Spencerville (40 page)

Truly, he thought, this was a spectacular piece of the world, but it was very far removed from Michigan's other recreational areas, and Keith wondered what Annie thought of her husband buying a place in this wilderness. It occurred to him that, for people used to the endless horizons and big blue sky of farm country, this place must feel claustrophobic and nearly spooky, and it was probably hell in the winter. Baxter, however, would feel at home here, Keith realized, a timberwolf in his element.

Keith spotted a cabin through the trees that looked uninhabited, and he suspected that most of these places were probably weekend homes, and, for all he knew, there wasn't a single human being around the lake other than he and Billy, and Cliff and Annie Baxter, which was fine with him, he thought. Before dawn, the population of Grey Lake would be zero.

The road curved around the lake, and, again, Keith caught a glimpse of it to his left, then the road turned north again, away from the lake, and Keith pulled over.

Billy said, "There's got to be a road wide enough for a truck to get through someplace back there."

"Right." Unable to make a U-turn, Keith backed up, looking for an opening in the pine trees and brush. There were utility poles along the narrow road, and Keith tried to spot an electric line or telephone wire that ran from a pole toward the lake.

Finally, Keith nudged the pickup off the road onto a narrow drainage shoulder, leaving room for another vehicle to pass. He got out of the truck, and Billy followed. It was cold, Keith noticed, and he could see his breath. It was also quiet, a typical autumn evening in the northern woods, with no sounds of insects, birds, or animals, and it was dark and would stay that way until the first snows brightened the land and the trees.

Keith and Billy walked along the road for a hundred yards, searching for an opening in the pine trees that was wide enough for a vehicle to pass through. Billy said softly, "Maybe we should just take a compass heading through the woods and get down to the lake and look around."

"That might be the thing to do. Let's get our gear."

They walked back toward the truck, and Keith kept looking up at the utility poles. He stopped, tapped Billy on the shoulder, and pointed.

Billy stared up at the dark sky. A squirrel was making its way along an electric wire that was nearly invisible among the dark shadows of the pine trees. The wire ran toward the lake. Under the wire was another one, probably the telephone line, Keith thought.

Billy said, "That definitely goes to the lake, but they always run along a road, and I don't see no road."

Keith stood near the utility pole, then walked into the woods and grasped an eight-foot-tall white pine by its trunk, shook it, then pulled it out of the ground.

Billy looked at the base of the sawed-off trunk and said, "Jeez... this guy must be a gook."

Keith kicked another pine, and it tumbled. Someone, undoubtedly Cliff Baxter, had camouflaged the narrow dirt road that led to his lodge with cut pine trees, each about eight or ten feet high. There were about a dozen of them implanted into the dirt road, running back about twenty feet, giving the impression of a continuous forest. They were still green, Keith noticed, and would stay green for weeks, but they were slightly tilted and smaller than the surrounding pines.

Keith also noticed that where the dirt road met the blacktop was strewn with deadwood and pine boughs to conceal the tire ruts leading into the hidden road. Not a great job, Keith thought, but good enough to keep a lost or curious driver from turning into the road that led to Baxter's lodge.

Keith looked around and found a signpost that had been chopped at the base and pushover onto the ground. There was no sign on the post that said, "Big Chief Cliff's Lodge," but Keith was certain there had been.

It was obvious, Keith thought, that Cliff Baxter wanted no visitors, casual or otherwise. And the same laboriously transplanted pine trees that kept people out kept Baxter from making occasional forays into the outside world. So there was no chance of staking out the road, waiting for Baxter to leave for a while, and rescuing Annie without putting her in danger of a fight. Apparently, Baxter had everything he needed for a long stay. The essential questions, of course, were, Did he also have Annie and was she alive? Keith was almost certain that he did have her, and she was alive, if not well. This was the whole point of Baxter's flight to this remote lodge — to imprison his unfaithful wife and to take out his anger and rage on her without any interference from the outside world.

