Chaingang

34

WHITETAIL POND

There was a three-man team in the car. There were four cars full of agents on the case, one on his cabin, one on Mary's house, one cruising, and this one at the pond. They'd been parked there since four in the afternoon, and everybody was bored, restless, and coffeed out. The replacement car would be a couple of hours more.

“I gotta take a piss,” the man on the passenger side in the front seat said, and cracked the door, walked over to the road ditch, and urinated noisily into the weeds. They were parked on the road overlooking the Perkins cabin.

“Any more jelly doughnuts?” the one in the backseat asked.

“Nope,” the driver said, yawning. “Wish these fuckers would show. I'd like to whack somebody."

“I can dig it,” the one in the backseat said, stretching.

The man who'd had to pee got back in the car, and it was then that Royce came around the bend in the road and saw the flash of light when the car door opened.

“Somebody's up there,” he said.

“Where?"

“Above the cabin.” He pointed. “I saw a light flash. We've probably got company. They're probably in the cabin, too.” He was so calm-sounding, he surprised himself.

“Who do you think it is?"

“The Avon lady?” he said, trying to make a joke and succeeding beyond his wildest dreams. Both of them giggled like schoolkids.

“You're such a zany guy,” she said.

“I really am.” There were limits to how scared you could get. Apparently they had found theirs, because he drove back around the pond and parked about 150 yards from the top of the hill.

“What are you going to do?” she whispered.

“Probably get my ass killed.” Mary just looked at him as he took the wire and the pliers and the grenade and quietly closed the car door. “Stay here. I'll be back."

She didn't say anything. Be careful stuck in her throat. He was gone.

Royce came up out of the bushes as silently as he could, very worried about his breath. It was so loud. His breathing sounded like an antique bellows. Thankful that the woods came nearly flush with the edge of the road ditch, he came out of the woods slow and low, trying to keep the left rear corner post of the car between himself and where the driver was sitting. It was pretty dark, and he was counting on luck.

If one of them in the car turned or if the driver looked in one of his mirrors at the wrong moment ... well, what was the point in worrying? He had to force himself out of the safety of the ditch, hurting his hands and knees on the rocks and finally making it to the car. It occurred to him it would be just about his luck to have them start the engine about that time. He could hear small talk through the open windows of their vehicle.

He got the grenade wedged between the underside of the bumper and the gas tank, feeling his hands sweat as he attached the wire to the ring that pulled the cotter pin out. He'd already put a twist in the thin wire at the other end. Now was the tough part.

He tried to slowly peel some of the duct tape from his arm, where he had the little Legionnaire Boot Knife taped in place. It made way too much noise and he took what he had and secured the wire and the grenade as best he could.

Taking a deep breath and clenching his jaws, he crawled back into the ditch, found a root that he trusted, and fastened the wire around it. Would this work? He had no idea. Maybe he should just throw the thing in the car. Too late for that now.

The hairiest part of all was the four or five feet from the ditch back into the woods. It seemed to take about half an hour, and the whole time he felt the gunshot—imagining what his scream would sound like when the first bullet hit his back.

He made it, though, and he and Mary were going to come out of the thing okay—one way or the other. He promised her that, starting the old Ranchero and heading back toward Maysburg. He didn't want to be around when they decided to move that car up on the hill. He didn't even want to know about it. He'd also found the limits of his curiosity.