Spencerville (39 page)

"I'm not an archer. I just want to shoot varmint."

"Yeah? Okay, I only got one kind of crossbow, and you're welcome to it. Come on in."

He led Keith and Billy to an aluminum warehouse-type building set back from the road that had been converted into a sporting goods store. Neil turned on the fluorescent lights. The right wall of the long building was lined with gun racks and counters laden with hunting paraphernalia and ammunition, and Keith figured that Mr. Johnson could outfit an infantry battalion. The left-hand side of the building was stocked with fishing gear, archery equipment, outdoor clothing, tents, and assorted odds and ends for the hunter. Keith didn't see any tennis rackets or running shoes.

Keith was not in a particular hurry at this point, knowing that whatever he was going to do at Grey Lake had to wait until the early hours of the morning. Still, he wanted to get moving, but you didn't show any impatience in a town of six hundred people, and each purchase had to be treated like the deal of the century.

After some polite chatter, Neil Johnson handed Keith the crossbow and said, "This here one is used, made out of fiberglass by a company called Pro Line. Pretty good."

Keith examined the weapon. Essentially, it consisted of a short bow mounted crossways on a riflelike stock also of fiberglass. A trigger arrangement released the drawn string and sent the arrow on its journey along a groove running the length of the top of the stock. "Looks easy."

"Yeah. It's too easy. No sport. You'll be as good as anyone else in a few days. A longbowman got to practice years to get good."

Keith had the feeling that Mr. Johnson was disdainful of the crossbow and of anyone who used it.

In fact, Neil Johnson informed him, "A feller told me once that crossbows was outlawed by the pope back in the days of knights, you know, because it was considered unfit and unfair for Christians to use it."

"You don't say? Did that include shooting rats?"

"Probably not. Anyway, it's real accurate. You got about a sixty-pound pull, and you cock it by putting the stock against your chest, and you draw the string back with both hands. Here, I'll show you." Neil took the crossbow and cocked the string back and hooked it on the trigger catch. He put an arrow in the groove and pointed it down the length of the room at a dusty deer head mounted on the far wall about thirty feet away. He aimed along the sights and pulled the trigger. The short arrow flew out of the crossbow and pierced the deer head right between the eyes, passed through, and stuck into the wooden wall mounting with a thud. "How's that?"

"Very good."

"Yeah. I couldn't do that with a longbow. Okay, so the arrow travels about two hundred feet a second, and if you're leadin' an animal, you got to remember you ain't firin' a rifle, and you got to lead him more. Somethin' else to remember — at forty yards, you're gonna get as much as a four-foot drop in the arrow, so you got to compensate for that." He picked up one of the arrows and said, "These here are fiberglass, with plastic vanes, and this here's a broad-tipped hunting head. They come eight to a box. How many you want?"

Keith looked at the plastic quiver on the counter and said, "Fill 'er up."

"Okay. That's twenty-four. You need anything else?"

"Can you mount a scope on this?"

"Scope? You ain't givin' them rats a chance, are you?"

"Nope."

"Let's see what I got here." Neil found a four-power bow scope and within ten minutes had mounted it on the crossbow. He handed it to Keith and said, "You want to adjust that aim?"

"Sure do."

"I'll set out a target. Step on back to the door. That's about twenty yards."

Keith took the crossbow, slung the quiver, and walked back to the door, while Neil Johnson set up a bull's-eye target against a bale of straw and stepped away. Keith cocked the bow against his chest, fitted the arrow, aimed through the telescopic sight, and pulled the trigger. The arrow hit low, and he adjusted the sight and fired again. On the third shot, he put the arrow through the inner circle. "Okay. How accurate is this at, say, forty yards?"

Neil replied, "About twice as accurate as a longbow, which is to say you ought to be able to put all your arrows inside a nine-inch circle at forty yards."

Keith nodded. "How about eighty yards?"

"Eighty yards? You ain't gonna even see a rat at eighty yards... well, maybe with that scope it's gonna look like twenty yards, but you're gettin' that four-foot drop at forty yards, and maybe a ten-foot drop at eighty yards. These things is made for forty-yard target shooting. You can send an arrow maybe seven hundred yards with that thing, but you ain't hittin' nothin', 'cept maybe Farmer Brown's cow, by accident."