It occurred to Keith that ultimately, regardless of Keith Landry — or someone like him — this was where the Baxters were destined to end up, sooner, if not later, though Annie may or may not have understood the psychological subtext of this hunting lodge and future retirement home. He recalled something she'd said. The few times we went up there alone, without the kids or without company, he was another person. Not necessarily better, and not actually worse... just another person... quiet, distant, as if he's... I don't know... thinking of something. I don't like to go up there with him alone, and I can usually get out of it.

One could only imagine, Keith thought, what Cliff Baxter was thinking about. One could only hope that whatever he'd done to Annie in the last three days, to her mind and her body, was not permanent or scarring.

Keith and Billy went back to the pickup and collected their gear, then returned to the place where the camouflaged road began. They both knew not to walk through the camouflage or on the open dirt road beyond it, and they entered the woods to the right of the road and began walking on a parallel course to it, keeping it in view when they could. They maintained their heading with the compass and an occasional sighting of the small utility poles that ran along the road.

After about fifteen minutes of slow progress, Keith stopped and knelt down, listening to the forest. Billy knelt beside him and they stayed motionless for a full five minutes. Finally, Billy whispered, "Sounds okay, smells okay, feels okay."

Keith nodded.

Still whispering, Billy said, "I know that camouflage back there looks like Baxter's work, but how we gonna be sure the house at the end of those wires is his? We don't know what it looks like, and we ain't gonna knock before we shoot."

Keith said, "It's an A-frame, dark wood, set back from the lake."

"Yeah? You know more than you say, don't you?" He added, "Typical officer."

Keith replied, "I think you know everything I know now. I told you up front this was going to be dangerous."

"Yeah, you did."

"I'll tell you something else — I took you along for you, not for me. But I appreciate the help."

"Thanks."

"If I take you the rest of the way, I want you to promise me that you'll finish the job if I'm not able to."

Billy looked at Keith and nodded. "You know I got my own reasons, and you got yours... so if one of us is down, the other guy's gonna give it his best shot."

Keith hesitated, then said, "Okay... and if it turns out at the end that it's just you and her, you tell her... whatever."

"Yeah, I'll tell her whatever." He asked, "Anything in particular?"

There was, but Keith said, "Just tell her about today."

"Okay. You do the same for me." He added, "Maybe she don't care, but she should know."

"Will do." Keith had the distinct feeling he'd had this conversation before, in other places with other people, and he was definitely tired of it. He said, "Let's move."

They continued on through the forest. Keith tried to guess how thorough Baxter had been in his preparations. Camouflage was okay, but an early-warning device was essential. That was what the dogs were for, of course, but the thing that concerned him most was a trip flare, though he wondered if Baxter, who had no military experience, had thought of such a thing. Still, he stepped high as he walked, and so did Billy, he noticed, who had the same thing on his mind. It was interesting, Keith thought, how much old soldiers remembered, even guys like Billy. But after you'd seen your first trip wire set off by someone else — whether it led to a flare or an explosive booby trap — you didn't want to repeat the experience.

The moon was higher now and cast some light into the pine forest, but Keith still couldn't see more than twenty feet in front of him. It was colder than Keith had imagined it would be, and a wind had come up from the direction of the lake, adding to the chill.

They moved slowly, covering about half a mile in thirty minutes. Keith slowed down, then stopped and pointed.

Up ahead, they could see the beginning of a clearing through the pines, and at the end of the clearing, the moonlit waters of Grey Lake.

They moved another twenty yards and stopped again. To their right, about a hundred yards away, sitting in the large clearing that ran to the lake's edge and silhouetted against the lake, was an A-frame house of dark wood.

They both stared at the house a moment, then Keith raised his binoculars. The house had sort of an alpine look and was built on cement-block columns, he saw, also that it was elevated a full story above the ground. A raised, cantilevered deck ran completely around the house, giving Baxter a full 360-degree view from a raised vantage point. A stone chimney rose from the center of the roof, and smoke drifted toward them, so they were upwind from any dogs. Parked in the open garage beneath the A-frame structure was a dark Ford Bronco.

The house was set at an angle to the lakeshore, so that Keith could see the front of the house as well as the long north side. Light came from the dormered windows set into the sloping roofline and also from the sliding glass doors that led onto the deck, and, as he watched, a fleeting figure — he couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman — passed in front of the glass doors.

