Ken Kuhlken_Hickey Family Mystery 03 (20 page)

Chapter Thirty-one

Hickey broke into a sprint. A cabin door flew open and smacked against a wall. Somebody called, “That you, Tersh?”

“Hell, no,” a distant man shouted. Probably the woodcutter.

A gunshot cracked, then another. While Hickey ran, he listened for evidence that Pederson hadn’t got hit, or chomped by the wolf. All he heard were his own feet, a medley of curses and threats from voices that could’ve been Boggs, Roy, or Gene, and two more gunshots from the vicinity of the voices.

He had no idea how far to the cabin. The road climbed and dipped, cut in and back with every bend of the shoreline. The first clue he’d neared the cabin was another clap from a door banging open. Heavy footsteps scampered away. Either a car door squeaked or someone or something whimpered.

“Wendy!”

He’d tried to roar. But the feeble shout he’d managed seemed to collide with the air and echo back at him, while he sprinted like he hadn’t in twenty-five years, since his season as a sophomore fullback, second string, at USC. Only now he was running distance with the same fury he used to rush off tackle. And he was twenty-five years older. As he crossed the last rise and saw the cabin, for an instant he caught a second wind. Then his chest seemed to burst into flames. The cabin and everything blurred. His head emptied. A drifting balloon. Still he ran and managed to lift the rifle as he jumped through the open doorway.

“Wendy!” he screamed at the empty room, and collapsed onto the floor.

***

Deputy Pederson perched on a granite slab near the lake, holding a bead with his rifle on the man who’d tried to escape in a canoe, dragging it behind him across the fringe of ice, nosing it into the water pointed diagonally across the lake toward the northeast shore from where a firebreak led up between tall cedars to the road.

After Pederson had spooked at the wolf and yowled, and the man had shot at him, and the wolf dashed past and fled along the shoreline, the boy had scrambled up the bank onto the road out of the shooter’s vision. He’d jogged down the road, following Hickey, until he heard a splash, followed by a wail so high-pitched at first he thought it was the girl. He’d peered through the trees. Spotted the canoe.

If the ice hadn’t shattered beneath the man, he might’ve slipped away. Instead, he hung waist deep in the lake, clutching the rail of the canoe and kicking ferociously, while Pederson sat with his rifle trained. After a minute, the canoe nosed into the ice fringe and seemed to stick there. Three times the man heaved up, fell back, and sank, before he crawled over the rail and flopped between the benches.

Pederson got up, stumbled and skidded on snow, frost and beds of fallen needles. At the shore, he stepped lightly on the ice, only a few feet out before he caught the tie rope. He gripped the rope and rifle in one hand, reached under his coat for his revolver, then slung the rifle over his shoulder where the snowshoes had hung before he’d tossed them aside. Aiming the revolver at the back of the man who lay sprawled facedown, he towed the canoe ashore and jumped a few steps back. “On your feet, mister.”

“Forget it,” the man groaned. “I can’t.”

“Come on!”

“Gimme a minute.”

Pederson stood grinding his teeth and skuffing the frozen sand while the man rose an inch at a time. He’d slid out of the canoe, sprawled then risen to his knees just as Hickey staggered out the cabin’s back door.

Holding the porch rail, he dragged himself down to the beach. He plodded across. Things were still blurry, his chest still burned, but the dizzy light-headedness had passed. When he reached the kneeling man, he dropped beside him. He lifted his arm and loosed a vicious backhand. The tough guy caught it on the cheekbone and tumbled to his side.

“Where is she?” Hickey snarled.

“Ain’t she in the cabin?”

Hickey lifted both hands and lunged at the freak’s head, slammed it onto the ground, held it there. “Who’s here with you?”

“A couple guys, is all.”

“Name ’em.”

“Tersh Gohner. Jack Meechum.”

“Where are they?”

“Last I knew, Tersh was down trying to budge this damned tree that fell and blocked us in. I was up making coffee. Meechum was taking care of the girl. Then you guys showed up. That’s all I can tell you, buddy.”

Hickey wrenched the man’s head sidewise, to face him. “You better tell me that Wendy’s okay.”

“Yeah. Sure she is.”

Hickey let go. Slowly and warily, the man pushed himself upright. With the heel of his right hand, Hickey punched the freak’s chest, knocked him back against the canoe. “Lie to me, will you?”

The man’s arms had wrapped around his chest as if it were a treasure. His eyes had bugged and gone wandering, drifting toward the lake and back, before he mumbled, “She’s okay, I tell you. Last I saw.”

“Cuff him to a post or something,” Hickey mumbled. He rose and struggled to hold himself erect, walking back to the steps and through the cabin, out the front door. He stood on the road, thinking the footsteps he heard, and the whimpering, must’ve been Meechum dragging her away, up the hillside. Meechum hadn’t cut north on the road. He wouldn’t have gone the other way, toward the gunshots. He must’ve dragged her into the forest.

