Necessary Evil (33 page)

Then a little light in his mind became a dancing torch on the face of the water. Grandfather would be at the caverns. He could survive undetected there endlessly. Kier walked quickly now, mulling things over. Grandfather had once told him that he'd squeezed into a coffin-size cave and stayed for three days to experience the rock. No one could find Grandfather in the caverns unless he wanted to be found. So Kier would leave signs leading to the pond in the cavern and wait for Grandfather. It was all he could think of to do. And it was logical.

But Kier was desperate.
If Grandfather had my problem, what would he do?
Kier asked himself as he jogged on the trail back toward the cave high on the mountain. Stalking Bear was a Spirit Walker, a mystic. He would use his instincts, not his logic. For Grandfather that was fine, but Kier needed the comfort of reason.

He ran past the alders on the flat, across the creek, hopping stones up the hill, and, with dawn breaking over him, climbed for the true fir forest as fast as he could.

Something was wrong.

Of course, something was wrong, he told himself.
Tillman will likely filet alive the woman I love.

He stopped. It wasn't that. It was different.

He threw back his head and looked at the stars and the fading moon. What? A dawn wind rushed through the trees.

In his mind, he could see Grandfather by the lake in the early morning. It had been not three months ago. The way he slowly turned his face to the rising sun, as if it were magic, as if it were full of the wonders of life. The joy in the old man's face had been unmistakable. Kier focused on that joy, seizing it to make it his own, even in the midst of his despair. But where did this get him? He was not going toward the cave. He was not going anywhere. For the first time in years, he wanted to weep at the hopelessness of it all. But he did not know how to cry.

Indian men did not weep. For all the white man's culture that had taken over in him, this one thing had never changed. Now he wanted to cry. For reasons he couldn't fathom, he didn't move. Minutes ticked by. He noticed a tear on his face, and could feel its track as it ran—a terribly odd sensation.

He was oblivious to the approach of the old man—until he felt his grandfather's hand grasp his arm.

"I thought you would never stop," Grandfather said. "I have been following you, waiting to see where your thoughts would carry you . . . You were going so quickly."

Grandfather's eyes sparkled with interest, the gaze penetrating. Somehow Grandfather had always managed to stand ramrod straight, even in old age. Only the creases in his face and the long, flowing gray hair betrayed his years. The Spirit Walker never spoke in terms of "worry." Worry was not a habit he considered appropriate to this or any other life.

"You watched me walk away?"

"It was important."

"Never mind. Where is the sixth volume? Were you at the jet?"

"Did you not see my track?"

"Yes, yes. You laid a white man's track."

"Didn't it cry loudly?" The old man barely cracked a smile.

"Yes. Too loudly. Now where is the volume?"

"Why do you ask?"

"I need it so I can at least pretend I'll trade it for Jessie."

"I do not have it."

"I need it for Jessie to live. I need to save our people."

"From what?"

"A disease, a virus, from the man who owns the plane."

"I have the cure for the disease. I gave it to the newspaper man."

"What do you mean?"

"A man on the jet, he gave me a thick book . . . told me to give it to a man at the
New York Times,
along with the big case. He said it was the cure for the Tilok. He stayed with the plane. He said others would come."

"What book?"

"He said it explained everything about the cure and about the plane."

Kier was stunned. The man who threw the grenade had been friend, not foe—only there had been no way to know. He had died believing Kier and Jessie were part of Tillman's private army.

"Where is the case that has the medicine for the cure?"

"James Cole has half of the medicine—the other half I hid. James is on his way to the
New York Times
with the diary and half the medicine—he went where the man on the plane told me—to a reporter in San Francisco."

"Do you know anything of Claudie?"

"She is safe in a cave. I am now a godfather to the two boys. Claudie and her boys are very strong."

"We've got to save Jessie. Somehow I need to fake a trade for Volume Six. And I have to have something in my hands to prove I've something to trade, to stop him from hurting Jessie."

"Let's go get her."

"How?"

"Come on. I'll show you."

Powerful men are moved by their wills; great men by their spirits.

—Tilok proverb

A
lthough the horizon was now exploding with the red dawn, the light remained low, darkness holding itself fast in the shadows where Grandfather and Kier moved soundlessly. As he went, the old man called out occasionally like a chickadee.

Once, when he must have seen or felt Kier's frown, he said, "It is so that if there are any watchful ones, they might mistake the spirit of the one who passes."

Since they were making no sound, Kier took him to refer to some spiritual sense. He only shook his head and wished he had a gun. Then he recalled his pack, and reached a hand to Grandfather's shoulder.

"I have a gun off that way, at the head of the pasture."

"I don't think there is time if we are going to do this before full daylight," the old man said.

They made their way to the edge of the forest. At then-closest, the trees were a good fifty feet from the house. Kier wondered how they would get across the opening in the gray light of the dawn. When they reached the last patch of brush, they lay flat and looked over the foot-high bunch grass. Two men were visible, one at the edge of the front porch, the other by the back door. Each had an M-16. Without guns, it was hopeless. Kier glanced at Grandfather, who simply nodded before turning and grabbing the nearest Scotch broom. It had been uprooted and fashioned into a hedgework that a man could hide behind. Back on his belly, Grandfather moved it out into the grass, then motioned to Kier, his first two fingers making a walking motion; then he pointed to himself. Obviously, he intended to show himself in the clearing as a distraction.

