I rolled these new wheels out through the maze of neighborhoods and across roads that had been scraped so clean of ice, they couldn’t have chilled a can of Diet Coke.
I gave three quiet cheers for Minnesota. In Seattle a dusty inch of anything white and chilly means the city lapses into full-on panic mode, as if each falling flake crashes to earth with its own individual baggie of used hypodermic needles. It’s ridiculous.
But the city before me was shiny and dark, hard-frozen around its edges and glinting from the ice that coated the corners of buildings like cake frosting made of crushed glass. The streets were empty since the wee hours were approaching and hey, for all that I’d cheered, St. Paul was no Seattle, and there didn’t appear to be much in the way of nightlife—at least not through the places where I was driving.
I had a printout of directions from the Internet sitting on the passenger seat beside me. They weren’t directions to Holtzer Point exactly, but they were maps of the rough location where I figured Holtzer Point could be found. I already knew I was going to be relegated to foot patrol at some point, so I didn’t mind playing it a little fuzzy.
Soon the bare but civilized streets of St. Paul gave way to emptier places with shorter buildings and fewer streetlights … and then no buildings, and no streetlights, and after a few turns I was urging the Nissan along a two-lane road in the middle of what could best be described as the geographic center of Godforsaken, Bumblefuck. The roads out there in Bumblefuck weren’t quite as pristine as the ones in town, and the Nissan struggled with the curves. I should’ve put new tires on it before taking it out. I’m sure I had some good reason for not doing so at the time, but I kicked myself about it as the back wheels spun and I clenched my teeth. I wasn’t desperately worried about getting stuck; I’m strong enough to shove my own car out of a mushy ditch. I just didn’t want to do it if I didn’t have to.
At the tail end of my flippant prayer to the gods of winter, the car lurched forward and carried me another mile before any farther distance would be an ill-advised pressing of luck. I pulled the car as far off the road as I dared and backed into an improvised spot between two trees. Then I took all my paperwork pertaining to Holtzer Point and stuck it into my Useful Things Bag, which I slung over my shoulder. There was no sense in leaving a treasure map to my intended location lying out in the open, in case anyone did find the car and deem it suspicious enough to open.
I got out, wished that the car had still been painted white so it’d be harder to see, and made sure my boots were laced tightly. I didn’t want any snow down my ankles and I didn’t want to stop and tie anything at a crucial moment of reconnaissance.
As I stood there, already half frozen solid and breathing pale puffs of air across the hood of my car, I hated myself for thinking of that word again.
Reconnaissance. Then I thought of the major and his audible sneer, and I told myself that turnabout was fair play.
I stomped off alongside the two-lane road, following it rather than walking it because I didn’t know if it was being watched—but I might as well assume the worst. The snow made progress an exhausting sort of slog, and no amount of lacing could keep all the icy slush out of my socks. I wished for rooftops to jump between, but didn’t get anything for my wishing except for a knee-deep drop through a crackling crust. I hoisted my legs up, one after another, and forced myself to remember that I was making noise, and that I was on dangerous ground. But it was a hard job to convince myself, out there in the astonishing no-place-ness of the frigid forest.
Until I hit the fence.
Chain link all around with razor wire at the top, the fence was maybe nine feet high. I didn’t see any signs right away, but as I trudged along its length I eventually encountered an admonition to KEEP OUT. PROPERTY MONITORED AND MAINTAINED BY THE UNITED STATES ARMED FORCES. TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT.
It might as well have said, WELCOME, RAYLENE. LET YOURSELF INSIDE, BUT KEEP YOUR HEAD DOWN, M’KAY?
That’s how I read it anyway, and that’s what I did. I figured if the military really wanted to keep people out, it could spring for something more off-putting than a chain-link fence because, seriously—any idiot with a bolt cutter could slink on through in under a minute. I’m no idiot, and I had a bolt cutter. I made myself a pet door, bent the clipped oval up, and slid underneath. Then I drew it down behind me for appearance’s sake, on the off chance that the property really was being monitored.
