American Craftsmen (22 page)

Even as Bumppo fell and the report of her head shot faded, Scherie ran over to me. Her hands were on me; I felt their slight tremble. “How bad?”

“Bad enough,” I said. The morning’s supercharge of vitality was keeping me alive and coherent. I felt a cage of energy around the bullet in my shoulder, keeping the damage contained. It wouldn’t last. “I’ll hold together, and I know where to go.”

“I’ll get the bag,” said Scherie.

“No, don’t treat this yet,” I said. Sakakawea would be near. “Help me up. We need to get out of here before anyone else shows up.”

“OK. One second.” She went over to the dead Gideon and shoved her hands into his pockets.

“I wouldn’t (pant) do that.”

“Just want to check something.” She pulled out the Gideon’s cell phone. I smiled and shook my head.

“What?” asked Scherie.

“Later. Get us out of here first.”

She helped me up and poured me into the Malibu’s passenger seat. Damn thing was soaking up a lot of Morton blood. She squealed out of the parking lot. Steering one-handed, she flipped open the cell phone.

“That’s dangerous,” I said.

“Driving is the least of my worries … shit!” She dropped the phone between our seats. “That fucking hurt.”

“Craft protected,” I said. I fished it up, and tossed it out the window. “Also, a good tracking device.”

“Oh,” said Scherie. “Sorry, I should know that.”

“No harm. They’ll be able to track us anyway, but why make it easier for them. Anyway, I already know who he was calling.” Endicott. Or was it? I had lied in a similar vein to M before killing him. Wheels inside wheels.

“Where are we going?” asked Scherie.

“No choice now,” I said.

“Just tell me.”

“I can’t.” She looked angry and dubious. “For real this time. If I talk about it, it makes it too definite, and ruins it. I just have to show you.”

“Rough idea?”

“South and west. Into the mountains. From which cometh my aid.” Very dubious aid. We’d go see the Appalachian.

*   *   *

As Morton and Rezvani left the motel lot, they didn’t notice the light of a cigarette in a room that wasn’t 128, or 108, but 118. Through the room’s window, Sakakawea watched the Chevy Malibu peel out. She could let it get a head start; she had seen the car, and that was all the LoJack she needed.

She stepped outside and lightly strode toward the Porsche. She ignored dead Bumppo; survivors were her concern. She heard Carson groaning behind the Porsche; she heard police sirens in the distance, their Dopplered rising pitch closing in with mathematical precision.

She stood over Carson. There was much messy blood, but no immediately fatal damage. “He got you both.”

Carson looked up at her. “No, something else…”

Sakakawea wasn’t interested in excuses or Morton’s companion. But Carson thought he wasn’t finished. “Call 911.”

Tut, tut. He should know better. She couldn’t take him along and couldn’t let the local authorities have him. That left only one option.

She shot Carson. The bullet’s trajectory through his cortex would cut off his consciousness very efficiently—she was an artist. Then she trotted for her motorcycle in the alley area behind the southern building.
All working out quite well.
She relaxed and let her craft guide her steering. She needed to make two calls. First, a report to Endicott, perhaps the last she’d bother with.

The second call would wait; unlike young Endicott, her real boss was very, very patient.

*   *   *

Endicott answered the phone. It was Sakakawea. He could use some good news.

He didn’t get it. “Two trackers KIA in Pennsylvania. Need cleanup.” She gave him the GPS coordinates.

Shit, there’d be hell to pay. “KIA? How?”

“Target’s companion took them out,” she said. “It was Dale Morton, sir.”

Endicott chose not to acknowledge this fact. “Where is the target now?”

“I’m in pursuit.” The signal broke up. “… moving north by northwest. They may be going for Canada.”

“I’ll call in the cleanup. You continue to pursue, but do not engage. Keep me updated on target’s location.” He couldn’t let a Morton get across the border. “Understood?”

More signal breakup. “I repeat: communication may be difficult.”

“Take necessary measures to keep me informed. That’s a priority.”

He called the cleanup operation. Local law enforcement and media would be brought into line. Nothing he need concern himself with.

Except that this didn’t feel right. Hutch had asked questions about his Gideons before she had disappeared. Now he felt pressure not to be concerned. With Endicotts and pressure, better to give than to receive. He’d go there himself.

