The older Indian drew a hatchet from his belt. With a swift, powerful motion he cut off Lennox's right hand at the wrist.
Mack said: "By Jesus."
Blood gushed from the stump and Lennox fainted.
The man picked up the severed hand and, with a formal air, presented it to Fish Boy.
He took it solemnly. Then he turned around and hurled it away. It flew up into the air and over the trees, to fall somewhere in the woods.
There was a murmur of approval from the Indians.
"A hand for a hand," Mack said quietly.
"God forgive them," said Lizzie.
But they had not finished. They picked up the bleeding Lennox and placed him under a tree. They tied a rope to his ankle, looped the rope over a bough of the tree, and raised him until he was hanging upside-down. Blood pumped from his severed wrist and pooled on the ground beneath him. The Indians stood around, looking at the grisly sight. It seemed they were going to watch Lennox die. They reminded Mack of the crowd at a London hanging.
Peg came up to them and said; "We ought to do something about the Indian boy's fingers."
Lizzie looked away from her dying husband.
Peg said: "Have you got something to bandage his hand?"
Lizzie blinked and nodded. "I've got some ointment, and a handkerchief we can use for a bandage. I'll see to it."
"No," Peg said firmly. "Let me do it."
"If you wish." Lizzie found a jar of ointment and a silk handkerchief and gave them to Peg.
Peg detached Fish Boy from the group around the tree. Although she did not speak his language, she seemed to be able to communicate with him. She led him down to the stream and began to bathe his wounds.
"Mack," said Lizzie.
He turned to her. She was crying.
"Jay is dead," she said.
Mack looked at him. He was completely white. The bleeding had stopped and he was motionless. Mack bent and felt for a heartbeat. There was none.
"I loved him once," Lizzie said.
"I know."
"I want to bury him."
Mack got a spade from their kit. While the Indians watched Lennox bleed to death, Mack dug a shallow grave. He and Lizzie lifted Jay's body and placed it in the hole. Lizzie bent down and gingerly withdrew the arrows from the corpse. Mack shoveled soil over the body and Lizzie began to cover the grave with stones.
Suddenly Mack wanted to get away from this place of blood.
He rounded up the horses. There were now ten: the six from the plantation, plus the four Jay and his gang had brought. Mack was struck by the peculiar thought that he was rich. He owned ten horses. He began to load the supplies.
The Indians stirred. Lennox seemed to be dead. They left the tree and came over to where Mack was loading the horses. The oldest man spoke to Mack. Mack did not understand a word, but the tone was formal. He guessed the man was saying that justice had been done.
They were ready to go.
Fish Boy and Peg came up from the waterside together. Mack looked at the boy's hand: Peg had made a nice job of the bandage.
Fish Boy said something, and there followed an exchange in the Indian language that sounded quite angry. At last all the Indians but Fish Boy walked away.
"Is he staying?" Mack asked Peg.
She shrugged.
The other Indians went eastward, along the river valley toward the setting sun, and soon disappeared into the woods.
Mack got on his horse. Fish Boy unroped a spare horse from the line and mounted it. He went ahead. Peg rode beside him. Mack and Lizzie followed.
"Do you think Fish Boy is going to guide us?" Mack said to Lizzie.
"It looks like it."
"But he hasn't asked a price of any kind."
"No."
"I wonder what he wants."
Lizzie looked at the two young people riding side by side. "Can't you guess?" she said.
"Oh!" said Mack. "You think he's in love with her?"
"I think he wants to spend a little more time with her."
"Well, well." Mack became thoughtful.
As they headed west, along the river valley, the sun came up behind them, throwing their shadows on the land ahead.
*
It was a broad valley, beyond the highest range but still in the mountains. There was a fast-moving stream of pure cold water bubbling along the valley floor, teeming with fish. The hillsides were densely forested and alive with game. On the highest ridge, a pair of golden eagles came and went, bringing food to the nest for their young.
"It reminds me of home," said Lizzie.
"Then we'll call it High Glen," Mack replied.
