But Chip's heart was still pounding, not yet retreating from the plateau of fear; his temples still thudded; his breath was still coming in short bursts, as if he'd just flopped down from a long run.
Who would come out in a heavy rainstorm to shoot at them? Dunnegan had warned them that feelings would run high; so had Samantha.
Yet he couldn't believe that the hunters would strike so quickly and with such violence. The Pilot story had run on Sunday; this was only Wednesday. They stayed huddled by the wall beneath the window for almost an hour, John Clewt talking quietly about Europe and plans, for the future.
Only half listening to his father, Chip wondered if the attack was connected to the disappearance of Tom Telford. Was the man out in the yard the same one who was wearing the red-and-black mackinaw last year? Had he seen the boy crouching behind Telford?
***
AFTER doing the dishes, Sam watched "Wheel of Fortune," her mother's favorite, then "Jeopardy," before going upstairs to do a history assignment. She noticed a Field & Stream planted on the bed turned back to "National Parks Dilemma: Too Little Food, Too Many Mouths." Yellowstone. Gettysburg.
She looked down at it in frustration. None of this was her personal problem; it wasn't her fight. And she wasn't at all sure she wanted to get caught between someone she scarcely knew and the strong-minded man who was her father. Instead of dropping the magazine to the floor, she pushed it to the far side of the bed, thinking she might read a little of it in case he questioned her. He intimidated her without knowing he was doing it.
Still staring at the open page, she blew out a breath and sighed deeply. It truly wasn't her fight, yet there was that haunting presence of Chip Clewt that wouldn't go away. He kept fading back into her thoughts, coming visually, gray eyes searching her face. Even the droopy one was penetrating. If only Buck hadn't run into the swamp...
Finally, crossing the room, she turned on the desk light and sat down to do, or try to do, the history paper. Though she always got an A in history, she hated it. She looked up, wondering what Chip Clewt was doing at this moment.
Outside, the rain rattled against the windows and dinned on the tin roof of the barn.
Note-taking pencil in her mouth, she glanced at the magazine on the bed, slowly shaking her head. Sooner or later she'd have to answer when the bo'sun asked, "Did you read it?" She'd lie! Yes, she'd lie!
Sam didn't think that Steve, being male, was as intimidated as she was. Steve and her papa belonged to the same macho world and did things together—or had while Steve was still around. She always sensed a difference when Steve called from Seattle, her papa answering, "Hey, pal, how ya' doin'?" And Steve going into the Coast Guard formed another bond.
Listening to those conversations, she wondered how it would be when she went away and called home. Would the bo'sun talk to her in that same tone?
Maybe she should try to do things with him? Offer to go to the duck blinds, shiver in the dawn cold, and have her ears hurt when the shotgun blasted? He'd know she was miserable.
She shook her head again and forced her mind back to her paper.
Thunder rumbled, shaking the old house, and lightning slanted into the room, turning it blue-white.
***
IN THE damp, overcast morning, heavy easterly Cape Hatteras clouds still threatening, the Clewts stood in Dunnegan's parking lot looking at the Volvo. All four tires had been slashed; the windshield was punched out. At first, there was stunned disbelief, a carryover from the shotgun attack; now there was rage as well.
Staring at the battered car, Chip knew it was another warning, a vicious follow-up to the blown win dow.
His father's fists were clenched. He was holding his rage inside, too.
Finally, Dunnegan asked Clewt, "You call the sheriff's last night?"
Clewt shook his head. "What good would it have done? I called before breakfast this morning. The woman on the desk took down the time and place, then asked if I had any idea who did it and why. I couldn't answer the first question but told her what I thought was the why. I had the feeling she couldn't care less. Maybe she's the wife of a hunter?"
"Not unlikely," said Dunnegan.
"You're going to report this, Dad?" Chip asked, nodding toward the car.
"In about two minutes."
Dunnegan hadn't even known it had happened until a customer came in asking who had trashed that Volvo outside. After seeing it, he'd called the Clewts.
