Andrew Vachss - Dead and Gone

Finally, we came to what looked liked a little spur, just a place where the road swung out and widened a bit. But the Indian slowed even more, and soon there was no road at all … just a clearing. And that’s where he brought the Land Rover to a halt.

“Are we—?” Gem started to ask. I made a hand gesture for her to be quiet. It was the Indian’s call; no point pretending otherwise.

He climbed out, walked around the front of the Land Rover as he had before, and released his dog. At his signal, we got out, too.

“It’s about three klicks,” he said to me, the vaguest trace of a question in his voice.

“Let’s go, then,” I said, shouldering my duffel and picking up Gem’s little suitcase in my right hand.

The Indian went back to the Land Rover and took out a scoped rifle from somewhere. He slipped the sling on and started off without another word.

The walk felt like a fucking treadmill—a greasy one. All slippery low grass and dirt. Gem kept up with me easily, but gave up trying to take her bag from me after a few attempts.

We finally came to a Y-shaped intersection, and the Indian called a halt. I flopped down gratefully, ignoring a look from Gem.

The Indian took a strip of what looked like beef jerky out of his coat and made a soft whistling sound. The dog trotted over to him and sat expectantly. The Indian tossed the strip and the beast caught it easily, then walked off a short distance, tail wagging. He found a spot that suited him, lay down, held the strip between his paws, and went to work on it.

The Indian pulled a single cigarette out of his breast pocket and lit it. It was unfiltered, with a dark-yellow wrapper; leaf or paper, I wasn’t close enough to tell.

A hawk soared overhead.

The Indian finished his smoke, carefully pinched off the glowing tip, then shredded the tiny bit that remained between the fingernails of one hand, dropping the result into the palm of the other. He held that hand high, opening it as a bolt of breeze came through, scattering the traces.

I rested my head on Gem’s thighs. It was out of my hands.

The Indian sat on the ground cross-legged. He unslung his rifle and laid it across his knees. It had a heavy, fluted barrel, and the stock was obviously fiberglass, colored in broad bands of black and gray. Not a camo-pattern, almost a geometric design. I tried to figure out what kind of rifle it could be, but my eyes kept losing its outline. That’s when I figured out the black-and-gray banding was no accident.

“That’s an unusual-looking piece,” I told him, trying for engagement again.

“It wasn’t built for looks,” he said.

“Remington 700?” I guessed, thinking of Wesley.

“It’s a .308 Bedeaux.”

“I never heard of—”

“It’s custom,” he said. “The man whose name’s on the barrel, he tunes them. And he’s the best in the world at it.”

“Minute-of-angle?” I asked him.

The Indian wasn’t impressed with my knowledge. Or my standards. “Less,” he said. “This one’ll ten-inch group at thirteen hundred meters.” He raised his eyebrows slightly. “You believe that?”

I wondered if he was testing again. Decided it didn’t matter. “I wouldn’t know,” I told him, truthfully. “I never really handled a rifle for serious.”

“I thought you worked jungle, once.”

I wondered if there was anything Lune hadn’t told this guy.

“Sure. Jungle, not plains, or mountains. And I was never a sniper, anyway.”

“What’d you carry?”

“Over there?”

“Yeah.”

“Whatever I could pick up. There was no resupply chain. Time I got on the ground, whatever anyone carried over there, it was like a fucking Bic lighter, understand? Runs out of fuel, you throw it away, look for another.”

“You work close-up, anyway, don’t you?” he said. It wasn’t a question. And I guess there wasn’t anything Lune hadn’t told him.

I just nodded.

“I apologize for my lack of politeness,” Gem said, suddenly. “You already know my husband’s name. I am Gem.”

“I am Levi,” the Indian replied, nodding his head just short of a bow, as Gem had done. Then, to me: “I didn’t know you were married.”

“Lune and I haven’t been in touch for a while,” I said.

A trace of a smile played across the Indian’s face. “Lune is always in touch,” he said. “That’s what he does.”

“May I offer you some water?” Gem asked him.

“Do you always carry water in your luggage?” he asked, an undercurrent of approval in his voice.

“Always.”

“No, thank you,” he said, almost formally. “But if you …”

Gem reached over, unzipped her bag, took out a plastic bottle of water, handed it to me. I took a couple of grateful sips, handed it back. She glugged down about half the bottle.

The Indian’s eyebrows rose a fraction.

“You should see her eat,” I told him.

Then I felt someone behind me.

They entered the clearing in a pincers movement—bracketing Gem and me, standing at an angle so they could watch us and the Indian at the same time. As they came closer, I could see they were both women, dressed exactly alike in padded camo-pattern jumpsuits. They were carrying exactly alike, too: backpack straps over their shoulders … and pump-action shotguns in their hands. The resemblance stopped there. The one closest to Gem was tall, slightly plump, and rosy-cheeked, with her cornsilk-blond hair in twin braids. I named her Heidi, in my mind. The other was a dark-complected, raven-haired Latina, a half-foot shorter than her partner.

“All right?” Heidi asked the Indian.

“He is who he is supposed to be.”

“And her?” the Latina asked, gesturing at Gem with the barrel of her shotgun.

“Wild card,” the Indian said. “He trusts her.”

“Get up,” the Latina told Gem.

I measured the distances with my eyes. The Latina looked quicker, the blonde more solid. I had to get one of them between me and the Indian if—

“Easy!” the Indian warned her off, reading my body language like it was a billboard. “It’s not what you think,” he said to me, his voice calm. “We weren’t expecting her. You know that. Lune trusts you. He doesn’t know her. You vouching for her … Well, no offense, but any man can be fooled.”

“Especially a man,” the Latina said.

“So what we need to do now is to search … Gem,” the Indian continued. “I promise you it will be as dignified as possible. And that, if we find weapons, it will not mean anything. But if we find a transmitter. Or a recording device …”

“I understand,” Gem said, getting slowly to her feet and facing the Latina as if the shotgun was a bureaucratic annoyance.

The Latina turned and started walking off, Gem following. And the blonde following Gem.

It took much longer than I thought it would. I made some no-content conversation with the Indian, forcing myself to not listen for a shotgun’s roar.

When they came back, the shotguns were pointed at the ground. The blonde went over to the Indian, unhooked a canteen from her knapsack, and handed it to him. He took a long drink. And then I understood why he had refused Gem’s offer earlier.

Each of the women took out a padded jumpsuit similar to the ones they were wearing from their knapsacks. The Latina handed one to Gem, the blonde to me.

“Ready to go?” the Indian asked, once we’d climbed into the suits.

“Yes,” I told him.

The blonde picked up my duffel. The Latina took Gem’s little suitcase. I didn’t say a word.

The Indian waved his hand. The dog jumped to its feet and ran over to him.

Then we all started walking.

After a couple of hours, I was grateful the women were carrying all the gear. When the Indian finally held up his hand for us to stop, we were right next to a fence that was mostly concealed by vegetation. He checked his compass, walked to his right along the fence line, and stopped again. He showed us a gap someone had cut in the fence. If he hadn’t shown me, I never would have spotted it.