If the hill on this shore were like the other, they could’ve tracked him easily, through the snow. But this was the sunny slope. Between snow patches lay clearings and trails inches deep in matted needles. Through that stuff, even with all the flashlights and flares in creation, they’d go nuts trying to follow tracks.

The footfalls sounded as close as if they were his own. Hickey wheeled and saw the sheriff about thirty yards away, loping toward him.

“You got her?”

The sheriff skidded on mud up to Hickey. “Nope. All we got’s some big fella pinned down at Lewellen’s place. He crawled under the lousy snowplow. Far as we can tell, only weapon’s an ax. Lewellen and Gene got him cornered. Roy’s scouring the woods out that way. I figured you could use me over here. What’d you find in the cabin?”

Hickey shook his head. “Pederson’s got one of ’em.”

“He say anything?”

“Says Meechum’s got her.” He paced in frantic circles. Stared into the forest of yellow pine saplings. Then he noticed a faint glow, like the palest, distant beam of a lantern. It looked about a hundred yards southwest up the hillside.

He bolted toward the light, full speed. As soon as he left the road, his feet began slipping, churning in place as though on an oil slick. He cussed himself for not having taken a minute to run home from Harry’s and change to boots. He fell forward and grappled with his hands, trying to pull and run at the same time. He moaned and babbled in wild abandon, calling out endearments and assurances he’d used to comfort her after nightmares and the early times they’d made love.

Once again, his chest blazed—flames seemed to lap up his throat. Dizziness repossessed him. Any second, he knew, his heart might shut down. But if he couldn’t get Wendy back, he didn’t want the damned heart.

The glow had faded long before he neared it, and he’d lost sight of the spot. About ten yards before the first crest of the hill, where the saplings gave way to a rare stand of virgin tamarack—long after he thought he’d passed his destination—he saw her lying on a mat of brown needles, wrapped halfway around the trunk of a fir.

Hickey dove to his knees. He grappled and clawed at her body and face like a blind man in terror. He found the knot of a bandanna at the neck. Tore at it with his teeth and fingers. Finally it unraveled. Then her head lifted sideways.

Her eyelids trembled. The skin of her face appeared clawed and beaten. A twig looked embedded in her cheek. Dark blood seeped from her nose. The blue eyes that used to flash like tinted crystal had gone flat and murky as stagnant pools. If she saw him, she didn’t let on. All she could utter were feeble groans.

Hickey dug under the small of her back and her knees. He lifted and pressed her to him until he could feel a heartbeat, and another. He struggled to his feet and started down the hill. After two steps, he wished he’d thought of kicking off his slippery shoes, but he wasn’t going to let her loose for that or anything. He dug his heels into the needles and slip-stepped down about halfway before an icy patch lofted him into the air, then onto his back, where she lay sprawled across him, covering him with her legs, marvelous belly, chest, and hair.

He sat up, bent forward, and kissed her eyebrow. “You okay, babe?” he whispered desperately.

Though she didn’t reply, he felt a breath on his cheek that thrilled him and roused him to spring up. But his ankle wobbled and folded sideways. Lying back down, he ran his fingers through her hair, listened to the breeze rising, and muttered, “Thank God,” about a dozen times.

The sheriff stood over them. As Hickey lifted his arm to clutch the sheriff’s, Wendy’s head twitched, then craned upward. Like somebody who’d just stepped from noon into darkness, she peered fixedly at Hickey’s face.

“Tom?”

“Yeah, babe. It’s me.”

“Oh!” she gasped. “Clifford wants out!”

Chapter Thirty-two

As soon as they got Wendy onto the bunk, she shuddered and pinched her eyes closed. She grasped the hand Hickey’d laid on her arm, squeezed hard. Her eyes and mouth were scrunched together as though battling to displace her nose. Her shoulders lifted, as her chest rose, then fell as her belly lifted, all the way down to her toes.

The sheriff tossed kindling into the wood stove. Pederson had found a pan and run out to the pump for water.

The twig was still embedded in Wendy’s cheek. Hickey picked it out. Its image remained, like a red flower with folded petals. As her grunting quieted, through the last wavelike roll and push, Hickey bundled his coat and stuffed it under the pillow beneath her head. She sighed and lay still. Her soft moans sounded as if she were trying to run a scale but hadn’t the range. Hickey got up and lifted her brown dress, pulled her panties down and off, then hoisted the dress back over her knees. He squatted beside her. Took her hand. Patted the only spot on her forehead that didn’t look scraped or bruised.

“He’s gonna be a big guy,” she whispered. “Clifford wasn’t so big. Maybe we should call him Tom instead.”