"Yeah... can I hit, let's say, a wild dog, stationary, at eighty yards, no wind, with this scope?"

Neil rubbed his chin. "Well... you're gonna get a straight, true flight regardin' left and right, but you got to figure your drop. What's the point of this?"

"Dogs bothering my sheep back in Ohio. When I fire a rifle at one, the others scatter. I figure with a crossbow, I won't spook them."

"Why don't you just poison the damned things?"

"That's not real Christian."

Neil laughed and said, "Have it your way." He took a pencil and scratched some numbers on the wooden counter. "Let's see... crossbow, twenty-four arrows including the one I shot... you want that back?"

"No."

"Okay, quiver, carrying case, and scope... let's say six hundred dollars, and that includes the tax."

"Sounds fair." Keith counted out the money, which was almost all the cash he had, and he recalled Charlie Adair's thousand dollars, then thought about Adair and wondered when and how he'd see him again.

As Billy packed everything in the canvas carrying case, Keith inquired, "Do you get many folks from Ohio up this way?"

Neil counted the money and replied, "Get a lot in the summer, then during the hunting season. After that, you don't see many. Where you headed?"

"Presque Isle."

"Yeah? Ain't easy getting through them hills at night unless you know the way."

"We'll take it slow. I see you sell dog chow."

"Yup. Do a lot of my out-of-town business in ammo, dog chow, some fish bait, and like that. People's got their own rifles and all." Neil went on, then remembered the subject and asked, "You need some dog chow?"

"No, but a friend of mine comes up here with two, three dogs, and they eat like wolves. I think this is where he comes for his chow."

"Yeah, you run 'em, you got to feed 'em. Fact, a guy from Ohio was in here a few days back and bought enough chow to last a few months."

"That could have been my friend. He's up here."

"Coulda been."

The conversation seemed to be stalled, so Keith, against his better judgment, prompted, "I was thinking about maybe buying a place up here, but I'd like to talk to some Ohio guys who already got a place."

"Yeah, you can do that. Fact, that guy who near cleaned me out of dog chow, he's up at Grey Lake. Take a ride up there and look for his signpost. Name's Baxter. That your friend?"

"No."

Billy's eyes opened wide, Keith noticed, but Billy's mouth stayed shut.

Keith said to Neil, "Yeah, maybe I'll look him up on my way back, but I don't want to just pop in if he's got the missus with him."

"Didn't see no lady in his car."

Keith didn't reply.

Neil added, "But I didn't see no dogs neither, so he must've gone up to his place, then come back here." He said, "You can call ahead. He's in the book. Tell him I sent you. We do business now and then."

"Thanks. Maybe I'll call on the way back. Meantime, I got to make a call home. Mind if I use your phone?"

"No, go right ahead. Over there by the cash register."

Keith walked over to the cash register, found the phone, and dialed. Billy was making conversation with Neil, talking guns and hunting.

Terry answered, "Hello?"

"Terry, it's me."

"Keith! Where are you?"

"I'm here. Listen, your phone is tapped."

"My phone?"

"Yes, but not by the Spencerville P.D. By the federal government."

"What? Why?.."

"It doesn't matter. Call your lawyer in the morning and get the tap taken off. More important, I know he's up here, so we have to assume she's here, too." He added, to make her feel better, "I'm sure she's alive."

"Oh, thank God... what are you going to do?"

"I've spoken to the local police, and they're very cooperative. I just want to remind you and Larry again not to do anything that might jeopardize the situation. Don't say anything to your parents over the phone, either. Okay?"

"Yes."

"Terry, trust me."

"I do."

"I'll have her back tomorrow."

"Do you mean that?"

"Yes."

"And him? Will they arrest him?"

"I can't say. I suppose, if she swears out a complaint, they will."

"She won't do that. She just wants to be rid of him."

"Well, first things first. The police here want to wait until morning, and that's all right. I'll call you tomorrow with good news."

"All right... can I reach you tonight?"

"I'll get a motel and call you only if I have new information."

"Okay. Be careful."

"I will. And now a message to the people recording this conversation: 'Hello, Charlie — I got here without your help, but thanks again. Billy helped me, and if I'm inconvenienced later, you take care of him. Okay? Meantime, one more dragon. See you around.' " Keith said, "Terry, sit tight. Regards to Larry."