Keith lowered the binoculars. "This is it."

From the direction of the house, a dog barked.

Cliff Baxter strapped on his holster and put on his bulletproof vest. He went to his gun rack and took down his Sako, model TRG-21, which was his night rifle, with an Army-surplus infrared scope mounted on it. The rifle, made in Finland, had cost the taxpayers of Spencerville four thousand dollars, and the scope another thousand, and in his opinion, the rifle and scope together made about the most accurate and deadly night-sniper system in the world.

He shut off the lights in the living room so he wouldn't be backlighted and slid open the glass door that led from the living room to the elevated deck.

Baxter dropped to one knee behind the deck railing and raised the rifle, sighting through the scope and adjusting the infrared image with the focus knob. His right eye was still fuzzy from where Landry had jabbed him, but the magnification helped.

He looked out into the woods that started about a hundred yards across the open space around the house, and scanned along the edge of the pine trees, but didn't see anything.

Baxter wasn't certain which dog barked, or why, so he walked in a low crouch around the continuous deck, looking through the variable-power scope at the woods that surrounded the house on three sides, then scanned the shoreline of the lake, which, like the woods, was about a hundred yards away across open terrain. He focused on the waters of the lake itself but didn't see any boats.

One of the dogs, the Labrador retriever, was tethered to a dog run parallel to the lake side of the house. The second dog, a golden retriever, was on its dog run, which ran from the lake, across the front of the house, out toward the woods where the dirt road came into the clearing. The third dog, a German shepherd, was out toward the rear of the house. The shepherd wasn't on a wire run, but was on a fifty-yard-long leash, attached to a pole, that allowed it to roam at will as far as the woods and as close as the house. He was satisfied that the placement of these dogs covered the perimeter of the clearing around his house.

They were good dogs, Baxter thought, but they barked at nearly everything. Still, when they barked, he checked it out. He went back to the front deck and, again in a kneeling stance, he raised the rifle and pointed it toward the dirt road. It sounded like the golden retriever who'd barked, and in fact the retriever was at the end of its run near the wood line. But Baxter noticed that the wind was coming off the lake now, so the dog probably couldn't smell anything upwind. But it must have heard or seen something. Baxter adjusted the focus knob again and concentrated on the infrared images as he slowly scanned from left to right.

He focused on the golden retriever again and saw that the dog was facing toward the woods about thirty yards left of where the dirt road began. Baxter dropped into a prone firing position, rested the rifle on the deck below the bottom slat, and sighted to where the retriever was pointing. He aimed low at the base of the pine trees and squeezed off a single round.

The shot echoed through the trees and over the lake behind him, breaking into the silence of the night. All three dogs began barking. Baxter sighted again and fired another round, then another.

The echo died away, and the dogs quieted down. Baxter lay motionless, peering through the scope, waiting for a sound or movement in the pine, and waiting, too, for return fire. After two full minutes, he decided there was nothing out there, or if there was, it was gone or dead. "Maybe a deer." They liked to feed after dark during the hunting season, but as soon as the dogs barked, they ran. So why was the dog still looking into the woods? "Maybe a rabbit or squirrel. Yeah..."

"Okay..."He didn't want to attract attention and didn't want to kill a hunter, but he didn't think there was anyone in the few cabins around this side of the lake, and even if there were, they didn't belong out at night in the woods during the deer season; at least not this close to his house.

He waited a few more minutes, then rolled along the deck, stood quickly, and went back into the living room through the sliding door.

Baxter put the rifle back in the gun rack and locked it, pocketing the key chain. He had four other semiautomatic rifles on the rack, one with a twilight scope for dawn and dusk shooting, one with a standard four-power scope for daylight, one with a long-range twelve-power scope for distance shots of up to a mile across the lake, and an AK-47 assault rifle with open sights for close-in shooting.

Aside from the armaments and the dogs, he also had six old-fashioned bear traps set around the property, out of reach of the dogs. One of them was near the staircase that led up to the deck. He also had a few other tricks up his sleeve, in case any uninvited and unannounced visitors showed up. He wasn't expecting anyone, but somewhere in the back of his mind was the image of Keith Landry.

