As if conjured with invocations and pentagrams, another coyote slunk out of the darkness, close behind the first. And then a third.
Backing away, Jackie said, “Scare them off, George.”
The shooter fired a round in the air, but the animals weren’t frightened.
From the deep dark and the tall grass, a fourth coyote, a fifth, a sixth, a seventh materialized.
The rifleman, who was the driver, got behind the wheel of the Suburban, and the slam of his door triggered the retreat of the other men to the safety of the vehicle.
Now that he was the only prey remaining, Tom Bigger expected the pack to turn on him, but their attention remained fixed on the three occupants of the SUV.
For a minute or two, the driver waited, surely expecting the coyotes to roam away into the night. But the seven maintained their vigil, eerily still.
Through the windshield, Tom could see the two men in the front seat, the third leaning forward from behind them. They appeared to be arguing.
The driver released the emergency brake, put the Suburban in gear, and pulled onto the highway. He drove south, back the way he had come.
Tom watched until the taillights dwindled from view.
He took the unloaded pistol from under his waistband, held it at his side, and walked north.
The coyotes accompanied him through the moonlight, three ahead of him, one on each side, and two behind.
So high that the sound of its engines didn’t reach the earth, a jet transited the sky from west to east, and for Tom its lights signified that his journey, too, would continue, must continue.
After a quarter of a mile, the coyotes moved away from him in single file, diagonally across the blacktop.
He stopped to watch them leave.
One by one, the seven leaped across a drainage swale beyond the farther shoulder of the highway, eastbound as silently as the jet, and vanished into a moonlit meadow.
He did not know what to think of them.
After they were gone, he walked north again for about a mile, until he came to a small stone bridge over a currently dry creek. He took off his backpack and placed it on the waist-high wall of the bridge.
He put away the pistol. From the upper compartment of the pack, he took one of the six bottles of tequila, each of which was wrapped in its own stuffsack.
Two cars appeared in the south, but the thugs were not returning with reinforcements. A sedan and a pickup swept past without slowing.
Tom twisted the cap, broke the tax stamp, opened the pint. He brought it to his nose and inhaled.
The aroma made his mouth water and his stomach flutter with anticipation. The shakes took him, so he held the tequila with both hands.
After he stood there for a while, perhaps for five minutes, he screwed the cap back on the bottle. He took no satisfaction in his self-control. He knew his willpower would not long endure.
Cursing himself for his sudden temperance, he threw the bottle off the bridge. He heard it shatter on the stones in the waterless waterway.
He zipped shut the storm flap, shouldered the backpack once more, and adjusted the hip belt.
Soon twelve hours would have passed since the sobering incident in the bluff-top rest area, above his cave home. He’d been awake for twenty hours, and he’d walked a long way in the past four. He should have been asleep on his feet, but he was awake, alert, and grimly focused.
He knew where he must go. A long, long walk remained ahead of him.
He knew what he must do. The task would not be easy. He might not have the courage to complete it.
As Tom Bigger walked north into the last few hours of the night, he was overcome again by the feeling that he was not alone, that he was followed step by step, and not merely by coyotes. And he was afraid.
Thirty-nine
For a walk in the suburban Seattle woods, Liddon Wallace wore Brioni loafers protected by rubber overshoes, gray wool slacks by Ermenegildo Zegna, a Mark Cross belt, a Geoffrey Beene shirt, an Armani sweater, a black leather jacket by Andrew Marc, and a Patek Philippe wristwatch.
The hard-packed dirt footpath proved easy to follow in spite of the mottling shadows and the mist. Dawn had come nearly an hour earlier. But fog veiled the face of the sun and allowed only this indirect light.
In the morning murk, the towering Douglas firs and hemlocks appeared to be black, and the ferns were more blue than green. Even the clusters of Pacific dogwoods, with their flurries of scarlet and gold leaves, blazed less than smoldered in the dripping gloom, and their enormous white flowers, which usually resembled clematis, now looked like dead birds in their branches.
After little more than three hundred yards, the footpath led out of the forest. Beyond lay the putting green at the eighteenth hole of the golf course.
An electric cart, used by groundskeepers, stood on the green. Even as Liddon Wallace came out of the trees, Rudy Neems, chief of the landscape-maintenance crew, took the eighteenth-hole flag from the cart and stood it in the cup.
Half surrounding the green and beyond it were three sand traps and then a fairway that sloped down to a water hazard. The first half of the fairway, beyond the water, faded into the mist, and the tee was far beyond sight. A narrow rough lay along each flank of the fairway, and behind both roughs the forest continued.
Rudy Neems stood by the grounds cart, watching Liddon approach. The landscaper was thirty-eight, stocky, with a blond mustache and thick hair that grew naturally in ringlets. Ironically, as a boy, he was often picked to play an angel in Christmas pageants.
“This weather sucks,” Liddon said.
Neems was soft-spoken to such a degree that even in the morning stillness, his voice didn’t carry far: “Good for the skin.”
