He told Dillon, “I’m gonna go up, see what’s there.You stay here. If I’m not back in five minutes, go back along the ridges in the floor and hide.”
Dillon started to complain.
“I’ll be back. Don’t worry. I just want to check it out.” He found Dillon’s shoulder and squeezed it. He stood, made sure his bow was securely slung around his shoulder, and started up the ladder. He climbed forty or fifty rungs. His hand touched metal at the top. He tugged on a latch and it snapped back. He pushed, and the round panel above him lifted an inch. Daylight sliced in. He closed his eyes and held himself in that position for ten, fifteen seconds. Slowly, he opened his eyes again. He lifted the panel higher; it was hinged on one side. He rose another rung and peered out. A hill slanted down, trees heavy to his right. He pushed the door fully open. It swung over and slammed down on the other side. Squinting in the light, he climbed up.
Footsteps crunched behind him. Fast, running. Hands grabbed him, pulled him out of the shaft.
Kyrill and Pruitt.
“No!” he yelled.
Kyrill batted him with the barrel of his big rifle, knocking him to the ground.
He felt his bow yanked off his shoulder. Someone brushed past them and climbed up onto the concrete housing of the shaft. It was Bad. He looked down through the open door of the shaft and fired his machine gun.
54
Declan,s voice, hazy with static, said, “What’s that? Talk to me.”
Bad was peering down into the shaft. Smoke curled from the muzzle of his rifle. He stared another few seconds, then pulled a walkie-talkie out of a breast pocket. “Hold on,” he said. “Clearing this position.”
Pruitt was holding Hutch’s bow. Awkwardly, he slipped an arm through the bow so it would rest on his shoulder. Under the opposite arm, his camera hung from a thick strap. He pulled it up to his face, turned from Hutch, and leaned his thighs against the concrete shaft, which protruded from the sloping ground two and a half, three feet. He bent to point the lens down into the shaft.
Bad tapped Pruitt’s head with the toe of his boot. “Get out of here, man.”
Kyrill poked Hutch in the ribs with the barrel of his gun. “Give me that.”
“What?”
“Your belt, man.Take it off, now. Slowly.”
Hutch unsnapped his utility belt and held it up.
Kyrill took it, resnapped it, then slung it over his head like a bandolier. He jabbed at Hutch again. “Who else is down there?”
“Didn’t see nobody,” Bad said.
“The footprints at the front door,” Kyrill reminded him. “Somebody went in with him.”
“The kid,” Hutch said, angrily. “He’s dead, all right? Don’t you think he’d be with me if he were alive? Those explosions . . . your . . . your . . .” He hitched in a choppy breath, turned his head away.
“Go see,” Kyrill said.
“I can’t get down there with my leg.You go.”
Declan’s voice came through the walkie-talkie. “What’s up, guys?”
Bad responded. “We got ’im.”
“Who?”
“The guy with the arrows.”
Standing above Hutch, on the top of the shaft, Bad looked powerful, ready to mete out a death sentence. He keyed the walkie-talkie. “Says you got the kid when you blasted the mine. He’s dead.”
Declan: “No sign of him?”
Bad gazed into the hole. He looked up at Kyrill, who shrugged.
Hutch said venomously, “You want to gawk at a dead nine-yearold, I’ll take you to his corpse.”
“Shut up!” Bad snapped. Into the walkie-talkie he said, “This dude’s alone, Dec.Want Kyrill to go down, check it out?”
Silence, then Declan squawked back. “Nah, get your butts up here.”
Kyrill’s barrel bit Hutch’s scalp again. “You heard the man.”
Before rising, he watched Bad assess the short jump to the ground from the rim of the shaft. Someone had dressed his wound by wrapping white gauze around his thigh, over his pants. The entire front portion shimmered with fresh blood. Bad saw him watching, so Hutch gave him a tight smile.
Bad’s facial muscles tightened, and he jumped to the ground in front of Hutch. He gave no indication that he was in pain. He stared into Hutch’s eyes and said, “Get moving, punk.” He lifted his boot and brought it down on Hutch’s left hand.
