Giles Blunt: Crime Machine

Delorme was writhing on the ground. She was screaming again, but suppressing it so that it came out as a desperate growling.

Cardinal went to her. The iron clamps of a bear trap were closed on her shin.

“Try to hold still,” he said.

Cardinal was no hunter. He had never even seen a bear trap up close. He brushed snow away. The thing looked ancient, a malevolent jaw of black iron.

Delorme was hyperventilating, growling through her teeth.

Cardinal searched for a release mechanism amid the springs and levers. He found a loop of metal and pulled on it. It was rusty, but finally the long pin came free. He pulled the clamps apart and Delorme fainted, her head lolling to one side. Cardinal gently felt her shin. The break was palpable through her jeans.

Her face had gone white. That would be shock, the blood retreating from the extremities. The unconsciousness was merciful, but she was more vulnerable in this condition to hypothermia and frostbite.

Cardinal sat on his heels and pulled Delorme into a seated position so that her head hung down over her outstretched legs. He rubbed at her wrists and slapped her face lightly to bring the blood back.

She came to and vomited, choking. Cardinal turned her on her side and she cried out and vomited again, coughing into the snow. “Sorry,” she said. “Sorry. Oh, fuck, it’s bad, John.”

“We’re going to have to get you back to the trapper’s shack. I could try to carry you.”

“No. That would hurt worse.”

“Can you get up on one leg?”

Delorme grabbed a handful of snow, reaching past the steaming vomit, and washed it over her face. She took another small handful into her mouth.

“Pull me up.”

Cardinal got to his feet. He took off his glove and reached down. Delorme took off her mitten and put it in her mouth and bit down on it. Their hands locked together.

“On three,” Cardinal said. “One. Two…” On three he pulled hard and Delorme raised herself on her good leg, growling through the leather mitten.

She swayed against him and Cardinal thought she was going to faint again, but she didn’t. They arranged themselves so that Delorme had one hand on Cardinal’s shoulder and he had an arm around her waist. Every time she had to take a step, he held her tight, taking her weight.

Their tracks were already nearly obliterated. It took them more than half an hour to cover ground that had taken ten minutes. Delorme had to pause after each step and take deep breaths. Blasts of wind hurled the snow into their eyes, obscuring all but the few feet in front of them. Panic began to crash through Cardinal’s bloodstream. Finally the cabin came into view, pillowed in snow. It was boarded up, padlocked.

“Do you want to lie down while I try and open this place?”

“If I lie down, I’ll just have to get up again.” She leaned against a tree. Cardinal pulled her hood forward and fastened the snaps.

He examined the padlock. It was not the biggest lock he had ever seen, but he had nothing to bash it with. There was nothing under the overhang except firewood. He unzipped his parka and took out his Beretta. The first shot dented the lock. The second broke it open.

The shack wasn’t much, two tiny rooms with two bunks in each, a wood stove in the middle. Cardinal left the door open so he could see, and helped Delorme inside and onto the closest bunk. He wanted to ease her broken leg onto the bed, but she wouldn’t let him. She lay there, barely conscious, wrapped in her parka.

Cardinal went back out and pulled some firewood from the middle of the pile. He found a small hatchet and used it to split one of the logs into kindling. He primed it with some charcoal starter, lit it and closed the stove door.

Blankets were piled up on one of the bunks. Cardinal spread one over Delorme. He found a Coleman lantern that still had fuel in it and got it going. The cabin was lighter, but with the door closed and the windows boarded up, it still looked like midnight.

“You want me to try and take your boots off?”

Delorme didn’t open her eyes. Her cheeks were wet with melting snow. Cardinal got a towel, almost clean, and wiped off her face. Shadows pulsed around him.

There was nothing to do now but wait out the storm. He lay down on the other bunk and, without intending to, fell asleep.

“John. John, wake up.”

It was warmer now. He didn’t know how long he’d been asleep.

“John, wake up.”

He sat up and rubbed his face.

“I heard something.” Delorme spoke in an urgent whisper, as if someone might be listening. “Someone in trouble.”

Cardinal pulled on his boots.

The cry came again, muffled, all but lost in the wind.

“Must be close,” Cardinal said, “or we wouldn’t even hear it.”

Cardinal stepped out into the storm. Snow blew hard across the opening in his hood. He had no peripheral vision at all. He made his way back the way they had come as far as the broken birch. The cry came again. Cardinal strained to see through the snow. A dim flash of orange.

“Hold on there,” Cardinal called out. “Police.”

The figure came lurching toward him, yelling incoherently, a man in a hunter’s vest.

“It’s okay,” Cardinal said. “You’re okay. Police.”

“There’s a man. You have to help me. A man. He killed my brother. He killed him. He’s insane. He’s going to kill me too.” The man ran toward Cardinal, tripped and sprawled into the snow.

“Are you one of the Burwells?” Cardinal said.

“What?” The man was on his knees now, swaying, stunned. “Yes. Tony Burwell. Please, you have to help me. There’s a fucking lunatic out there. A bunch of them. They shot my brother. They tried to shoot me.”

“All right, you’re okay now.” Cardinal had drawn his Beretta, safety on. “Where’s this man?”

Burwell didn’t appear to hear him. He scrambled to his feet. “They took our wallets, they took our guns, they took everything. They killed my brother! Get me the fuck out of here!” The man broke into sobs. “Oh, Jesus…”

“It’s okay. You’re all right. There’s a cabin nearby.”

“Jesus, my brother. Fucking insane people out here.”

Cardinal led him to the cabin. The moment he opened the door, the man sank down in a corner and hugged his knees to his chest. “Shut the door, man. Shut the door. They’re gonna find us.”

“What happened?” Delorme said.

“Mr. Burwell was attacked, along with his brother. His brother’s dead.”

“You got to get me out of here,” Burwell said. He seemed unaware he was shouting. “I do not want to be here. Can’t you radio for a helicopter or something? I need to not be here.”

“There’s nothing flying in this weather. We’re just going to have to wait it out. Tell us how it happened.”

“Oh, God. We got lost. My brother and me. It was my fault. I was supposed to bring my GPS and I forgot-I just fucking forgot. We didn’t have a compass or nothing. Storm’s about to hit and we see a hydro wire. Follow it a ways until we come to this tiny lake. House on the far side. Like a real house, not a cabin. So we head for it and-Jesus, I still can’t fucking believe it-my brother ends up with his leg in a trap. Can you believe that? A fucking trap.”

“I can believe it,” Delorme said faintly.

“Go on,” Cardinal said.

“Oh, God.” The man squeezed his eyes shut. “Oh, God. I panicked. I just totally panicked.” He turned pleading eyes to Cardinal. “He was screaming. My brother was screaming and I was trying to figure out the trap and I couldn’t. I mean, I’ve never even seen a trap like that.

“So I run to this house, screaming and yelling for help, and bang on their door. Guy answers. Big guy, maybe fifty, fifty-five, and he’s got a gun in his hand. That should have clued me in right there.”