They unloaded the horses in the flattest part of the valley bottom, where they would build a house and clear a field. They camped on a patch of dry turf beneath a wide-spreading tree.
Peg and Fish Boy were rummaging through a sack, looking for a saw, when Peg found the broken iron collar. She pulled it out and stared quizzically at it. She looked uncomprehendingly at the letters: she had never learned to read. "Why did you bring this?" she said.
Mack exchanged glances with Lizzie. They were both recalling the scene by the river in the old High Glen, back in Scotland, when Lizzie had asked Mack the same question.
Now he gave Peg the same answer, but this time there was no bitterness in his voice, only hope. "Never to forget," he said with a smile. "Never."
Acknowledgments
For invaluable help with this book I thank the following:
My editors, Suzanne Baboneau and Ann Patty;
Researchers Nicholas Courtney and Daniel Starer;
Historians Anne Goldgar and Thad Tate;
Ramsey Dow and John Brown-Wright of
Longannet Colliery;
Lawrence Lambert of the Scottish Mining Museum;
Gordon and Dorothy Grant of Glen Lyon;
Scottish MPs Gordon Brown, Martin O'Neill, and the late John Smith;
Ann Duncombe;
Colin Tett;
Barbara Follett, Emanuele Follett, Katya Follett and
Kim Turner;
And, as always, Al Zuckerman.
Available now at a bookstore near you ...
THE THIRD TWIN
by Ken Follett
Published by The Random House Publishing Group.
The Third Twin is an electrifying contemporary thriller, energized by the chilling possibilities of genetic manipulation and as fully riveting as Ken Follett's classic World War II thriller Eye of the Needle.
In her research on the genetic components of aggression for the Jones Falls University psychology department, Jeannie Farrari makes a startling discovery. Using a restricted FBI database, she has located a pair of identical twins who were born, impossibly, to different mothers. When she delves into their backgrounds, forces as powerful as The New York Times and the FBI take notice, and she suddenly finds that her career--and possibly much more--is in danger.
Who can she trust? Berisford Jones, the powerful mentor who encouraged her research? Or Steve Logan, one of the unnatural twins, a man she is coming to love despite the possibility that he carries within him a genetic predisposition to rape and murder?
What Jeannie cannot know is that she has stumbled upon evidence of a conspiracy involving a top biotech company, right-wing politicians, and her own university. Their aim is as shocking as it is scientifically and technically possible in the era of genetic manipulation: the reshaping of American society according to their own reactionary, racist, and sexist principles.
Turn the page for a glimpse of this gripping new novel ...
JEANNIE LEFT THE TENNIS COURT AND HEADED FOR the locker room. As she was passing the hockey pitch, she ran into Lisa Hoxton. Lisa was the first real friend she had made since arriving at Jones Falls a month ago. Like Jeannie, she came from a poor background, and was a little intimidated by the Ivy League hauteur of Jones Falls. They had taken to one another instantly.
"A kid just tried to pick me up," Jeanni
e said with a smile.
"What was he like?"
"He looked like Brad Pitt, but taller."
"Did you tell him you had a friend more his age?" Lisa said. She was twenty-four.
"No." Jeannie glanced over her shoulder, but the man was nowhere in sight. "Keep walking, in case he follows me."
"How could that be bad?"
"Come on."
"Jeannie, it's the creepy ones you run away from."
"Knock it off!"
"You might have given him my phone number."
"I should have handed him a slip of paper with your bra size on it, that would have done the trick." Lisa had a big bust.
Lisa stopped walking and looked shocked. For a moment Jeannie thought she had gone too far and offended Lisa. She began to frame an apology. Then Lisa said: "What a great idea! I'm a 36D, for more information call this number. It's so subtle, too."
"I'm just envious; I always wanted hooters," Jeannie said, and they both giggled. "It's true, though, I prayed for tits. I was practically the last girl in my class to get my period; it was so embarrassing."
"You actually said: 'Dear God, please make my tits grow,' kneeling beside your bed?"
"Actually I prayed to the Virgin Mary; I figured it was a girl thing. And I didn't say tits, of course."