Hutch hissed and hurried to get up before one of his captors considered the advantage of having him on the ground. His hand throbbed but wasn’t as damaged as it would have been had the rain not softened the ground. Pruitt, his camera in one hand, Hutch’s bow over his shoulder, led the way up a hill.
“Go on,” Kyrill said. Hutch fell in behind Pruitt. Kyrill and Bad followed.
Hutch believed that Dillon was safe below. If one of Bad’s bullets had struck the boy, surely they would have heard something. With Hutch captured, Declan would have no reason to continue attacking the mine. If Hutch could not return to Dillon, the boy would be safe, at least for a while. If he could hold out down there, until the police or a rescue team found him, he’d be okay. Hunger or thirst might drive him out early, however. Hutch hoped that he could return to Dillon before then. That, or when Dillon did emerge, Declan would be off on some new distraction.
As they climbed, Pruitt slipped the bow off his shoulder. He turned it in his hand, examining it. “This is pretty cool,” he said. “Kyrill, think you can fit one of these in the game?”
Kyrill answered, “We got a satellite laser, dude.What do we want with something like that?”
“And it ain’t cool,” Bad called out. “Hold up!”
Pruitt stopped to look back. Hutch and Kyrill did too. Bad was having some difficulty maneuvering the hill with his leg. He was using his good leg to climb, dragging the injured leg behind. When he reached Kyrill, Pruitt turned to continue up the hill, but Bad snapped, “I said hold up, man.”
He climbed past Kyrill. When he passed Hutch, he jabbed the stock of his machine gun into Hutch’s ribs. Reaching Pruitt, he slung his weapon over one shoulder and said, “Gimme that thing.”
Pruitt handed him the bow.
Bad eyed it up and down, looked at Hutch. “This ain’t cool at all,” Bad told him. “If I knew how to shoot, I’d put every one of these arrows into you.”
He sidestepped a couple paces to the nearest tree. He swung the bow around, hitting the trunk hard. The laminated wood cracked. Another swing into the tree.The quiver broke off and the arrows sprang out, bounding and flipping in all directions. Bad pulled back and swung again. One of the limbs of the bow snapped off. It fell and wanted to spin down the hill, but the bowstring snapped it back like a retractable leash. Bad held the bow high, drawing the broken limb close to his foot. He stepped on it and yanked until the bowstring snapped loose. Then he hurled the bow over Hutch and Kyrill’s heads. It went into the trees, and Hutch thought it got tangled in the top of one of them.
Bad smiled at him triumphantly. “Robin Hood ain’t nothin’ without his bow, huh?”
Hutch shrugged.
Infuriated, Bad scooped up an arrow. He appeared ready to dismember him with it. He took a step forward and jabbed it at Hutch, striking his shoulder. The broadhead sliced through Hutch’s jacket and shirt, skin and muscle. Hutch fell back and the arrow came out, still in Bad’s hand. Hutch fell against Kyrill, who pushed him away. He rolled, fell on his knees, then onto his face. He started to slide over the slick grass. Kyrill stomped on his ankle, stopping his descent and sending a bolt of pain up his leg.
Hutch didn’t know whether to grab his shoulder or his ankle. Since it was nearest and it worried him the most, he touched his fingers to the shoulder wound. It was bleeding but not profusely. In fact, painful as it was, he believed it was only slightly more than a flesh wound.
“Get up,” Kyrill commanded.
He turned like the hands of a clock until his feet were downslope. Then he rose, standing gingerly on the ankle that now felt tight in his boot,
already swollen.
Without the bow, Pruitt had once again become the cameraman. Where his face was supposed to be, a lens caught the light and glinted. He panned from Hutch to Bad, as though expecting a brawl then and there.
Bad noticed and slapped the camera hard. “Get that out of my face,” he said. He turned and began dragging his leg up the slope.
Kyrill jerked his head toward Hutch. “Let’s go.”
55
They climbed. Hutch,s ankle protested every step. His shoulder became tacky with blood. His shirt stuck and pulled away, stuck and pulled away. He was glad Dillon wasn’t there.
Bad reached the top of the slope, stood, and glared down. His legs apart, his arms coming away from his body as though muscles prevented them from hanging by his sides, he looked gladiatorial. Pruitt stepped up next to him, and the difference in physique would have been comical in a different situation.