“That’s what middle names are for.” The tip of his finger made circles on her cheek, around the flower. “Babe, will you be sad if he’s a girl?”

“Not if we can think up a name. It isn’t everything sounds good with Hickey, you know?”

“It isn’t anything sounds good with Hickey. Let’s call her Vicki. Mickey. How about Red?”

“Stop, Tom. Don’t make me laugh, please. If he’s a girl, maybe later we’ll have Clifford, okay?”

For a minute he couldn’t answer, with his throat crimped shut and his eyes marveling at the prize he’d never deserved. “Sure you wanta do this again, babe? Doesn’t it hurt awfully?”

“Oh, boy. It hurts, all right.”

The sheriff carried a stool over and sat. “Tom, when you first ran up the hill there, you see any sign of this Meechum?”

Hickey wagged his head. “Soon as Roy or Gene shows, send him up there. It shouldn’t be hard to nab the damn fool. He’s gotta be stupid, or else he wouldn’t of carried a lantern or whatever it was.”

“I don’t think he’s stupid,” Wendy said breathlessly. “He didn’t have any lantern.”

“Sure he did, babe. It’s the only reason I knew you were up there. Without the light—”

“Jack didn’t have any light. Oh!” She shuddered and grunted, fiercely gripping Hickey’s hand. This time she pushed so hard, it made her hips rise high, smashing her head into the pillow. Hickey reached underneath, braced his elbows against the bunk, and cradled her hips with his hands. Her body quaked like his had, on the road not long ago. She howled, then let go. He eased her down.

Pederson had run in with a pan full of water. He’d set it on the wood stove, rushed to the kitchen, and found a rag, wetted it. Now he gave it to Hickey, who dabbed at the splotches of dirt on her face, then folded the rag and held it across her brow.

“The light was Zeke,” Wendy gasped.

“Huh?”

“Zeke.” For a while she seemed lost, gazing around, pausing at each person or object, then passing on. Finally she opened her mouth and frowned, as if she’d done something shameful. “Zeke’s an angel,” she whispered.

Her head flew up and slapped back down on the folded coat. Color drained from her face. Even her lips had turned whitish blue. She sucked air mouth-deep, blew it out quickly and hard. Her body flopped and thrashed; then she fell quiet and stared at Hickey as though he were a strange and peculiar being.

Every half minute, she’d groan and launch her hips upward, let Hickey catch and hold them there while she quaked for the next half minute. Then she collapsed and rested, panting and staring at Hickey as though appalled that he didn’t relieve her.

“Try making her stay flat on the bunk,” the sheriff offered.

“You done this before?”

“One time. I don’t much know what I’m doing. The thing is, arching up like that, all she’s getting is worn out.”

Wendy cried, “Oh! Oh! Oh!”

The sheriff jumped to the foot of the bunk and slung the dress back over her knees. As her hips flew up, Hickey grasped both sides of her hipbone from underneath and pulled her down close to the bunk.

“There,” the sheriff yelped. “Looks like brown hair.” Wendy fell back and caught a few breaths before she tried to arch again.

“Come on, kid,” the sheriff cajoled. “There’s steak and potatoes waiting. Apple pie à la mode. You’ve got a swell mama. Your old man’s all right, too. A little bossy, but you and him’ll get along. You’re gonna like it out here.”

Her shoulders, then her chest and belly, rose and fell, but her hips drove Hickey’s hand and forearm into the mattress.

“Hey, look at this! The kid’s got a chin. And shoulders. Whoa, not so fast!”

Hickey didn’t know where to look. He couldn’t stand and peer over her raised knees with his arm pinned beneath her. When he tried to glance between her knees, her legs slapped together. Anyway, he couldn’t pry his eyes off her face for more than a second or two. He crooked his neck and peeked under her knees. All that got him was a view of the sheriff’s elbows.

“There we go. Tom, you got a boy. Two legs. Two arms. Twelve toes. No, make that ten. Pederson, give me a towel, will you? A bunch of ’em.”

Hickey eased her down, caught a glimpse of his bloody son, the tiny legs kicking, hands and arms clutching as though he saw something and wanted it badly. He made gasping sounds and small cries as the sheriff wiped him clean.

Hickey let his head fall onto Wendy’s breast. He closed his eyes and listened to her tremulous, long-winded moan. It sounded miraculous. All at once there was nothing but glee, as if the world had gotten bathed clean.

His chest hardly burned anymore. His vision had cleared. As soon as he got Wendy to the hospital, he’d phone Claire. She’d tell him Leo had arrived safely. The old guy loved kids, the tinier the better.

“Look here, Tom,” the sheriff said.

Hickey rose far enough to gaze at his son. He lay sucking breaths. Only scattered blotches of blood remained, on his hair, his legs, and down the umbilical cord. The boy looked perfect. Glorious.