The Totem 1979 (41 page)

Abruptly the shotgun wasn’t there anymore. The kids had become so involved in their argument that they walked away, contemptuous of him, indifferent to whether he lived or died. As they disappeared into the storm, the kid with the shotgun rested it against his shoulder, the barrel projecting upward. And for a moment, just before they vanished, Slaughter-in his delirium-saw the shotgun turn into a hockey stick.

A passing patrol car happened to find him. Slaughter spent a week in intensive care, then four more weeks in the hospital while he recovered from two excruciating operations. His physicians told him that he’d nearly died from shock and loss of blood. The only reason he’d survived, they believed, was that his overcoat had provided a buffer against the full force of the blast. Otherwise, they concluded, he’d have been disemboweled.

After Slaughter was released from the hospital, the police department had given him a month’s leave and then a temporary desk job to ease him into his regular, hazardous duties. All the while, a department psychiatrist had counseled him. But the counseling didn’t help. Although Slaughter tried to hide his nervousness, the truth was that he’d had a breakdown. A nightmare kept haunting him, making him afraid to go to sleep because of the horrifying, snow-obscured image of the two kids aiming the shotgun at him-except that the kids would suddenly be wearing skates and goalie masks and the shotgun would be a hockey stick. With equal suddenness, the hockey stick would blow his head apart. Several times every night, Slaughter woke up screaming. When the department finally decided to see how he would perform if they sent him out on patrol, Slaughter flinched each time he heard the voice from the two-way radio sending him and his partner to a crime scene. As Slaughter’s breakdown worsened, he finally had to take another leave of absence, and his nerves weren’t all that had broken down.

So had his marriage. He was to blame, unwillingly, unable to control his temperament. At last, his wife couldn’t bear the strain of his outbursts and had asked him for a divorce. Bitter, but not at her, instead toward himself, Slaughter had agreed. Why not? he’d gloomily decided. I’m no good to her. I’m scaring the children. I can’t be any good to my family if I’m not any good to myself. Soon afterward, confused and desperate, he’d made the decision to put his past behind him, to go to Wyoming and the arbitrarily chosen town of Potter’s Field. His horses were a therapy for him, but he was terrible at raising them. The only thing he knew was being a policeman, and the day that old Doc Markle told him to apply for this position, Slaughter had been shocked by something in the old man’s eyes. The old man understood that Slaughter was a coward. Slaughter would have bet on that. “Go on. Try again,” the old man’s eyes had told him, and the old man had convinced him. Slaughter, with no option, had applied and gotten the job, and he had worked so hard at it because he meant to prove himself.

The bad part was that he had then ignored the man who saved him. Slaughter always told himself that he was just too busy to go see the old man, but the motive, he suspected now, was that he didn’t want to face the man who knew he was a coward. Oh, he was a coward, all right. Seeing Clifford, walking through that moonlit field, trapping that dead boy, and running from the figures near his house, he’d felt the old fear rising in him. Hell, he’d panicked in the field and at his house. He’d lost complete control. He didn’t understand now how he’d come this far. His bluff of manliness to all these friends, his arguments with Parsons. They were overcompensations, last attempts to keep his self-respect, because the one thing that he wanted was to get the hell away from here, to free himself from any need for strength and courage. Five years he had coasted. Parsons had been right. In fact the mayor had done him quite a favor. By imprisoning him, Parsons had relieved him of this burden. Slaughter silently was grateful. He had argued with the guards to let him free, but he had known there wasn’t any chance, so arguing was easy. But the dream of old Doc Markle had enlivened ancient guilt, and he was caught between conflicting notions. Stay here. It’s the safe place for you. Or find a way to get out. Prove that you’re still worth a shit. He told himself he didn’t have a choice. Regardless of his shame, he was imprisoned. Sublimate the shame. Get rid of it.

The night was deep upon him. Through the tiny windows high along one wall, he heard the howling and the shouting and the screaming outside. Thank God that you’re in here, that you’re safe. But he was growing angry at himself, at Parsons, at this trouble. He was just about to argue with the guards again. Although useless, that would help suppress his tension. Then the door swung open at the far end, and he stared as Rettig stepped in.

Both guards stood now, careful.