Again I found it peculiar how little security had been detailed or visible. I’d made my excuses, but surely following a break-in tighter measures might be instituted? Or was I just overestimating the commitment of the armed forces to keeping its secrets?
I didn’t have a map of Holtzer Point because the place practically doesn’t exist, except in tinfoil-hat-land. Even my handydandy PDF of useful stuff didn’t give me any good idea about the joint’s layout, so I was going to have to wing it.
I was wearing white, of course. I even had a white hat to cover my dark hair. No sense in taking chances. And while the fence’s perimeter was handy, it probably wasn’t the best thing to follow in the long term. People don’t put buildings on fences. They put fences around buildings, and often they aim cameras at fences. Ergo, I’d have to venture out into the semi-open.
Inside the fence there were still plenty of trees, and inside those trees I could not spy any hint of hardware. If I was being watched, I was being watched discreetly. No matter how hard I sniffed, I couldn’t pick up even the faintest traces of warmth from small lights or the funny ozone and metal stink of electronics.
I kept low and kept to the largest trunks I could find, and trusted them to hide me. And eventually, after an ass-numbing hour of swearing my way through the snow, I found five buildings clustered together, as if for warmth. One was quite large—easily the size of a big barn—and the others were much smaller. In the tiniest of the five, an ill yellow light was burning within, and the one lone window marked a pitiful square of occupancy.
I felt sorry for whoever was home. I’d been in cemeteries that saw more action.
By my best guess, the tiny shack with the square yellow window was a guard’s hut or something. One of the other small buildings looked like a storage shed, perhaps, and the big barn must be where pay dirt was housed. The other two structures were inscrutable. If there were windows, I couldn’t see them, and if there was any sign of life inside, it didn’t leak out into the open where I could detect it.
I could’ve just bopped into the guard’s hut and cold-cocked the occupant, sure; but if I could possibly manage it, I wanted to get in and out without anyone knowing I’d ever been there.
I sidled around to the back of the nearest building first, just trying to get the lay of the land. And anyway, it was less visible from the guard’s hut. While I was there, I may as well be thorough, and may as well tackle the easiest targets first.
On the side opposite the guard’s hut I found a row of windows that were small enough to be merely ornamental—if the military ever did anything for the sake of aesthetics. They latched from within, of course, but a quick zip of my glass cutter gave me enough access to open them. I replaced the cork of glass when I was finished. It wasn’t perfect, but unless you were looking for signs of an entry—I mean seriously looking—you’d never notice I’d done anything.
I took a deep breath. Since this inflated my chest and made it bigger, I let the breath out again and then, with my temporarily leaner physique, wormed my way through the ridiculously narrow slot. I nearly lost a boot on my way inside, and if my pants had been even half a size bigger I would’ve gotten stuck. But all went well and I slipped on through, slicker than whale shit through an ice floe.
I caught myself with my hands, and landed with nothing more noteworthy than a muffled thud.
As I’d originally suspected, I’d deposited myself into a garden toolshed, though it was almost too big to call a shed. If I’d been bold enough to shine a light in first I’d have known that for certain. But i
f the place was occupied at all—even if it was by a slumbering old coot with a Barney Fife complex—then discretion must remain the better part of valor.
I tiptoed around the riding lawn mower and perused the shelves as a matter of principle, but I found only bug spray, WD-40, paint thinner, and bundles of greasy rags. It could’ve been anybody’s dad’s garage. And if being undead hadn’t taken care of my allergies, I would’ve been sneezing my brains out. A thick coat of dust covered everything, and I’d disturbed it, which disturbed me. But spring was months away and maybe whatever I’d kicked up would settle back down before anything needed mowing or weeding, or that’s what I told myself as I squirmed my way back out into the open air.
The big barn, then. That’s where I’d try next.
I poked my head out of the window, looked both ways like a first-grader crossing the street, and started wiggling back outside again. I was about two-thirds out—hanging at my hips, working up the momentum to flip myself forward with enough leverage for a smooth landing—when I heard it.