They followed Dunnegan back into the store, and John got on the phone to Currituck to add the car to last night's assault, then called the insurance agency in Norfolk. A claims agent was in the vicinity; would Mr. Clewt wait an hour? Clewt said he would.
Father, calming down with a cup of coffee, and son, with a small bottle of orange juice, went on out to the green wooden bench in front of Dunnegan's to wait for the agent.
After a while, Clewt said, "Chip, I'm inclined to walk away from this. I don't appreciate the idea of either of us getting hurt. I'm not sure it's worth it."
"Well, what do you want to do?"
"I didn't sleep much last night. I sat up every time there was a creak or rattle. That's no way to live."
"I didn't sleep much, either," Chip admitted.
"I had some time to think," Clewt said.
They'd taped plastic over the holes in the window and had finally gone to bed after midnight, finishing a reheated meal in the dark.
"You know that bird sanctuary down on Pea Island?"
They'd driven by there last year. Pea Island wasn't an island any longer; it was part of the nearly continuous Hatteras Outer Banks but was still called an "island." Snow geese and other northern birds wintered there.
"I've always had in mind doing some painting down there. We could rent a house close to it, spend the winter there, then do the Europe trip before you go off to Ohio State next fall. How does that sound?"
"Sounds like we're running," Chip replied, looking over at his father with disappointment.
"That's exactly what we'd be doing," Clewt quickly said. "I've had all the fighting and tragedy I ever want to have."
Chip stared down at the wet pavement a moment. "What will happen to the bears? And Tom. I don't want to leave here until we find out what happened to Tom."
"Chip, your life and mine are of more concern to me than the bears or Tom. I'm frightened, if you want to know the truth. Telford is missing, then some guy shoots at us, beats up on the car..."
Chip kept staring at the pavement.
"Something terrible could happen, even by accident. We both could have been blinded last night, maybe even killed. I've been shot at before...."
Chip maintained his silence.
"It's an indication of what mentality we're dealing with...."
Chip finally spoke up. "Maybe he won't come back?"
"Think about it. He shoots at us, then works the car over. That's a pretty strong message. At least, to me."
"Suppose we tell the newspaper and television people what happened to us, and that we think it is because of the Powhatan campaign. Talk to Truesdale..."
Clewt was quiet a moment, then said, "Chip, that's wishful thinking. The whole thing just gets wider, meaner. Suppose we simply go away to Pea Island, quietly, sensibly, safely...."
"Just walk away?"
"The National Wildlife Conservancy is not comprised totally of Chip Clewt."
"But I'm here, and they're in Washington."
"So let them carry on the fight from there. Chip, you're a front man, a figurehead. I'm sure their publicity director said, 'Hey, we can get some mileage out of that kid. Let's grab him.'"
Chip sat staring across toward the George Washington Canal and the overwhelming misty gloom of the swamp. A big white cabin cruiser rumbled along the canal. On its way to Florida, likely.
"Dad, if it's all right with you, I'll just stay here. You go on to Pea Island. Maybe Dunnegan will let me live with him or I can rent a trailer in Tom's park. I have to finish things here."
Clewt's head swerved around angrily. "Chip, for God's sake, don't be so stubborn. I didn't know you had that streak in you."
Chip gravely held his father with his eyes, then said, velvet-soft, "You don't know much about me, do you?" The words were not meant to hurt, just remind.
Clewt examined the ground for a moment, then looked back at his son. "I guess I had that coming."
"Yes, you did. You also owe me, I think." Again, softly.
After a moment of reflection, Clewt nodded. "Yes, I do owe you. I do." He took a deep, reluctant breath. "Okay, we'll stay and dig in."
Chip heard the misgivings in his father's voice, saw them written in his eyes.
"Thank you."
Standing, gazing up the road as if he didn't know where it went, Clewt stud, "Okay, that decision is made. Now I'll make another one. We're not going to be naked back there. I'm buying a gun and some shells. I'll shoot back, and from now on the dogs'll be loose twenty-four hours a day. Early warning system, Chip."
Chip stood up, too, feeling closer to his father than at any time since he'd arrived in the Powhatan. "You won't regret it, I promise."