“Take it easy,” Rettig told them. “Watch out for those rifles, or you’ll maybe shoot your mouths off.”

They looked puzzled, shifting nervously. “You’re not supposed to be here,” one guard said.

“Oh, really? Well, I’ll tell the woman here to take the food back.” Rettig turned.

“Wait a minute. What food?”

“For the prisoners. They haven’t eaten.”

“No one fed us, either.”

“Well, I’m sorry I didn’t think of that.”

“Hey, you just bring the food in.”

“I don’t like this,” the second guard said.

“It’s only food, for Christ sake. What the hell, I’m hungry.”

‘Yeah, but they might pull a trick.”

“We’ve got the rifles. Bring the food in.”

“If you’re certain.” Rettig shrugged.

“Bring it in.”

“Okay then.” Rettig went toward the door and gestured.

Marge came in. She had two baskets. She looked at the five men in the cells and in particular at Slaughter. Slaughter tried to smile, but she seemed nervous, and the last few days had aged her. She had always borne her weight with pride, but now it sagged around her, and he couldn’t stop his sorrow for her.

“Hi, Marge,” Slaughter told her.

She just looked at him. “I thought you’d maybe like some food.” She sounded weary.

“Something wrong, Marge?”

“It’s the woman I hit.”

“What about her?”

“She died half an hour ago.”

Slaughter pursed his lips, glanced down at the floor, and nodded. Then he peered up at Marge. “I still think you did the right thing.”

“Do you? I wish I could be as certain. Nathan, I killed her.”

Slaughter didn’t know what to say.

“What’s in those two baskets?” the first guard asked.

“Sandwiches and coffee,” Rettig answered.

“That’s just fine. You bring them over to this table.”

“Hey, there’s plenty to go around. Don’t eat it all.”

“Who us? Why, we’ll be sure to throw them scraps from time to time. Don’t worry.”

Rettig frowned.

“I told you, don’t worry,” the guard said. “They’ll be fed. I promise.”

Rettig debated, then nodded, motioning for Marge to set the basket on the table.

“No, I don’t like this. Something’s wrong,” the second guard said. “They’re giving us this food too easily. What is it, drugged?”

“It’s only coffee and sandwiches,” Rettig said.

“And in a while we’ll be sleeping like babies. Hell, no, they eat this first. We’re not dummies.”

“If you say so.” Rettig picked up the two baskets, moving toward the cells as the second guard stopped him.

“No, we check it first.”

“You think we’ve got a hacksaw in the meatloaf?”

“How about a rifle up your nose, friend? First we check the basket.”

So they sorted through the sandwiches and looked inside the thermoses and shook them. Everything was fine.

“Okay, you stand back here while I distribute them.” The first guard walked past Rettig, left some sandwiches before each cell, set down plastic cups, and then the thermoses. “All of you listen. Just as soon as I step back, you can reach out for them. Since you’ve only got two thermoses, you’ll have to pass them to each other, but the moment you’re done pouring, put the thermoses back out in front where I can see them. I don’t want somebody throwing them.”

Slaughter kept his gaze on Rettig. “What about outside?” “Don’t ask. All the animals are going crazy. Everybody’s got their doors and windows locked. There’s random shooting. Prowlers. Two of our men have been wounded.” Slaughter shook his head. “We found two hippies by the stockpens.” Slaughter waited. “They’d been clubbed to death.”

And Slaughter made a gesture as if he didn’t want to hear any more. He glanced at Marge, then at the sandwiches and plastic cups and thermoses. He cleared his throat. “Well, listen, thank you, Marge.”

She didn’t answer, only started from the room. Slaughter looked at Rettig. “Hey, take care of her.” “You know it,” Rettig said, and then the two guards scowled at Rettig. “Yeah, okay, don’t get excited. I’m already gone.” Then Rettig scanned the cells and paused, and he was leaving. “See you, Chief.” “Take care now.”

The door was closed. The room became silent. The group studied the guards.

“Get started,” the first guard told them. “Let me see if the food’s been drugged. I’m hungry.”

Slowly they crouched. Slaughter was the last to reach out for the food. He chewed, his mouth like dust, the meatloaf sandwich tasteless.

“Here, I’ll pour the coffee.” Troubled by the shooting outside, he reached through the bars and unscrewed the cap on the thermos. He poured the coffee into several plastic cups and passed the cups along.