Somewhere nearby.
The crunch-crunch, crunch-crunch, of someone walking briskly through the snow. Nay, not walking briskly. More like … sneaking. Or marching. Sneak-marching. And absolutely nothing about that sound warmed my heart in any fashion whatsoever.
I didn’t quite manage the landing I’d wanted—I toppled forward out the window and fell with more of a “splat” than with tidy cat feet en pointe—but it got me to the ground. Funny, I didn’t remember the snow under the window being quite so deep on the way in. I sank into snow that came up over my knees, and I tramped around in it, both trying to be quiet and trying to figure out which direction to run, if any.
I held still for a few seconds and listened hard, hoping to better pinpoint the noise, which had now been joined by more crunch-crunches and seemed to be coming from everywhere at once.
Stupid woods. Stupid snow. Stupid silent night.
It was coming from the left—no, the right. No, both.
Shit.
I didn’t panic. Yet.
Perhaps forty yards of open snow stood between me and the big barn, and the side I faced, but I didn’t see any easy point of entry. I could make a run for it, but I’d only be running straight at a blank wall—with no way up it, through it, or inside it. Obviously the thing had to have a door somewhere. I fought to remember: When I’d approached under the fence, down into the main compound … had I seen it?
Yes. It was around on the left side, I remembered now.
But someone was closing in on me by the moment. The crunch-crunch was close enough that I could hear the faint, low buzz of electronic communication. It was probably moving through earbuds or very small radios; the sound wasn’t perfectly clear, but it was distinct.
I’d been spotted. And I had nowhere to go.
Across the yard—around the right side of the barn—something glinted quickly and vanished. It could’ve been anything. Probably moonlight off a button, or a pair of glasses.
I was not frozen, not paralyzed. Just pinned by indecision. I looked up and saw the shed’s gutter above me, and I thought: What the hell? Might as well try going up. They already knew where I was; I could sense that much from the way they were closing in. They weren’t hunting, they were coming right for me.
I didn’t see them yet, so they had a leg up on me. They’d see me if I jumped up on top of the shed, maybe; and more likely than not, they’d hear me regardless.
I stretched to reach the overhang, but couldn’t quite make it. The snow felt like quicksand, and even though it wasn’t, I couldn’t help but feel that it was holding me down. I picked up my left leg, covered in snow as it was, and braced it against the side of the building, using it to give myself a boost. I hoisted myself up out of the snow and latched both hands around the gutter. The damn thing squealed as if it’d been shot.
Too late to double-think. With a pop of my arms and a fling to toss my weight up onto the gently peaked surface, I was up.
No time for a false sense of security, either. As I scrambled to find a good foothold that wouldn’t leave me sliding right back into the snowdrifts, somebody below opened fire.
Bullets sprayed toward me and I ducked, flattening myself on the roof—which had a good foot of snow on it, thank you very much. I wondered if they could see me, if I just went facedown in it, wearing my white suit and everything. It would’ve been nice if I could hide there, smushed into the snow. I’d freeze my tits off, but if they couldn’t see me, they couldn’t shoot at me, right?
Boy, howdy. The bullshit I’ll tell myself when I’m completely out of ideas.
Then somebody below barked an order and all bets were off. Two more people were shooting from the other side of the shed. They didn’t know exactly where I was, thank God, so the snow was good for something after all, and the peaked roof threw off their angles. It’s hard to shoot something that’s above you, and reclined on a plane.
But it wouldn’t stop them for long.
I blew a frantic second or two wondering how many bullets I could take before going down. In a moment of crisis? I mean, absolute and pure desperation—still having the stamina to run like hell? Maybe three or four to the torso, more if they just winged me. But man, that kind of worst-case-scenario thinking wasn’t going to help me. Not then. Not when it was far too late for any preventive measures.
Right. No time to wish for what I didn’t have (solitude) and think instead about what I did have (a .38 Special inside my Useful Things Bag).