Clewt shrugged resignedly. "Even if I do..."
Soon after the insurance man arrived and the tow truck was called, they borrowed Dunnegan's van and headed for an Elizabeth City gun shop.
On their departure, Dunnegan shook his head. "You're crazy, both of you. Do you know that?"
***
DUNNEGAN called the Sanders about four-thirty, asking to speak to Sam. Dell said, "She's upstairs, I'll give you her number ... no, wait, she's coming down...."
"You hear what happened to the Clewts last night?" Dell said she hadn't heard.
"Someone shot a house window out, then slashed their car tires."
"Oh, Lordy," said Dell. "That's terrible. Here's Samantha...."
Sam took the phone, and Dunnegan repeated what he'd just told Dell.
Sam said, "You're kidding."
"Wish I was. Whoever did it went up the ditch, then came back here and did the tires and the windshield."
"I tried to tell Chip."
"He's the problem. His dad wants to leave, but Chip is determined to stay. How about talkin' to him again? Maybe you'll have more influence than me."
"I've only known him three weeks."
"But he may listen to you. Me talkin' is the same thing as his dad talkin'. We're old an' mossy."
"What should I tell him?"
"Tell him the absolute truth—there are rednecks around here who don't like strangers stirrin' up trouble. Blowin' a window out an' slashin' the tires are just starters."
"I've as much as said that."
"Say it again, an' tell him to take his dad's advice."
"All right, I'll try."
"Samuel, he's a good kid an' means well, but he's got the wrong cause."
Sam was looking at her mother, thinking back to her papa on the phone Sunday morning. Each word was slow and deliberate. "Maybe he's got the right one."
She heard Dunnegan's snort. "No matter what we both think, talk to him, huh?"
"Okay."
Putting the phone down, still looking at her mother, she said, "Who was Papa talking to Sunday morning?"
Dell said, "I wasn't payin' much attention."
"I heard him saying something about what they did in the Coast Guard, sending a shot across the bow of a ship to stop it...."
"Did he say that?"
"You know he did, Mama. Who was he talking to? Some other hunter, I know, but who?"
"I don't know, Samantha."
For the first time in her life, Sam thought her mother might be lying.
There was a pie bubbling in the oven, and beef was cubed for a stew. A pile of chopped vegetables rose beside the beef on the cutting board. The fireplace had been used by Sam's great-grandmother for cooking in cast-iron pots. But the usually warm and friendly room, with its copper pots and ancient spice racks and wooden-spoon jars, suddenly seemed tense, as if last night's storm lingered inside. Dell set about dicing a turnip, avoiding Sam's eyes.
Finally, she said, "The men are meeting a week from Friday night at the center. Your papa organized it. You should let the Clewts know." Her attention stayed on the chopping board.
"Did Papa shoot at the Clewts' window and slash their tires? He left here early enough to do that."
"Samantha!" Dell said sharply, looking up, alarmed. "Your papa would never do something like that."
Sam did feel a bit ashamed for even thinking it. "But you do know who was on the phone Sunday morning, don't you, Mama."
"I think I know, but I'm not gonna say. Ask your papa...."
"I will," Sam said. It would take some courage, but she planned to do it. He might tell her it was none of her damn business, but she was going to ask him anyway.
She went upstairs to call Chip Clewt.
Chip said, "Hi, how are you?" He sounded cheerful.
"Dunnegan told me what happened last night," she said.
"Yeah, we were sitting there fat, dumb, an' happy having noodles, and all of a sudden ka-boom ..."
"You were lucky." Her voice was flat.
"Dad got a chunk of glass in his forehead. You can't believe how much he bled."
He sounded almost blasé. She frowned. He was brave to the point of being foolhardy.
"You were lucky," she repeated. "Chip, why don't you and your dad back off?"
"And let people we don't even know run us away? Next time, whoever it was'll have those dogs chewing on him."
"The dogs won't worry these men."
"Maybe not, but Dad bought a twelve-gauge and fifty loads of buckshot this morning."
