David Dun - At The Edge

"I want to go at six a.m. I don't know when I'll be back."

"Call me when you get the exact departure time."

''What about the chemist and the bat guy? You mentioned that Patty McCafferty was working on it."

''She is. I'd like to go in person and talk to these people."

"How about the Corey Schneider gal?"

"I talked with the fund-raiser and got her to call Schneider."

"So what did she say: 'Where were you on the morning of June fifteenth?'"

"No, no. They got all cozy. Schneider offered a small donation. Small for Schneider at least. She likes to donate to the legal-defense fund for sit-in protesters that have been arrested. Anything in-your-face she likes."

"So what happened?"

"Well, Penny gave her the inside scoop that we were supposed to get a big donation, but it never arrived. Penny said there was even a rumor that it was stolen by a woman. Then Penny said this: "The only woman I know who would be gutsy enough to pull that off would be you.' There was a silence on the line, then Schneider said, 'Couldn't have been me because I was at the conference in Portland.' I checked and she was there. Several people saw her at the beginning and the end, and she was registered. So I'll see you at the plane, you just tell me when."

Damn. Maybe they could somehow avoid flying over the area where Anderson was logging. With luck, they could fly low, straight to the compound.

Regrettably, Corey Schneider wasn't a whore. Oddly, Groiter had always been attracted to her.

Now as he sat looking at the wooded drive that led to her house, he thought carefully about his plan. It had amazed him that Corey's extended family had spoken with him so freely. But then it was a long time ago and she hadn't spoken to them in years.

The attorneys had become even more aggressive and were amassing quantities of information. Although he didn't admit it to Kenji, at this point no one really knew what they knew. Now they were going to fly over the compound taking pictures. Kenji had been furious about that. His failure to locate the device until just prior to landing the helicopter had been an incredible blunder, and Groiter knew it. Now was not the time to make a similar mistake.

He was driving a Mercedes with heavily tinted glass.

Taking his foot from the brake, he let the big car roll down the redwood-lined lane, until he came to a barely graveled and mostly overgrown side road. Turning off the motor, he coasted down it, listening to the barely audible sound of his tires crunching little stones and later the duff of the forest floor. He put on his full-face knit headpiece and donned a ski mask that left no hint of his hair or his skin revealed.

The small dead-end forest road, partially grown over with young alder sprouts, ended in a patch of wild blackberries. He decided that this was a good place to leave the car. His mother's favorite berry patch back in Germany looked much like this. While his mother picked for a pie, he and his brothers would eat their fill and play hide-and-seek amongst the thorns. Those were easier days.

When he stepped from the car the ground was soft with moisture. There was a chill in the air because the coastal fog was at least 20 road miles farther inland than usual this morning. The green of the forest had grown in an arch over the little road, and even if there had been sun it would have been obscured. Usually a stranger to the forest, Hans didn't like being surrounded by a thousand hiding places.

Just through the woods from Ghost Lane, as he now called it, he knew he would find the home of Corey Schneider. But this forest was somewhat problematic. He was near enough to the coast that the cut-over second-growth forests contained a fair number of dense brush patches. Using his compass to do a little figuring, he deduced that one such thicket lay directly in the line of travel.

Flipping the brass compass shut, he was pondering whether to avoid the brush by going left up a hill, or right down into a gulch, when he felt something at the back of his head. He knew it was a gun-even before he heard her words.

"Put your hands on your head. Berry pickers don't come out here in a Mercedes with new leather."

The thought that she had walked up on him so easily terrified him. She was good.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance."

"That won't last," she said dryly. "Now take off the head gear."

"Once I do that, you'll have to die. You know there's an endless supply of guys like me."

"I should worry that they'll send another dumb shit in a Mercedes, followed by another? What are you doing here?"

"I came to talk to you."

"With a mask and a gun?"

"Next time I'll bring flowers."

"You're the Kraut on the phone, aren't you?"

"What phone?"

"Imagine having your scrotum slit open, your eyes gouged out, and your tongue rolled around in garlic, onion, and flour, then fried in olive oil. Can you picture that?"

"What's your point?"

"I'm serving a blind man's tongue and balls with tartar sauce if I don't get some answers. And you're going to eat them one little piece at a time."

"Next question."

Suddenly his head felt like it had exploded. A few seconds disappeared on him, and he was on his knees with blood wetting his stocking cap. His temple throbbed and he felt nauseated.

A voice whispered in his ear. "I say when the next question comes. First you answer the last question or I'm gonna string you up and I'm going to take this knife-" Through blurred vision he could see a wicked-looking skinning knife with a long, curved blade turning slowly in her hand. "-and I'm going to cut you where the sun don't shine."

His head spun and he felt like he might lose consciousness. He didn't doubt that she would do everything she threatened, and more. Up until this moment his fright had been tempered. Being a cautious and thorough man, he had hired Garcia, a cocky young Spaniard, to watch his back. Garcia always rode a motorcycle unless the job required a car. Suddenly it occurred to him that if Garcia hadn't arrived by now, perhaps she had somehow found him first

"Maybe we could make a deal," he said, stalling for time.

"I'd rather watch her cut your balls off," a voice interjected.

Hans could feel Corey Schneider whirl. By the time he got turned around, he saw Garcia with a submachine gun leveled at Corey's middle. Corey's gun was aimed in Garcia's direction, but his body was almost completely bidden behind a tree.

"Drop the gun," Hans said. "That Uzi will saw you in half and we won't be able to have our little talk."

Corey Schneider dropped the gun.

Hans shook his head, trying to get rid of the dizzy feeling. Slowly he stood. "It would be pointless to beat the shit out of you," he said. "But I'm going to do it anyway."

Corey never actually lost consciousness, but she became confused and sick. She couldn't recall how many times she'd thrown up. There was something scientific about the beating. It was calculated and brutal, but not deadly and not disfiguring. Most of the blows, other than a dozen open-handed slaps, were delivered to her torso and kidneys. At first she could tighten her muscles as a means of protection, but eventually she was a lifeless punching bag. She craved unconsciousness, but it wouldn't come.

There was an intermission to this beating when they marched her to the house. It resumed in her living room, where she noticed that she felt hot, as if she had a fever. Oddly, she recalled being grateful that there was no blood. When they stopped, she was lying facedown on the couch with one hand touching the floor. It was her father's plaid couch, and the crisscrossing of the red and greens seemed to add to her nausea. She closed her eyes. Letting her mind wander down her right arm to her hand, she didn't think anything was broken. She did the same for the left arm lying at her side.