Keith lay flat on the ground among the pine boughs, with Billy beside him. When the firing stopped, Keith whispered, "Just probing fire."

Billy nodded. "Yeah... but damn close."

"I think the dog was pointing."

Billy whispered, "You had a clear shot at him when he was kneelin'."

"I did, but I think he was wearing a vest. I'd have to go for a head shot, and that's tough at this distance."

"Hey, did you see that red-eye lookin' at us?"

"I did." The infrared scope's major drawback was that you could see the red glow when it was pointing directly at you. He wasn't surprised that Baxter had a night-vision scope, but it made things a little more difficult.

The dog, which was about twenty yards from them, made a low, rumbling sound.

They lay quiet and motionless for another few minutes, then the dog, responding to some other sound or impulse, turned and ran off down the length of its wire run toward the lake.

Keith waited another minute, then slowly rose up into a kneeling position. He raised the binoculars and trained them on the house.

Baxter slipped out of his bulletproof vest but kept his pistol strapped to his side. He turned on a floor lamp that cast a soft light across the big, cathedral-ceilinged living room.

Along the slanted walls of the A-frame room were trophy heads: elk, deer, bobcat, wild boar, two black bears facing each other on opposite walls, and above the mantel of the fireplace, a rare gray timber wolf surveyed the length of the room.

Sitting in a rocking chair beside the fireplace was Annie, staring into the flames. She glanced at him as he came toward her.

Baxter said, "You expectin' company, darlin?"

She shook her head.

"I think you are." He sat in an easy chair opposite her.

She was naked but had a blanket wrapped around her to keep away the cold. Still, her feet were cold despite the fire. On her ankles were leg manacles from the jail, connected by a twenty-four-inch chain long enough for her to walk normally but too short for her to run. The chain was padlocked to a large eyebolt screwed deep into the oak floor.

The only telephone in the house was the wall phone in the kitchen, but Cliff had locked the handset in the kitchen closet, along with all the sharp knives. When he sent her to bed at night, he handcuffed her wrists to the iron headboard and released the leg manacles, "So you can spread your legs for me, darlin'."

Cliff looked at her awhile, then said, "You think he's comin' for you, but that phone call I got before was from Blake, and he tells me that your lover boy went and kidnapped Ward and tortured the guy. But Ward told him that we went off to Florida. So that's where the stupid bastard is goin', if he gets that far." He added, "If he even gives a shit about you."

Annie didn't reply.

Baxter added, "I don't think he cares, and even if he does, he don't have the balls." He laughed. "I mean, he really don't have the balls. But, in a way, I hope he does show up here. You ever seen a man caught in a bear trap? It ain't pretty, I'll tell you. Most of the time they can't get it open and they die of starvation and thirst. Sometimes they cut off their foot to get out. Now, if your lover boy gets himself caught in a trap around the house, we can both watch him dyin' for a week or so. They usually yell themselves hoarse, cryin' and beggin', then at the end, they want you to shoot 'em."

Annie kept staring into the fire.

Cliff said, "Never saw it myself, but I know someone who did. I think I'd enjoy that." He couldn't seem to get a reaction out of her, so he said, "Don't know what good he can do you anyhow. Last time I saw him, his balls was sittin' in my hand. You ever seen a man's testicles out of their sack? Hell, I shoulda saved 'em and showed 'em to you." He stared at her, and she glanced back at him. He could tell she wasn't sure about this, but each time he told her this story, she seemed less believing, so he decided not to repeat it again for a few days.

Cliff went on, "I hope, if he shows up, I don't have to kill him outright. If he don't get caught in one of them bear traps, then maybe the dogs'll get on him, or maybe I can wing him. Hey, I'll bring him inside here, and you can take care of him. Get him fixed up enough so I can skin him alive and tan his hide..."

"Shut up!"

He stood. "What did you say?"

"Stop! Stop it!"

"Yeah? Stand up."

"No."

"Stand up, bitch, and get it over with, or I'll make it worse."