"That's the worst thing he could do."
"He'll shoot over their heads."
"Chip, back off! Back off! You're new here, you don't understand...."
Chip interrupted. "Samantha, it's me. Not him. He'd rather just walk away."
"He's the smart one! Chip, if you don't know already, the hunters are having a meeting at the Community Center next week. They plan to organize."
"What day, what time?"
"A week from Friday night. I don't know what time."
"I'll find out."
"You'll go?" Sam couldn't believe it.
"Yes, I'll go." Harsh, angry defiance was now in his voice.
"Chip, you're just asking for more trouble."
"I doubt it. Talk to you later." He hung up sharply.
Sam sat on the edge of her bed and wondered how she could have ever thought Chip Clewt was gentle.
***
TRUESDALE called early Thursday morning and said the lab had confirmed blood on the earth near the Toyota. Whose Type A blood it was he didn't know, but they were checking to find out if Tom Telford was Type A. Meanwhile, would Chip take him back to that area on Trail Eight where he'd last seen Tom? Truesdale said he'd like to look around again.
Grateful that there was still interest, Chip said, "Fine," and Truesdale arrived a little after nine.
Taking the Jeep back to Dinwiddie Slough, they spent almost two hours walking around. Truesdale said the immediate area where the Toyota was discovered had been scoured by the crime lab technicians for evidence—spent shells, pieces of clothing, cigarette packs—any stray clue. Nothing had been found.
Chip soon realized that Truesdale was trying to fine-tune his memory. Jog it the same way Chip had tried to jog Samantha's. Make him remember something about that day, or any other day, that had been covered over by time. Finally, Truesdale said, "Take me to where you ran into that poacher. Is it near here? Can you remember?"
"I'll never forget. Trail Six. Down two trails and south."
On the way there, bounding along, Truesdale said, "Think back. Try to remember anyone Telford mentioned—local people he came in contact with."
"I don't know who he saw at night."
"Go all the way back."
All the way back, all the way back. Here we go again. Chip prided hi
mself on having a good memory, but a year and a half had passed. "Okay, I think the first person he talked with, aside from Dunnegan, was an old man named Jack Slade, who lives in Skycoat. We met him the first day we set snares. I'd talked to him the week before. He knows more about the swamp than anyone around here."
"That's a good start. Can you get out to Skycoat on these trails?"
"If I go out on Coach Road. But I don't have tags."
"Never mind you don't have tags."
"I thought you wanted to go where the poacher was on Trail Six."
"Trail Six can't talk. Slade can. If I have to go all the way back to Dunnegan's for my car, I'll lose two more hours. I want to meet this man who knows all about the swamp."
Thirty-five minutes later, they were in Skycoat. A minute after that, they were in the retired yellow school bus.
Truesdale showed his badge, saying who he was, saying, "You remember Chip Clewt...."
The old man nodded. "Boy, yuh still look like yuh got yer head stuck in a hot oven."
"I'm sure I do," said Chip.
Truesdale said, "Mr. Slade, I guess you've heard that Tom Telford, the graduate student from NC State, is missing...."
"That fella that was countin' the bars? Read it an' heard it. I coulda tol' yuh he was gonna git in trouble back in there."
"Why could you have told me he was going to get in trouble?"
"Well, he tells the govemmint there ain't enough bars, an' then no one can hunt 'em for another five years."
"You think somebody did him in because of that?"
"That's what I think." The old man nodded, scalp pink beneath the sparse white hair.
Chip disliked the old trapper even more this time, and the converted school bus smelled even worse.
"You could be right, Mr. Slade, though I doubt it. My big problem is, I've got no body. I've got no corpus delicti. If he is dead, and not just missing, where could I hunt for the body?"
Chip frowned at Truesdale. He sounded so cold, so uncaring. Hunt for the body. Tom was a person.
The old man, sitting in a cane chair that must have been as old as he was, cackled. He slapped his thighs. His watery eyes oozed with mirth. "Why, Detective, I could hide Norfolk City Hall in that swamp. I could hide a whole division o' troops in there...."