But one cup he was careful to keep only for himself.

Because as he had poured, a slender pliant object had dropped with it, splashing almost imperceptibly, so soft and narrow that it hadn’t rattled when the guard shook both the thermoses. He didn’t dare look around to see if anyone had noticed. He just went on as if everything were normal. Then he stood and leaned back on his bunk and chewed his sandwich, stirring with his finger at the coffee. This he knew. He wasn’t going to drink the damned stuff, although he did pretend to, and then his finger touched the object. It was like a worm. He felt it, long and slender, pliant. But what was it? For a moment, he suspected that it was an explosive, but that wouldn’t do much good because there wasn’t any way to set it off. Besides, the noise would draw attention. Rettig wouldn’t give him something that he couldn’t use. This wasn’t plastique then, so what else could it be? He leaned to one side so that no one saw him as he picked the object from the coffee, glancing at it, dropping it back in the coffee. It was red, just like the worm he had imagined. But he couldn’t figure what it was or how to use it.

“Christ, this coffee’s awful,” Dunlap muttered.

“Just shut up and drink,” the first guard told him. “I was right,” he told the second. “The food’s been drugged. They’ll soon be asleep.”

“Or worse.”

“That’s all we need. Well, they can throw up all they want to. I’m not going in to help them. You remember that,” he told the prisoners. “If anybody’s sick, he’s on his own.”

They set down their plastic cups.

“It’s true. This coffee’s rotten,” Dunlap said.

“Don’t drink it then,” the medical examiner said.

The first guard started laughing.

Slaughter stood and walked to the bars. “Well, I don’t know what’s wrong with the rest of you, but this coffee tastes just fine to me. If you don’t want it, pass the other thermos down.”

“Be careful, Slaughter,” Owens told him.

“I know what I’m doing. Hell, I’m thirsty.”

“Suit yourself.” From the far end, Lucas passed the thermos down. They moved it, hand to hand, along the cells, and Slaughter set it by the thermos he had poured from.

“I’ll save this for later.”

“If you’re not too sick,” the second guard told him, grinning.

“You don’t know what you’re missing.”

“I think you’ll show us soon enough.”

Slaughter shrugged and went back to his bunk, pretending that he sipped and liked the coffee. “All the more for me.” And he was yawning. As he lay back in his bunk, he wondered if another worm was in the second thermos and if he would figure out what it was and how to use it. On the wall, the clock showed half past midnight.

Chapter Nine.

In the barricade, Altick waited. He and his men had been hearing noises for some time, but that was normal. Night sounds in the forest. Animals come out to hunt or graze or simply wander. Coyotes howling. Nightbirds singing. There had been no evidence of danger. They had formed a circle within the barricade and stared out toward the darkness, reassured by what from all signs was another pleasant night spent in the mountains. Then the noises stopped completely, and the men inhaled, their stomachs rigid.

Silence in the mountains was something to be afraid of. One man jerked. An antelope or something big like that was suddenly charging down a wooded slope, its hoofbeats thundering, as if in panic to escape what chased it. There was scurrying through bushes, branches snapping, and abruptly the night became silent again, and they were sweating.

Altick tapped the man beside him. In the almost perfect fullness of the moon, the other man could see Altick pointing. Over to the left, a sound so vague, so indistinct that maybe it was only their imagination. Over to the right, another sound, and now there wasn’t any question. Something cautiously approached them. From the forest on the far edge of the barricade, leaves brushed. Then a twig broke, and whatever was out there had encircled them.

Now take it easy, Altick thought. Three things out there can’t encircle you. But then he heard a subtle fourth and then a fifth and howling.

‘Jesus.”

The howling wasn’t like wolves or coyotes. It was unlike anything Altick had ever heard, first from the woods before him, then behind him, then no longer singly but in concert all around him. He remembered how the enemy had tried to spook him with their noises like this back in Nam. They’d shout or laugh or play rock and roll. Sometimes they’d talk in English.

But this howling. He’d never heard anything like it. Hoarse and crusty. At the same time, high-pitched and strident. Altick told himself that in Nam he’d endured about the worst thing that a man could live through. This could surely be no worse than that.