Hutch rose up beside Bad. He half expected the man to shove him back over the edge. Instead Bad reached out, grabbed the front of Hutch’s coat, and began pulling him. They were on a large, grassy plateau. On their right, a berm rose another three feet. It arced around, and Hutch recognized the lip of the mine crater.
At the far side of the plateau were the two trucks Declan and his gang had used to pursue the Hummer. One of the SUVs started up. It pulled forward and sped directly for them.
Bad halted.
The Cherokee must have reached sixty miles an hour when Hutch recognized Declan in the passenger seat. His girlfriend was behind the wheel, seeming too small to drive a car. From what Hutch knew of her, he would not be surprised if she plowed into him and Bad and then Kyrill and Pruitt before continuing right over the edge. Of course, he didn’t expect any of them to join him on his journey to his final destination, so there would be nobody there to chastise for giving Cort the keys.
Bad released Hutch and leaped out of the way just as the Cherokee locked its brakes. Its front end dipped, and it slid on the grass. Hutch leaped in the opposite direction from Bad.The SUV stopped where he had been standing. As he hit the ground and rolled, fifteen scenarios, all involving his running and escaping, flashed through his mind in three seconds. Getting his feet under him, hunching low, he glanced over to take a bearing on the Jeep. A big-barreled pistol was pointed directly at him. Declan extended the Glock from the open window. His impassive face told Hutch that pulling the trigger or refraining from pulling the trigger made no difference to him. Hutch froze.
Beside Declan, Cortland said, “Wheee! That was fun.”
On the far side of the car, Bad yelled, “Cortland! Look at my leg. It’s pouring blood.You think that was funny?”
The young boy, Julian, stared at Hutch from the rear passenger window.
Declan opened the door and stepped out. He called, “Kyrill, you got this monkey?”
“’Course.” He stood between the bumper and the edge of the plateau, pointing the big rifle at Hutch.
Declan tucked his pistol into the waistband at the small of his back. He tugged at his smoke-colored Under Armour shirt, smoothing its wrinkles, showing off his sinewy torso. “Stay down,” he commanded.
Hutch sat and leaned back on one arm.
Declan approached him. “You’re the caribou hunter,” he said. “You gave us a run for our money.”
“Wasn’t difficult,” Hutch replied.
Declan fingered one his necklaces. It appeared to be a string of teeth. He let one eyebrow rise infinitesimally.
Hutch took that as an invitation to continue. “I mean, come on. I’ve never seen so many idiots in one place.”
Declan looked up at his crew, a thin smile rising on one side. He shook his head. “Why are you provoking me?” He looked into the sky. “I think you’re trying to distract me.” He glanced toward the edge of the plateau, toward the hill that Hutch, Pruitt, Bad, and Kyrill had ascended. “That boy you said was dead. Is he really?”
Hutch’s mouth went dry. He said, “I just don’t like games. Whatever you’re gonna do, just do it.”
“You don’t like games?” Declan’s smile became big and broad, teeth showing.
Kyrill laughed. Even Bad, who had come to stand in front of the Jeep, leaning one hip against its grille, grinned. Pruitt came around the back of the car, his camera-face pointed at Hutch.
“All we do is play games,” Declan pronounced. “I mean, really, that’s all we do.” He pointed at Pruitt. “Why do you think this man is here? Why do you think any of us are here? If, by some grand miracle, you’re around next Christmas, you can buy our game, and you know what you’ll see? A big bad satellite laser cannon blowing people away. One of the victims will look suspiciously like that fisherman friend of yours. And I’m thinking right now another one is gonna look an awful lot like you. Which means, of course, you won’t be buying the game.”
Declan rolled his head, thinking. “Do me a favor. When you think we got you, look straight up. It’s a great effect, looking up before the laser nails you.You’ll see a twinkle of light . . . then nothing.” Something occurred to him, and he called out to Kyrill. “Maybe we should have the targets see the actual laser coming at them.That would be cool.”He turned back to Hutch. “In reality, the light you’ll see isn’t the laser . . . at least not that laser. It’s a beam of light, part of the adaptive optical system, that analyzes the atmospheric conditions. Then a computer intentionally distorts the real laser in the exact opposite way the atmosphere would have distorted it. So then the atmosphere actually tightens and focuses the laser. They call it reciprocity. Incredible stuff.”