"What did you say, breasts?"
"No, I figured you couldn't say breasts to the Holy Mother."
"So what did you call them?"
"Bristols."
Lisa burst out laughing.
"I don't know where I got that word from; I must have overheard some men talking. It seemed like a polite euphemism to me. I never told anyone that before in my life."
Lisa looked back. "Well, I don't see any good-looking guys following us. I guess we shook off Brad Pitt."
"It's a good thing. He's just my type: handsome, sexy, overconfident, and totally untrustworthy."
"How do you know he's untrustworthy? You only met him for twenty seconds."
"All men are untrustworthy."
"You're probably right. Are you coming to Andy's tonight?"
"Yeah, just for an hour or so. I have to shower first." Her shirt was wet through with perspiration.
"Me, too." Lisa was in shorts and running shoes. "I've been training with the hockey team. Why only for an hour?"
"I've had a heavy day. I had to put my mom into a home."
"Oh, Jeannie, I'm sorry."
Jeannie told her the story as they entered the gymnasium building and went down the stairs to the basement. In the locker room Jeannie caught sight of their reflection in the mirror. They were so different in appearance that they almost looked like a comedy act. Lisa was a little below average height, and Jeannie was almost six feet. Lisa was blonde and curvy, whereas Jeannie was dark and muscular. Lisa had a pretty face, with a scatter of freckles across a pert little nose, and a mouth like a bow. Most people described Jeannie as striking-looking, and men sometimes told her she was beautiful, but nobody ever called her pretty.
They climbed out of their sweaty sports clothes and showered. Jeannie took longer, washing her hair. She was grateful for Lisa's friendship. Lisa had been at Jones Falls just over a year, and she had shown Jeannie around when she arrived here at the beginning of the semester. Jeannie liked working with Lisa in the lab because she was completely reliable, and she liked hanging out with her after work because she felt she could say whatever came into her mind without fear of shocking her.
Jeannie was working conditioner into her hair when she heard strange noises. She stopped and listened. It sounded like squeals of fright. A chill of anxiety passed through her, making her shiver. Suddenly she felt very vulnerable: naked, wet, underground. She hesitated, then quickly rinsed her hair before stepping out of the shower to see what was going on.
She smelled burning as soon as she got out from under the water. She could not see a fire, but there were thick clouds of black and gray smoke close to the ceiling. It seemed to be coming through the ventilators. There was a fire.
She felt afraid. She had never been in a fire.
The more coolheaded women were snatching up their bags and heading for the door, she observed. Others were getting hysterical, shouting at one another in frightened voices and running here and there pointlessly. Some asshole of a security man, with a spotted handkerchief tied over his nose and mouth, was making them more scared by walking up and down, shoving people, and yelling orders.
Jeannie knew she should not stay to get dressed, but somehow she could not bring herself to walk out of the building naked. There was fear running through her veins like ice water, but she made herself calm. She found her locker. Lisa was nowhere to be seen. Jeannie grabbed her clothes, stepped into her jeans, and pulled her T-shirt over her head.
It took only a few seconds, but in that time the room emptied of people and filled with fumes. She could no longer see the doorway, and she started to cough. The thought of not being able to breathe scared her. I know where the door is, and I just have to keep calm, she told herself. Her keys and money were in her jeans pockets. She picked up her tennis racket. Holding her breath, she walked quickly through the lockers to the exit.
The corridor was thick with smoke, and her eyes began to water so that she was almost blind. Now she wished to heaven that she had gone naked and gained a few precious seconds. Her jeans did not help her see or breathe in this fog of fumes. And it did not matter being naked if you were dead.
She kept one shaky hand on the wall to give her a sense of direction as she rushed along the passage, still holding her breath. When there was no more wall, she knew she was in the small lobby, although she could not see anything but clouds of smoke. The stairs had to be straight ahead. She crossed the lobby and crashed into the Coke machine. Was the staircase to the left now, or the right? The left, she thought. She moved that way, then came up against the door to the men's locker room and realized she had made the wrong choice.