Annie hesitated, then stood.

"Drop the blanket."

She let the blanket fall to the floor. Baxter took the key chain out of his pocket, knelt, and removed the padlock, freeing the manacle chain. He stood and said, "Go over there and bend over the arm of the sofa."

She shook her head.

He drew his revolver and aimed it at her face. "Do what I say."

"No. Go ahead and shoot."

He lowered his aim to her stomach and said, "If I gut-shoot you, you're gonna take a day to die."

Annie remained standing where she was, wanting to die, and it didn't matter at that moment how long it took. Then she thought about her children and thought of the possibility that Keith would remember what she'd told him about Grey Lake, or of Keith speaking to Terry, who she prayed understood about Atlanta.

Annie knew that they couldn't stay in this house forever, and when someone came along, there would be bloodshed, and it would probably end with Cliff killing her, then himself.

So she wavered between wanting him to kill her now, and living a little longer and hoping she could do something to end this nightmare. But she didn't know how long she could live like this, how long it would be before he broke her. It had been three days now since they'd gotten here, and already she was losing touch with reality, bending to his perverted will to save herself some pain. She was no match for him in this situation, she realized. He had all the power, and even her subtle resistance met with his sadism. Still, she wasn't going to be his willing victim, and she said to him, "Go to hell."

Baxter lowered the pistol, went to the fireplace, and stuck the poker in the flames.

Annie watched. No, he wouldn't kill her. Not yet. But he would do what he was preparing to do. The poker tip glowed red, and he pulled it out of the fire, held it up, and spit on it. The spit sizzled, and he held the poker out a few inches from her right breast. He said, "I don't want to do this, but you ain't givin' me any choice."

She replied, "I don't want to do this either, and you're not giving me any choice."

He looked at her, then said, "We're gonna have it my way, either way. So?"

Realizing she'd resisted as much as she could, she turned and walked to the couch, the chain dragging over the rug, and the leg manacles chafing her ankles.

He said, "Bend over."

She bent over the upholstered arm of the couch and put her hands out in front of her on the cushions. She heard Cliff put the poker down, then unbuckle his gun belt and lay it down somewhere. He came up behind her and unbuckled his trouser belt and whipped it out of the loops. "Okay, you got to pay for your smart mouth. And you got a lot of payin' to do for a lot of smart-mouthin' over the years."

She didn't want to reply, but she knew if she didn't say anything, he'd go on and on, and she didn't want to wait for it in that humiliating position. She said, "Just get it over with."

"I want you to think about what's comin' and why you're gettin' it."

"Damn you..."

He swung the belt and brought it down hard across her buttocks.

Keith focused on one of the lit dormer windows that protruded from the sloped side of the A-frame. He caught a glimpse of something, then saw her. She was standing, and he could see her from the waist up. She was bare-breasted, and she stood motionless for a few seconds. He could see her face, but at this distance, the equivalent of about twenty-five yards with the four-power magnification, he had trouble making out her features. He thought she looked frightened, but that might have been his imagination.

Suddenly, she disappeared, and standing where she had been was Cliff Baxter. He focused as tight as he could, then watched Baxter making some sort of odd movement. It took him a few seconds to realize that Baxter was swinging something, a whip, or a belt, or a switch, and he understood what was happening. He lowered the binoculars and felt a tightening in his stomach.

Billy whispered, "What do ya see?"

"Nothing."

"You see anybody?"

"Yes... I did." He looked at Billy and said, "He's beating her. I'm going in." He grabbed his rifle and started to stand, but Billy pushed him down. "No! No! You wait."

Keith lay on the ground. He thought he could hear the sound of whatever was happening in that house, the steady slap of something against bare flesh and her crying. But, of course, he couldn't hear it, but he felt it, as if it were happening to him.

Annie yelled out in surprised pain. Usually, she prepared herself for the first blow and hardly made a sound until the pain got to be too much. Yesterday, she'd taken ten strokes without crying, and that had given her some satisfaction.

He said, "I was gonna give you only five, but now you're gettin' a full ten. You count, and if you lose count, I start over again. Ready?"