Rise Again Below Zero (48 page)

Topper’s plan, as outlined in his note, was exactly what she needed.

T
opper moved through the darkness and wondered if he was in love with the sheriff or just a dumb asshole. She had some kind of hold over him. It wasn’t her complete lack of charm, her croaking voice, or the fact that she ran like a man. It wasn’t the scars or the broken nose or the stumps of her gnawed-off fingers. There was just something about her, like down underneath
it all, if life had gone another, better way, she would have been the friend he’d want to go hunting with. Ride across the deserts and camp under the stars and get drunk at the Double Down in Vegas.

He’d heard gunfire a few minutes earlier, but that wasn’t unusual in Happy Town. So he let his thoughts go where they would. If anything, the action in town would keep him safer from detection. He might even be able to get inside the perimeter.

He still had trouble believing they’d gotten naked together. Topper had a standing bet with the other scouts that Danny did
not
have a penis. He knew he would never collect, even though it turned out he was right. Why was that? Because he respected her, maybe. But more than that. He didn’t want to betray her. They had a secret and it was worth more than he could express.

Happy Town cast a tea-colored glow behind the bulk of the ridge across the river, against the low clouds. Topper moved quickly by flashlight for the first few miles, and then switched to night vision goggles. Good military-grade gear. He reached the blasted-out bridge piers. Above him were guards on the intact bridge, and up in the trees on the far side of the river there was a patrol crashing around. He moved with deliberation, watching for trip wires. At one point, he saw an incongruous pool of greenish light ahead, and had gotten considerably closer before he realized it was a fixed infrared camera’s light source shining across a small path along the river’s edge. He skirted around behind it, his route taking him partway up a cliff.

After a couple of hours of slow-motion creeping along, he was feeling the cold through his layers. But up ahead he could see with his naked eyes a glimmer of light that must be the dam holding the reservoir in place. The authorities in Happy Town focused on the bridges, of course. The dam would be heavily watched. He didn’t think they’d be looking at the steep cliff walls on either side, however. An avalanche would get their attention. He settled the night vision goggles on his face and began the tricky ascent up the rock, taking a long, angled route that should end up with him directly above the end of the dam.

He was about two hundred feet above the gurgling black river on a sharp ledge, easing his way toward a slim pine tree that sprouted from the cliff, when a spotlight blazed on. The night goggles seared his eyes for a second; he tore them off and they whirled out of the light into the water below. There was a crackle of amplified static, and then a voice boomed out, “
We
are lowering a rope to you. Don’t move, or you
will
be shot.
” Pebbles chattered down from above.

“Sorry, Sheriff,” he muttered to himself. “You’re on your own.”

D
anny went back to the hospital. She had never expected to see it again; she could hardly claim she was bedridden at this stage, and if her brain was bleeding, it didn’t change much. She could bleed out there where the action was just as easily. No headaches that entire day, despite all the activity and excitement. But she went back because she had a feeling her adventures might be drawing to a close, and she wanted to see Amy and Patrick one more time. She promised herself she wouldn’t get maudlin and talk about death, weep on their shoulders, or any of that horseshit. She just wanted to look at them again, say something that wasn’t mean, and slip on out while everybody was feeling good.

But she didn’t see them, as it turned out. The hospital was busy, even at the late hour when she returned; the wounded were crying in pain somewhere on the second floor, there were extra guards patrolling the halls, and when she inquired, nobody knew where her friends were. She thought of leaving a note, or waiting around to see if one of them came by. It didn’t seem like the right thing, somehow. In the end she stopped a female nurse heading up the main stairway and asked her to convey her thanks to Dr. Joe—thanks for everything.

Then she went out past the guards and into the cold night.

T
opper expected to end up at the bank building, which seemed to be the new town hall; instead, he was marched through the woods to a gate in the perimeter fence at the foot of the mountain, then straight through a series
of security barricades near the train tracks. His captors had this down to a science. He didn’t try to escape. With his wrists zip-tied together and the darkness and uneven ground he wouldn’t get far. They took him across the tracks, where a bunch of men were outfitting a sort of war-wagon train, and then he was taken into what had once been the station. It was blessedly warm. He hadn’t been warm in days, not even at the little farmhouse. His greatest fear was that they would behead him; so far, he seemed to be heading in the right direction for that. He imagined his headless corpse flung atop the garbage as he’d seen done to others. If luck was with him, maybe they’d just stick him in a cell and he’d see Ernie again.

He wasn’t made to wait long.