*   *   *

Two hours later, Endicott was at the Crossroads Motel. Bumppo’s and Carson’s bodies were bagged and in the ambulance. He wasn’t craft forensics; the people for that job were in the bags, or in pursuit. But this was conventional ballistics and physics, so he asked the mundane local to show him what had happened.

“I was told not to ask too many questions,” said the local.

“That’s right,” said Endicott. “Just answers will do.”

The local showed him where they had found the trackers and their blood splatters, and gave a guess to what the shooter had done. Endicott thought this was an easy story: Morton got the drop on Bumppo as he walked toward registration. Then, he used some craft to get a high gut shot off on Carson. He took his time, perhaps got ready to leave, before finishing Carson off with the head shot.

“That all?” asked Endicott.

“That’s all,” said the local. “There are some details, but we can sort those out later. We’ve got this under control.”

“Tell me about the details,” said Endicott.

The local fidgeted a bit. “Well, just for accounting purposes, we’ve recovered bullets that appear to have been fired from the victims’ guns. That leaves the bullets that shot the victims. By caliber and type of ammunition, those appear to have come from three different weapons.”

“OK,” said Endicott. “Maybe he had help.” It would be like Morton to play action hero with two guns, and his girlfriend could handle the third gun, though the gunfight story became a little harder to imagine. “What else?”

“They were playing musical rooms. When the shooting started, the shooter was on the other side of the motel from where he was supposedly staying.”

“Where was that?”

The local pointed. “Near room 128.” The door was still ajar. “The lock’s broken, but nobody home. Looks like the beds have been stripped.”

“Shit,” said Endicott. His easy story was melting away.
Something fubar this way comes.
Near the room and the trackers’ black sedan was a fancy Porsche. More cars than drivers. “What about the cars? Anyone check those?”

“We were going to take the sedan off-site.”

“Right. Get me something to force the trunks.” But Endicott didn’t wait. He walked over to the cars. The black sedan was unlocked with the keys in the ignition. He popped the trunk, and went around the car. Bodies. Two men.

He slammed the trunk shut. The Gideons hadn’t even looked before shooting. Why were there bodies at all? His orders had been clear. No killing.

Furious, he flipped open the phone to call Sakakawea. He got a Pentagon voice-mail box. He’d leave her a message she wouldn’t forget. He’d …

Do no such thing. Perhaps Sakakawea just had a reason for vengeance not in her skimpy file. Perhaps, just perhaps, Hutch had been right, and there were nonlies buried in Morton’s story. Either way, nothing Sakakawea said was likely to be true.

The bullshit was up to his waist now, if not higher. His one edge was that no one knew how much he knew. Until he knew more, it would have to stay that way. He trusted the general, but his father told everything to the great and powerful and mysterious Chimera, and that made Endicott itchy.

“Get both these cars off-site,” he told the local. “Follow the usual protocols with what you find in the trunk.”

“Yes, sir.”

Endicott stared at the gray horizon. He read the craft signature of this land loud and clear. Here, they’d blame any civilian deaths on hunting or sex. What would they blame his own sudden demise on? Oh, the difficulties of an upright life.

Perhaps he’d call in for sick leave. This was going to take a while. Investigating Chimera was at best a route to a swift discharge. So Endicott would take the other insubordinate path, and hunt for Morton himself. That would mean hunting the Red Death thing too. Endicott knew the quickest way to find them both. Though Sakakawea had no doubt lied to him about her direction, Endicott had other ways to follow her. He would track the tracker.

CHAPTER

FIFTEEN

My body had gone one step forward and a Texas two-step back. My shoulder was a playground for all the expected pain but surprisingly little blood, thanks to my surfeit of healing craft. I could feel all that energy burning off. Before my craft tank was empty, I needed a healer for serious regeneration. Regeneration, and another craft service that one healer in particular could provide.

The Appalachian of the Sanctuary. It would take all my concentration simply to get there, particularly if the Sanctuary and its guardian didn’t want me to show, which was likely. Hell, the Appalachian could be running this healing shell game.

If not the Appalachian, who was my guardian avenging angel? Why help me only to send a signal and get me killed? It had the marks of oracular craft scheming. If she weren’t dead, I’d blame Sphinx.
Sphinx, are you there? Hutch, where are you?
No answer. Instead, Grandpa and Dad were vividly manifest in the backseat, glaring at each other.