"When I get inside, you turn out the lights at the fuse box," Grandfather said. "White men see nothing anyway. But you must move in your spirit."

Inwardly, Kier winced. Nobody is invisible, not even Stalking Bear, he told himself. Still, he would keep himself so flat to the ground he might as well be a spirit.

"I will also make you invisible," the old man whispered, trotting off into the forest.

Kier waited. The odds of this working were miniscule. Grandfather was the stealthiest man he had ever known, but he still had to lug around a body susceptible to a bullet. Once inside the house, lights or no lights, everyone but Grandfather and him would have a gun.

However insane it was, there was no time to ponder it, for Grandfather was now out in the open. About one hundred feet away, he had emerged from the forest. But he didn't just walk. Instead, he danced and chanted. It was an elaborate pantomime that told the story of a great hunt.

"What the hell?" The man on the back porch by the fuse box advanced toward Grandfather, while Kier began to crawl.

The man went for his radio. "We've got some old Indian out here, crazy as a coot."

"Repeat, did you say old?"

"Wrinkled as a prune. Just dancing and chanting."

"Bring him in," Kier heard Tillman say.

Both men now walked quickly to Grandfather, while Kier crawled as fast as he dared toward the rear door. More men came out of the front door, walking around the kids' toys, and another man came around back just an instant after Kier had slipped under the back porch.

Kier hunkered down while the new man took up position above him. His eyes peered through the space between the planking. From the shadow of the man's feet, he knew he was standing well back toward the house. No solution came to mind. Damn. He was stuck. Crawling out from under the porch was out of the question. He would be dead before he got over the porch railing. And now Grandfather was captive, waiting, helpless—like Jessie.

The chair was from Europe of all places. Before this Jessie had thought it was comfortable. It was unbelievably stout, but even if it hadn't been, she would have had no opportunity to free herself. A man stood next to the chair, guarding her. Periodically Tillman would appraise her from a distance, like a dog checking its dinner bowl. It was only a matter of time before he tried to complete what he had started in the forest, she knew. His humiliation burned in his eyes. Now it was a contest.

Incredibly, she was starting to believe that the man Doyle was not really one of Tillman's mercs. He had signaled her twice with an almost imperceptible nod. She wondered if he could be FBI. It could easily be some elaborate trick, just as Tillman had said.

Pain shot up her back through her shoulder blades, and her knees felt as though they had needles in them. Being immobilized was far more painful than she would ever have imagined. She couldn't move anything that counted, and the only time she could get up was to use the bathroom—and each time she did, they retaped her more tightly than ever. Although caked in blood, the cuts on her face appeared superficial in the mirror.

Her first indication that something unusual was happening came when she heard about the old Indian over the radio. She was almost certain it would be Grandfather. Then they were bringing him in. Two men picked up her chair and put it close to the wall dividing the kitchen from the living area so that she could not see or be seen.

When they got the old man inside, Tillman wasted no time.

"What can we do for you?"

"I did not know there was anything you could do for me," the old man answered.

"Why'd you come?" Tillman sighed.

No reason." There was a pause. "You're here with a lot of men. A lot of fancy guns. You have reasons?''

"What's your name, old man?"

"Chunk Tawa."

"In English."

"Chunk Tawa."

"What's it mean?"

"You would say 'Stalking Bear.' "

"Do you know the one they call Kier?"

"The animal doctor."

"And do you know somebody whom they call a Spirit Walker?"

"You believe in that stuff?" The old man chuckled.

"Do you know him?"

"Broken-down old man like me."

"Where is he?"

"Who knows? Tavern in town, maybe."

"I don't think you're telling me the truth. Now why did you come here?"

Tillman's voice had become a snarl, and Jessie wondered if he had hold of Grandfather.

"I like Claudie and Jessie. Do you like them too?"

"How do you know Jessie?"

"She's been here a few days. I heard about her. I met her in my dreams. How do you know her?"

"Shut the hell up and answer my questions, or you'll die. Now where in the f—"

The lights went out. Jessie heard a shriek, followed by a choking sound that she imagined was coming from Tillman's lips. Frantically she began rocking in the chair, but in an instant she felt a gun at her temple. Then, inexplicably, the gun dropped. There had been a silenced shot.

"FBI, remember Dunfee?" someone whispered in her ear.

Then they were gone. Shots from next to her sprayed the room around her.

Doyle.