"Okay."

Keith hung up. He, Billy, and Neil went back to the pickup truck, and Keith said, "See you next week on the way back."

"Good luck."

Keith and Billy got in the truck and pulled out onto the road. Billy said, "Hey, you hear that? Baxter's at Grey Lake."

"Indeed he is." Keith felt much better.

"We got him!" He looked at Keith. "You knew he was there, didn't you?"

Keith didn't reply.

Billy thought awhile, then asked, "You think he knows you're lookin' for him?"

"I'm sure he knows I'm looking for him."

"Yeah... but you think he knows you knew where to find him?"

"That is the question."

Billy examined the crossbow. He raised it and sighted out the front window through the small telescopic sight. "Aims like a rifle. But I don't know about that drop."

Billy examined the tip of the arrow, a razor-sharp, open-bladed broadhead made of high-quality steel. "Jesus, this tip is over an inch across. That'll put a big slice in the meat." He asked Keith, "You sure we got to kill the dogs?"

"You tell me when we get there."

"Okay... hey, maybe we can get Baxter with this thing."

"Maybe." Whether he killed the man with his M-16 at a hundred yards or a crossbow at forty yards, the man was just as dead as if Keith had severed his femoral artery with his knife. There was a difference, however, in the after-action report, so to speak. He mulled this over awhile, taking into account the fact that Annie was going to be right there when it happened. Keith also considered not killing Baxter at all. Much of what was going to happen before dawn was not in his power to control, but he felt he should at least think about life after death — that is, his life after the other guy's death. He always did this, though rarely did it work out the way he wanted it to. Mostly you just tried to avoid shooting a guy in the back or the balls. Beyond those minor concessions to chivalry, anything was permitted. Yet Baxter was a special case, and Keith really wanted to be close enough to smell the man, to make eye contact, to say, "Hi, Cliff, remember me?"

Billy asked, "You tuned out?"

"I guess. Did I miss a turn?"

"No, but you turn here. Take the left fork."

"Okay." Keith veered off to the left, and they headed north from Atlanta into a vast tract of unspoiled wilderness, hills, lakes, streams, and marsh. Billy commented, "I remember that the roads on the map don't always match the roads on the ground."

"Okay." Keith turned on the overhead light and glanced at the map. The region they were entering was mostly state land, about two or three hundred square miles of forest, most of it accessible only by logging roads, game trails, and canoe. Keith couldn't see a single village or settlement. He shut off the light and handed Billy the map. "You navigate."

Billy took a flashlight out of the glove compartment and studied the map.

Keith said, "Baxter's lodge is on the north side of Grey Lake."

Billy glanced at him but didn't ask how he knew that. Billy said, "Okay... I see a road goin' around the east side of the lake, but it don't turn around to the far north side."

"We'll find it."

"Yeah, people got these wood signs like that one over there, pointin' up these dirt roads with their names on it — see that? 'John and Joan's Hideaway.' " Billy asked, "You know what his place is called?"

"No... yes, I think it's 'Big Chief Cliff's Lodge.' " Keith added, "But I have a feeling he took down his welcome sign."

"Yeah... we might have to ask around."

"I don't see another human being around to ask, Billy."

"There's usually somebody. They'll know."

"Right, and they might call on ahead to Baxter."

"Yeah, maybe. Hey, you think about all these things, don't you? Maybe I should start thinkin' ahead once in a while."

"Can't hurt. Start now."

They continued on through the pitch-dark night, through the narrow, winding road, bordered by towering pines. Keith asked, "You ever hunt through here?"

"Now and then. You got deer, bobcat, and even bear. You get the odd timberwolf, too. But you got to know the area or you could get fucked-up in here. I mean, this ain't the end of the world, but I think you can see it from here."

After a few minutes, Billy said, "You take this here small road to the left, and it wraps around almost to the north end of Grey Lake. After that, we got to wing it."

"Okay." Keith turned onto the road, which was barely wide enough for the truck, and the pine boughs brushed both sides of the cab. Off to the left, through the pines, Keith caught a glimpse of the lake itself. A bright, nearly full moon had risen, and the lake indeed looked gray, like polished pewter. It was maybe a mile across, totally surrounded by pine with a few bare birch at the water's edge. He saw no lights from boats or from houses in the pines.