the white star float down to the Russian's chest. Trusov followed it with his eyes. It landed on his bloodstained shirt.
"You and I are even now." Gray's voice was crabbed with pain. "Our accounts are balanced. I'm done with you." He took a few steps away from Trusov.
Trusov might have sensed a reprieve. He asked weakly, "You are done with me?"
A long moment passed, Gray weaving as if from a strong wind.
Gray turned back, as if with an afterthought. "But then there's Mrs. Orlando. Her account is still owing."
Gray lowered the rifle, put its snout against Trusov's forehead, and pulled the trigger. The Russian's head came apart.
"That was from her."
Gray managed only two steps away from Trusov's body until he sagged to the ground. There he lay, wondering for a few seconds if he would be found, then able to wonder no more.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The two-man crosscut saw creased the log, gliding across the pine, but it was a feeble effort, and the saw did more sliding than biting. A twin was on each end of the tool. Their usual smooth teamwork had abandoned them. They pulled and pushed against each other, the saw teetered and wobbled, and the log remained largely unscathed.
"Can we quit now?" Julie asked.
"You didn't give it much of a try," Gray replied.
"Maybe you could spell us." Carolyn wiped her brow with histrionic embellishment.
"Can't. Doctor's orders. The surgeon said specifically, 'No two-man crosscut sawing.' "
Julie pulled again on the saw, to no effect, as her sister also pulled at the same time.
The woodshed's four new corner posts were now set in concrete. Adrian had leveled the concrete with a trowel. Tools from the closet were spread around the construction site.