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In her left hand Bry
Michelle looked at her. “I can’t. Not with your hands there.” Michelle had about an eight-inch target on the back edge of the knife. A miss could crush one of Bry
“We don’t have any choice.”
“I could break your fingers.”
“Go ahead. Don’t tap. Hit hard. Come on, do it!”
The young woman took a deep breath. She lifted the rock. Then grimaced, exhaled and swung the stone in a blur.
Whether it was headed for Bry
Snap.
Michelle hit the blade clean, driving it through the metal and cutting off a two-inch bit of needle.
Which spiraled through the air and disappeared in a shadowy sea of leaves near the stream.
“No!” Michelle cried, starting forward.
“Don’t move,” Bry
“It’s too dark. I can’t see anything. Damnit.”
“Shhhh,” Bry
“We need the lighter.”
Bry
Again, the bywords for the evening came to mind: no choice.
“Here.” Bry
Michelle hobbled off. “Ready?” she whispered.
“Go.”
A click and the flame blossomed. It was far brighter than she’d expected. Anybody within a hundred yards could have seen.
Bry
There! Something was shiny. Was that it? Bry
A second possibility turned out to be a streak of mica in a rock.
But finally Bry
The area went soot black-even darker now because the light had numbed their eyes. Bry
Michelle crouched. “Can I help?”
“Not yet.”
The young woman sat down, crossed her legs and fished the crackers out. She offered them to Bry
After an eternal five minutes she said, “Let’s try it. I need some thread. Something thin.” They unraveled a strand from Bry
Bry
“It works!” Michelle blurted, giving her first true smile of the night.
Bry
“But which end’s north and which’s south?”
“Around here the high ground’s generally west. That’d be to the left.” They shut the lighter out and after their eyes were accustomed to the dark Bry
Bry
Curious, she thought, how much reassurance she’d gotten by making this little toy. Kristen Bry
Queen of the Jungle.
THE DANCE.
What Hart called it.
This was a part of the business and Hart was not only used to dancing, he was good at it. Being a craftsman, after all.
A month ago. Sitting in a coffee shop-never a bar; keep your head about you-he’d looked up at the voice.
“So, Hart. How you doing?”
A firm handshake.
“Good. You?”
“I’m okay. Listen, I’m interested in hiring somebody. You interested in some work?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. So how do you know Gordon Potts? You go back a long ways?”
“Not so long.”
“How’d you meet him?” Hart had asked.
“A mutual friend.”
“Who’d that be?”
“Freddy Lancaster.”
“Freddy, sure. How’s his wife doing?”
“That’d be tough to find out, Hart. She died two years ago.”
“Oh, that’s right. Bad memory. How does Freddy like St. Paul?”
“St. Paul? He lives in Milwaukee.”
“This memory of mine.”
The Dance. It went on and on. As it has to.
Then two meetings later, credentials finally established, the risk of entrapment minimal, the dancing was over and they got down to details.
“That’s a lot of money.”
“Yeah, it is, Hart. So you’re interested?”
“Keep going.”
“Here’s a map of the area. That’s a private road. Lake View Drive. And there? That’s a state park, all of it. Hardly any people around. Here’s a diagram of the house.”
“Okay…This a dirt road or paved?”
“Dirt…Hart, they tell me you’re good. Are you good? I hear you’re a craftsman. That’s what they say.”
“Who’s they?”
“People.”
“Well, yeah, I’m a craftsman.”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m curious. Why’re you in this line of work?”
“It suits me,” he’d said simply.
“It looks like it does.”
“Okay. What’s the threat situation?”
“The what?”
“How risky’s the job going to be? How many people up there, weapons, police nearby? It’s a lake house-are the other houses on Lake View occupied?”
“It’ll be a piece of cake, Hart. Hardly any risk at all. The other places’ll be vacant. And only the two of them up there, the Feldmans. And no rangers in the park or cops around for miles.”
“They have weapons?”
“Are you kidding? They’re city people. She’s a lawyer, he’s a social worker.”
“Just the Feldmans, nobody else? It’ll make a big difference.”
“That’s my information. And it’s solid. Just the two of them.”
Now, in the middle of Marquette State Park, Hart and Lewis circled around a dangerous stand of thorny brush. Like a plant out of a science fiction movie.
Hart reflected sourly, Yeah, right, just the two of them. Feeling the ache in his arm.
Angry with himself.
He’d done 95 percent.
It should’ve been 110.
At least they knew they were on the right path. A half mile back they’d found a scrap of tissue with blood on it. The Kleenex couldn’t’ve been there for more than a half hour. Hart now paused and gazed around them, noted some peaks and a small creek. “We’re doing fine. Be a lot tougher without the moonlight. But we’ve caught a break. Somebody’s looking out for us.”