She could not hold her breath any longer. With a groan she sucked in air. It was mostly smoke, and it made her cough convulsively. She staggered back along the wall, racked with coughing, her eyes streaming, barely able to see her own hands in front of her. With all her being she longed for one breath of the air she had been taking for granted for twenty-nine years. She followed the wall to the Coke machine and stepped around it. She knew she had found the staircase when she tripped over the bottom step. She dropped her racket and it slid out of sight. It was a special one--she had won the Mayfair Lites Challenge with it--but her life was more precious, and she left the racket behind and scrambled up the stairs on hands and knees.
The smoke thinned suddenly when she reached the spacious ground-floor lobby. She could see the building doors, which were open. A security guard stood just outside, beckoning her and yelling: "Come on!" Coughing and choking, she staggered across the lobby and out into the blessed fresh air.
She stood on the steps for two or three minutes, bent double, gulping air and coughing the smoke out of her lungs. As her breathing at last began to return to normal, she heard the whoop of an emergency vehicle in the distance. She looked around for Lisa but could not see her.
Surely she could not still be inside? Still feeling shaky, Jeannie moved through the crowd, scanning the faces.
Lisa was not in the crowd. With mounting anxiety Jeannie returned to the security guard at the door. "I think my girlfriend may be in there," she said, hearing the tremor of fear in her own voice.
"I ain't going after her," he said quickly.
"Brave man," Jeannie snapped. She was not sure what she wanted him to do, but she had not expected him to be completely useless.
Resentment showed on his face. "That's their job," he said, and he pointed to a fire truck coming down the road.
Jeannie was beginning to fear for Lisa's life, but she did not know what to do. She watched, impatient and helpless, as the firemen got out of the truck and put on breathing apparatuses. They seemed to move so slowly that she wan
ted to shake them and scream: "Hurry, hurry!" Another fire truck arrived, then a white police cruiser with the blue-and-silver stripe of the Baltimore Police Department.
As the firemen dragged a hose into the building, an officer buttonholed the lobby guard and said: "Where do you think it started?"
"Women's locker room," the guard told him.
"And where is that, exactly?"
"Basement, at the back."
"How many exits are there from the basement?"
"Only one, the staircase up to the main lobby, right here."
A maintenance man standing nearby contradicted him. "There's a ladder in the pool machine room that leads up to an access hatch at the back of the building."
Jeannie caught the officer's attention and said: "I think my friend may be inside there still."
"Man or woman?"
"Woman of twenty-four, short, blonde."
"If she's there, we'll find her."
For a moment Jeannie felt reassured. Then she realized he had not promised to find her alive.
The security man who had been in the locker room was nowhere to be seen. Jeannie said to the fire officer: "There was another guard down there; I don't see him anywhere. Tall guy."
The lobby guard said: "Ain't no other security personnel in the building."
"Well, he had a hat with SECURITY written on it, and he was telling people to evacuate the building."
"I don't care what he had on his hat--"
"Oh, for pete's sake, stop arguing!" Jeannie snapped. "Maybe I imagined him, but if not his life could be in danger!"
Standing listening to them was a girl wearing a man's khaki pants rolled up at the cuffs. "I saw that guy, he's a real creep," she said. "He felt me up."
The fire officer said: "Keep calm, we'll find everyone. Thank you for your cooperation." He walked off.
Jeannie glared at the lobby guard for a moment. She felt the fire officer had dismissed her as a hysterical woman because she had yelled at the guard. She turned away in disgust. What was she going to do now? The firemen ran inside in their helmets and boots. She was barefoot and wearing a T-shirt. If she tried to go in with them they would throw her out. She clenched her fists, distraught. Think, think! Where else could Lisa be?
The gymnasium was next door to the Ruth W. Acorn Psychology Building, named after the wife of a benefactor but known, even to faculty, as Nut House. Could Lisa have gone in there? The doors would be locked on Sunday, but she probably had a key. She might have run inside to find a laboratory coat to cover herself, or just to sit at her desk and recover. Jeannie decided to check. Anything was better than standing here doing nothing.