I didn’t want to open fire back. Not immediately. Not while they still were foggy on precisely where I was, apart from “up there someplace.” Any gunfire would tell them my exact location immediately and with great clarity.
So I left it stashed for the moment, and writhed around in the snow until I had my bag slung across my chest, leaving both hands fully free and maneuverable. I tightened its strap to keep it close—I didn’t want it flopping around during any of the acrobatics I was about to try—and I kept my head low while the bullets clipped shingles closer and closer to where I was hunkering.
This sucked. How had they found me? Had I missed a camera? Had they found my car? What easy fuckup had I committed this time? Jesus.
I guess they could’ve been expecting me. After all, someone, somewhere knew what was in that PDF and knew what it’d tell me. All I could do was hope they didn’t know what, exactly, they were dealing with.
Me.
I couldn’t make a forty-yard hop to the barn. It wasn’t going to happen. But I could make it in three or four good hops, especially if the first hop came from an elevated position—or that was my reasoning, anyway. Maybe starting from a rooftop only made me feel better. I couldn’t say, and it didn’t matter, because I was going to have to make a run for it.
And people were still shooting at me.
They weren’t shooting a lot, at least. Nobody was wasting much ammo. Mostly they were taking potshots. I could hear them below, splitting up and surrounding my hiding spot—at least it was a big little building—and closing off my avenues of escape. Or so they thought.
I rolled over flat, facedown in the snow, and lifted my head enough to peer out over the compound. The crew that’d surrounded the shed … I couldn’t see those guys. They were too close, and I’d earn myself a bullet up the nose if I looked over the edge to get a gander at them.
Pulling myself up to the lowest of all possible crouches, I took a deep breath. I braced myself. I dug my boots deep into the packed snow and ice, and I jammed my knees down into it, and my hands as well. I needed traction. I needed to jump.
Shit, what I really needed was to leap a tall building in a single bound. But since we all knew that wasn’t in the cards, I’d settle for a good launch and a mad dash. If I moved fast enough, and if they didn’t know to expect a vampire, I might surprise the hell out of them.
They might not even see me. I might appear as nothing more than a streak, and those very far-spaced footprints over
there someplace.
Below I heard them talking into tiny microphones, and receiving instruction through their tiny earbuds. They were close enough that I could hear whoever the honcho was. He was giving hand signals, and I could hear the rustle of his clothes as he fired them off.
Someone was forcing the shed door.
They were going to come inside and shoot through the ceiling to get me if they had to, and that meant I’d officially hit the “now or never” moment.
One more deep breath. I tensed. I held my head low, checked my bag one more time, then shoved myself off with such force that half the snow slid off the roof … collapsing onto the guys who’d been lurking underneath it.
I’m going to go ahead and pretend I knew that would happen, and I totally meant to do it.
The victims of the impromptu avalanche cried out in surprise, but it was muffled by a few hundred pounds of snow. And then it was far behind me.
The frigid air stung my ears as I ran, leaping so fast and so far that I might as well have been flying for all any of the mere mortals could have seen. I hoped.
The largest building, the one I’d mentally denoted as a “barn,” was close enough that I reached it in the span of a couple of leaps and a couple of seconds. I skidded around its side, clamoring up to the door. It was locked, no big surprise there. It only took one hard shove for me to figure out that I could open it, yes—but it’d take more time than I wanted to invest in the endeavor. More time than I could afford to invest.
My pursuers were running in circles, shouting and trying to reorganize. And I guess someone might’ve gotten busy trying to dig those poor bastards out from under all the snow I’d kicked off the roof. But they’d be on my tail again before long.
How long did I have? Maybe seconds. Maybe minutes. No longer than that—no way, no how.
Like the storage shed, the barn’s only windows were high up and designed for passage by few things larger than a leprechaun—which is not to say that they thwarted me, but I’ll confess to being inconvenienced. But while I still had the benefit of uncertainty on my side, I jumped, hopped, and scrambled into position, popped out some glass, and skooched my way into the interior.