What could Hutch say? You’re mad! You won’t get away with it! Any declaration just seemed pathetic.
Declan’s eyes drifted away. He retreated a few steps, then came back. “You got away from us once.”
“Three times,” Hutch corrected.
“Think you can do it again?”
Hutch felt his heart pick up its pace, beating to the rhythm of hope. Unless Declan pulled the trigger at the precise moment he released him, Hutch would indeed do it again.
Declan raised a finger. “But first,” he said, turning away again, “I think Bad has his own score to settle. Don’t you, Bad?”
“Wait a minute,” Hutch said as Bad approached. “Are you saying your big bad weapon can’t get me unless I’m beat up?”
“Not at all,” Declan said. “I simply don’t want to deprive Bad of the opportunity to share his feelings with you.”
“How’s it gonna look in your game when the satellite weapon takes out some guy who’s already bleeding and broken? That’s not sportsmanship.”
“You really don’t play games, do you?” Declan asked. “It’s a lot of fun whopping muscular army dudes, but no gamer’s gonna pass up an opportunity to rain hell down on anyone, injured or not.”
Bad circled around, then closed in on Hutch. Apparently finding support in his injured leg, Bad swung his good leg back. It kicked forward, and Hutch grabbed his foot in both hands. The toe shook two inches from his face. Hutch glared into Bad’s eyes.
His head exploded in pain. It snapped back on his neck. He released Bad’s foot. Kyrill stood over him, lowering his foot from the roundhouse he had just delivered to Hutch’s temple.
Bad shifted on his feet, again lifted the foot of his uninjured leg, and stomped down on Hutch’s bleeding shoulder. White-hot bolts of lightning flared through his chest.They found his vision, blurring Bad into an indistinct monolith, towering over him.
A strike to his ribs, his kidneys . . . another. A kick to his arm, his leg, his stomach. He wanted to fight, to at least swing his leg around and knock his attackers down. But with the furious pounding coming as fast and steady as a train’s steady clicking over the rails, all he could do was curl up to protect the most vital parts of his body. He saw the flash of a boot; under it his biceps compressed with the force of Barry Bonds’s bat. He reached out to grab a pant leg or ankle, only to feel the bat-strike in his ribs under his arm. Insanely, a phrase u
sed in medical forensics came to mind, but one he learned from television, so he wasn’t sure of its verisimilitude or nuances: blunt force trauma. When they autopsied his body, that term would come up with nauseating frequency, and it would again—now!—as a boot came down on his knee. If he survived the beating and Declan had his way, he would leave no body to autopsy. One big blunt force trauma would vanquish Hutch’s material being from earth. Some pathologists would be spared the trouble of cataloging all his wounds.
He must have passed out, but only for a second or two; suddenly Bad was standing over him, his left hand holding Hutch in place by the collar of his coat, the other pistoning up and down into Hutch’s face, punctuating whatever it was he was yelling.
“Tough guy now, huh?” Punch. “No bow, no guts!” Punch. “What are you gonna do now, huh?” Punch.
It was a curious thing, being beaten senseless. He began hearing sounds that were disconnected from the actions that made them, as though a sound track had jumped out of sync by a few seconds. Or his sense of hearing got jarred and started taking the long way to his brain, causing sounds to reach it seconds after they should have. He heard thump-thump-thump and Bad would punch.
Thump-thump-thump-thump
Punch.
Thump-thump
Punch.
Maybe it was his heart he was hearing. At least it was steady. Thump-thump-thump.
Bad released him, rose to his full height, straddling Hutch. He looked up. Beyond Bad’s head—
Thump-thump-thump
In the sky—
Thump-thump-thump
A helicopter came into view. Hovering. Slowly turning left and right as though taking in the scene.
Thump-thump-thump
It was black and sleek, long and glistening. Infinitely fancier, more expensive than the one he,Terry, Phil, and David had ridden into this defining chapter of their lives.