“Where do I go?” asked Scherie, snapping me back into the painful present.

“Are you OK?” I asked. Her aura was spiky with fading adrenalin.

“About killing that bastard who shot you?” asked Scherie. “Maybe I’ll feel bad later. But not now. So where do I go?”

No more leisurely strolling to the border. “Head toward West Virginia,” I said. The specific route didn’t matter. All roads led to the Sanctuary, if you already knew the way.

“I won’t allow this,” said Grandpa, nearly shouting, causing Scherie to veer. “You’re not to go to the Appalachian.”

“I agree,” said Dad, to my and Grandpa’s surprise. “Go anyplace else. Get another healer.”

“A Gideon is still trailing me,” I said. “Sakakawea will see where I’ve run, call in support, and get me. I need to get somewhere safe.”

“No matter what the cost to you and that place,” said Dad.

“You’re both sounding unusually loud and close to me, Dad,” I said. Dad was silent at this intimation of mortality. He couldn’t argue against the cold equations: the clock was running down for my healing.

“Can this wait until later?” asked Scherie. “It makes me nervous while I’m driving.”

“Soon,” I said. “I need some answers.” Sphinx had left me with one word. “What’s Chimera?”

“Chimera?” said Grandpa. “When I was young, Chimera was the name for craft code-breaking. There’s always been a bit of that, though the Brits were better at it in the old days.”

“Names like ‘Magic’ and ‘Enigma’ weren’t an accident,” said Dad.

I knew about how craft was used in code-breaking, even some of the history, but I hadn’t heard the Chimera cryptonym before. “Why would code-breakers want to kill me?” I said.

“Sphinx didn’t do that sort of work,” added Grandpa.

“I’m not blaming Sphinx anymore,” I said.

“Maybe you should,” said Dad.

“If you’ve got something to say, then just say it,” said Grandpa.

“Grandpa. Dad.” I had their attention again. “The brass thinks this is living Left-Hand Morton shit. But we killed all those inbreds, right?” Though he wouldn’t know firsthand, Grandpa wasn’t far removed from Joshua in the game of telephone with Family spirits that led all the way back to Thomas Morton.

“Bodies?” said Grandpa. “You want a body count? You’re worse than my superiors in ’Nam, telling us to extrapolate from scattered and burnt limbs. Joshua wrote it all down. Leaving aside the bodies he hacked himself, there were more parts than Mortons, all full of Left-Hand craft.”

“Not all Left-Hand,” noted Dad. “An insane Endicott was there with his sword. Not very discriminating.”

“Not that IDs would have mattered,” said Grandpa. “The whole point of the Left-Hand endeavor was survival in any form.”

“OK. So could a Left Hander have survived, had kids, restarted the family line?”

Dad shook his head. “If there were Left-Hand Mortons out there breeding, I think we would have known. But anyone can go Left-Hand, son.”

“Dale,” said Scherie, “you really should rest.”

She was right. I’d need my strength to reach the Sanctuary, and to enter it.

*   *   *

We drove into Appalachia. Written directions would be meaningless; as they say in the country, “you can’t get there from here.” A winding nameless road went up, down, up again. A growing mist obscured scenic vistas of exposed rock, wind-twisted trees, and deserted farmland. The road narrowed, speed slowed, the clock nearly stopped. Finally, our path dead-ended at a river precipice, with thick trees and brush all around.

“Fuck!” Scherie slammed her fists against the dash. Her eyes avoided me, staring ahead in resigned horror. “What now?”

I saw the way. “Straight ahead.”

“Dale, there’s just cliff.”

I chuckled. “I’m magic, remember?”

“This is different,” she said. “This is physics.”

“It’s hidden, like the car was. But it’s not far. If you want to get out of the car and follow on foot, that’s fine.”

Scherie swallowed. “No. I can do this.”

“Close your eyes, if that helps,” I said.

“No, that’d be crazy. Nice knowing you.”

She drove forward at a crawl. Just where the tires should have hit the drop off and begun their plunge toward the rocks, we felt a startling bump, and the rolling thud of wood beneath our wheels. A boundary of sensation, as uncertain as Heisenberg’s A-bomb plans, swept over us. It felt like passing through
A Grunt’s Guide to Bad Weather
—Valley Forge and Guadalcanal, Tunisian desert and South Carolina swamp—into a place that was always the Appalachian’s spring.