Desperation clawed at him, tightening his throat. He knew he had to move quickly or they would kill Grandfather. Feeling around on the damp earth for any kind of weapon, he came up empty. Then he remembered. Under the front porch, there was a pike pole from a logging pond that the Donahues used for pulling down fruit-laden branches when harvesting apples. He scurried under the house to the front porch. As he went, he could hear Tillman firing questions at Grandfather. In less than two minutes he found the pike pole and brought it back beneath the back porch. A gap between each of the porch's board stairs allowed ferns to grow up through the steps. Moving under, Her aligned the pole with the openings in the steps. He made a rustling sound with his hand, then waited. The guard didn't move. Again he did it. Still the sentry didn't come. Next he tried a snake's angry hiss. But it was as if the man were deaf.

Finally he called out madly—the chickadee and the snake— a fight. A shadow appeared on the steps. The man was on his knees, trying to peer through the fern. He fumbled with his light. Kier used his hand to make another scurrying sound. He raised the pole, looking for a face. Nothing. Nothing. His arm shook with the tension. A light. A face. There. With all his power, he drove the pole straight for an eye. Only a grunt and the sharp exhale of breath marked the piercing of the man's skull. The long point and the large barb had disappeared into the man's head.

When Kier tried to pull the pike pole from the man's eye socket, the barb caught and the head came forward.

Kier needed the pole. Quickly he crept from under the porch, then dragged the body out to free the long handle that protruded from beneath the steps. The man's body gave an ugly quiver. One firm jerk did not free the pole. Kier placed a boot on the dead man's face and yanked. There was a wet snap as the skull fractured and the tip came free. He grabbed the man's sidearm and rifle on the run. On the porch, he threw the main breaker in the fuse box, then broke it for good measure.

He tried the knob only once. Then, slamming into the door with his shoulder, he broke it off its hinges, knocking it inward and flat to the floor. Inside all was black. The feeble rays of winter dawn displaced the darkness only near the entrance. Men were calling in muffled voices. He stayed very low, hearing the
pffft
of silenced pistols as he went. There was some kind of firefight going on—people shooting at each other. Since he knew the layout like his own home's, he went to the corner of the living room where he had last seen Jessie—but found only an empty space.

Somewhere, he knew, a man had a gun to Jessie's head. He had to take the man down, and quickly, before someone found a light.
Pffft. Pffft.
More shots fired wildly in the dark. For a fleeting second, he wondered who was shooting at whom. He crawled in ever-larger circles. His fingers found a boot. A body. A dead man. She could be anywhere. They might have moved her to the back of the house.

Panic rose inside him. He resisted the urge to call out. Sensing was more important than thinking, his Tilok mind told him. He moved across the carpet toward the other corner of the living room. If she was in here, she was probably next to the wall, hidden from the kitchen.

Kier reached an empty chair on the opposite side of the room. He had seconds at best. He heard his grandfather.

"Kier."

Pffft. Pffft.
More shots from men shooting blindly. Grandfather must be shooting as well. Kier fired a volley from the M-16, punching holes in the tops of the walls. It would keep people down.

A hand grabbed his arm, pulling him. It was only a moment before his hand found another chair—Jessie. But she was lying on the floor, struggling, trying to escape her bonds. Kier heard a sound like a knife through cardboard. A light flashed, bouncing off the ceiling. With a single shot the light went out. Now his fingers found Grandfather, kneeling low by Jessie's chair. She was moving, crawling along the floor.

"Jessie."

"Kier."

"Grandfather."

"Let's go," Jessie snapped.

Grandfather led the way toward the light. As they reached the back door, he finally saw her. Then they were outside, running. They should have been shot going through the door, silhouetted by the dull morning light. They hit the trees still alive and for a moment an exuberant joy sang through Kier.

"I can't believe we're alive," Kier said.

"White men can't see spirits," said Grandfather.

"Somebody in there was on our side, shooting like hell.

That's why we're still alive," Jessie said. Then she stopped running abruptly. "We can't run now while Special Agent Doyle's still in there."

"He double-crossed me," Kier said.

"He didn't double-cross anybody but Tillman. He's a real agent."

"Then he's sold out."

"You're wrong," she said. "Get it in your head. The FBI are the good guys. We've got to help Doyle. If they figure out he was shooting, he's dead."

Kier grabbed her arm to draw her forward, but she shrugged it off.

"We have more important things to worry about than one man," Kier argued, "even if he is legitimate."

"You would never say that if it was Grandfather or me."

Kier sighed and looked at Grandfather. ''I suppose you could go," Kier said haltingly. "We have the diary and the cure. You could tell the newspapers." He struggled. He didn't want to risk Jessie's life again. At best, Doyle was a government agent with a facility for lying. Jessie's blind faith in the damn government was ludicrous. He kicked the dirt, then turned away from her, staring at nothing.

"I can't live in a world where everything depends on the Lone Ranger, Kier. You've got to believe in more than yourself and the Tiloks. Nobody in this country can tolerate the Tillmans of the world. This government can't. Give me the pistol and let's go back. Let Grandfather take care of the Tilok." She studied him. "On everything else in life you are so wise. I just . . . " She shook her head and remained silent.

He guessed she had said her piece. He took a deep breath knowing he had only seconds to decide.

"Whisper to me where the cure is," he asked Grandfather.

The old man responded so quietly that Kier could barely hear. Then Kier turned to Jessie, seeing the question in her eyes.