A man wearing dark glasses despite the night hour arrived. He was wearing so much makeup he looked like Liberace, and he chewed an enormous cigar. Topper would have loved a cigar. They found them sometimes, but usually rat-eaten or as stale as mummies. This one looked fresh. The new arrival looked strange, somehow, like he had a sickness. Topper puzzled over this. The man must have been important, because he had half a dozen guards flanking him with guns at port arms. They filed into the station and took up positions a couple of yards away from Topper; it reminded him of the scene in Hong Kong gangster movies when the villain and his minions met the hero face-to-face. In the movies, the hero always bluffed his way through the meeting, relying on sheer balls. Topper wasn’t sure it would work in real life, so he waited silently.

“I am the Architect,” the man said.

“Hi,” Topper said.

“You came at a perfect time. We were just going around the mountain. Are you fresh as a daisy?”

“Am I what?”

“Never mind. Why were you at the river?”

“Recon,” Topper said. Tell enough of the truth and they might leave him be.

“For what? Were you going to break in?”

“Friend of mine got picked up here. I was looking for him.”

“Not her?”

“Him. Name of Ernie.” Topper had a feeling this guy knew there was a connection between himself and Danny, and he wondered what she’d been up to. In the thick of things, probably. That being how she rolled. He decided he would deny knowing her, no matter what. Give her room to operate.

“Well enough,” the Architect said. “Bring him along.”

Then he went back outside, and Topper’s guards shoved him into motion. He followed, and they descended to the tracks. There, a pickup truck was waiting. It had ordinary tires, but they were mounted on special wheels that allowed the vehicle to travel on train tracks or roads. Very stylish, Topper thought. He loved vehicles of any kind, especially if they were specialized in some way. This thing would make an awesome touring car—travel on the tracks wherever they ran, avoiding the messy, disintegrating roads. And if the tracks were busted somewhere, drive off the rails and travel as if it were an ordinary truck.

His thoughts were interrupted when a gun stock was jammed between his shoulder blades and he was half-hoisted into the bed of the pickup. Six men got in with him, all of them keeping their eyes on his face. The Architect and a driver got up in the cab. Then they started the journey along the tracks. They rolled through the sheds behind the station, and a big gate was hauled open by men waiting at the edge of town; the truck drove through, the gates swung shut, and they were moving through the night.

The train tracks clung to the cliff’s edge for a while, skirting the foot of the mountain with the forest overhanging the rails. Then the route took a sickening turn out over the river, with a long drop into the darkness on both sides. This was the one bridge they hadn’t blown up. Then they were running along the foot of the cliff opposite, traveling north along the route of the river. Topper’s flesh was crawling. He could not imagine what they had in store for him. But if they tried to execute him in cold blood he was going to take at least two of them with him.

The canyon opened up ahead. He saw lights twinkling in the distance, and identical lights rippling below: water. They must be near the reservoir. Then the tracks crossed a broad concrete surface—the dam, Topper assumed—and even over the noise of the truck’s engine he could hear the rumble of big turbines. So those sheds on the deck of the dam must be where they generated the power. These observations passed through his mind in a jumble; at the same time, he was thinking about whether he’d survive a jump into the water, and what a beautiful night it was, and wondering how long it would take the snow to start falling. It was as if his mind was eager to stock up on mundane observations while it still could. He had a terrible feeling his head was going to part ways with the rest of him, and soon.

The truck rolled to a stop at a jetty built up next to the tracks. There
was a boat waiting there, a party barge on big pontoons: stable, safe, and slow. Probably something the resort kept around for guests. He was dumped without ceremony out of the truck, then manhandled down the wooden jetty and onto the boat. It seemed weirdly normal here, somehow. There were electric lights burning over the jetty, and here and there on top of the dam, and the resort island itself looked like Christmas. Lights everywhere. The barge’s engine started up, the Architect got on last and sat primly near the stern rail, and they puttered out across the still, black water. Topper saw there was a lot of ice on the lake, but it had been broken up to make way for the boat. The island itself looked welcoming—bright lights, windows glowing, lawns with light coats of snow throwing the window light back. There were winding paths through the landscaping with tiny lights planted every few feet.

They landed on an identical jetty on the island, and the Architect went a different way with his entourage. Topper was marched along the less-scenic route, a paved road that ran along the water’s edge, with paddleboats under tarpaulins lining the way. He still had four men holding guns on him. He might have tried something if his hands were free, but it was suicide as he was. So he allowed himself to be led, although keeping his eyes open for any avenue of escape. He could at least delay whatever they had in mind.

They circled a low hill that made up the bulk of the island. The biggest building, what must have been the resort hotel itself, stood on top of the hill and spread out in wings and additions down its flanks. It reminded Topper uncomfortably of the hotel in that old movie
The Shining,
like the carcass of a giant dinosaur punched full of windows. They came to a place where the hill had been cut away and the hotel came down to the same grade as the road. This was the service entrance where delivery trucks would have come. Big double doors, a concrete loading dock. The guards led Topper through an ordinary door set beside these, and all at once he was bathed in heat and light.