Chapter 18
I could hear them talking as they came.
“That son of a bitch. I get my hands on him he’ll be sorry he was born.” It was Ollie. His voice sounded like pulling a rasp over sheet metal.
“Could’ve been just a mistake,” Stan said in a more reasonable voice.
“And it could’ve been he saw the Indian and is going to get help. We need to finish this and finish it soon.”
“The Indian’s not going to break.”
“We bust a few more bones he will.”
“That’s what you said about Crispin. Look where that got us. And once we have the pack, we still have to get out of here. Are you going to guide us?”
“Don’t we have a map somewhere? Anyway, getting that pack is what’s important. Goddamn devil’s ass.”
Odd things go through your mind as you’re waiting to bash someone’s head in.
With the paddle gripped in my hands and the two men approaching, I was thinking about the juxtaposition of Paternoster—Our Father—with all the formations surrounding me in that moment, formations that had been named for the Devil.
As I look back on it now, it seems to me to be an indication of balance.
Good exists to keep evil at bay. Evil exists to test the will of the good.
My own belief is that the good usually has the upper hand, otherwise we’d have killed ourselves off as a species long ago.
I like to think that I belong in the camp of the good.
But what I was contemplating in those moments before the two men landed was about as gruesome as it gets.
It would be for the right reason, which was to save the life of my friend and my life as well.
However, if I was successful, two men might well be dead, their heads cleaved by the blade of a paddle.
To be honest, I’ve killed before, but always in the heat of an exchange of gunfire that I did not initiate.
What I was contemplating now seemed pretty much like cold-blooded murder.
But it was them or us, totally justified.
Or is that simply what we tell ourselves in the moment before we do the Devil’s work?
I peered from behind the tent. They were coming way too fast at the shoreline.
Although they should have aimed for the flat rock, they were headed directly for a long section of a fallen pine whose shattered crown was like the end of a spear with multiple sharp points.
The canoe was Kevlar, lightweight but susceptible to damage if mishandled.
And these guys had no idea how to handle a canoe.
“Left!” Stan in the bow shouted.
“I’m trying, goddamn it!”
“We’re going to hit!”
And they did. Plowed right into all those sharp points on the crown of the tree. They hit with a sound that told me they’d probably breached the hull.
“Jesus,” Ollie said. “You couldn’t put your paddle out to stop us?”
“I think we broke the canoe,” his brother said. “There’s water coming in.”
“Get out before we sink.”
It was like watching two of the Three Stooges. They both ended up in the lake, the canoe tipped on its side. They splashed toward the flat rock. And that’s when I attacked.
I had just spent some time contemplating the balance of good and evil. Maybe I should have spent that time thinking instead about the consequence of unforeseen circumstances. Are these things random? Do they just happen? Or is there a reason even the best-laid plans go awry?
Everything was looking good for me to take down the two brothers. They were ripe for the picking, struggling to come out of the lake, their focus on their own situation, not paying any attention at all to what might come at them from the shore.
But as I stood to make my charge, I heard a deep groan at my back, then felt the bulk of Cordell stumble against me, causing me in turn to stumble.
I fell out into the open, no longer hidden by the tent.
Although I scrambled to get up and still press the attack, I’d lost the advantage of surprise.
By the time I rose, paddle in hand, ready to run at them, Ollie had got himself half out of the water and was pointing a gun at me.
“If you don’t drop that oar, I’ll kill you where you stand.”
He was holding a Glock. Even if it had been doused in the lake, it would still do the trick.
“It’s called a paddle,” I said.
“And this,” he said, nodding toward his Glock, “is called you’re fucked.”
His brother joined him and they stood eyeing me.
“Told you he saw the Indian,” Ollie said.
“What’re we going to do with him?”
“Kill him, just like we did Crispin.”
“Then you’ll never find the devil’s asshole,” I said.
That got them. They both approached me. Although they were sopping wet, they’d somehow managed not to lose their headgear. Stan in his ball cap stopped a few feet from me.
“What do you know about it?”
“I know I sent you on a wild goose chase.”
From behind me, I heard Cordell call out weakly, “Don’t tell them anything, Cork!”
“Cork?” Ollie said. He glanced at his brother. “Maybe we should shoot him, throw him in the lake, see if he floats.” He laughed himself silly over that one.
“You killed Crispin and where did that get us?” Stan said. “We kill this guy, maybe we lose any chance of finding the pack.”
“I’m telling you, I should just shoot him now,” Ollie said.
“Tell us about the devil’s asshole,” Stan said.
“I’ll make a deal with you,” I said.
“You’re in no position to bargain,” Ollie said.
“I think I am,” I said. “I know what you’re looking for. It’s a good place to hide a pack. I’ll get that pack for you, but I want to know what’s in it first.”
“Won’t do you any good.”
“Why? Because you’ll kill me after you get it? That would be a really stupid idea.”
Stan said, “And why’s that?”
“Because I know how to get you back to civilization. Without me, you could wander out here till you starve to death. Or get set on by a pack of wolves. Or attacked by a bear.”
They eyed each other, silently mulling over my proposition, then Stan turned to me and said, “All right. But we tie the Indian up first, then talk.”