Known Dead_ A Novel - Donald Harstad [3]
Back on the path, I slowed way down, trying to pick up any sign of a shooter. Not much chance of that, and I really began regretting leaving my vest back at the car.
Another thirty yards or so, and I took off the raincoat. I was drenched in sweat, and my heart was pounding. My breath was becoming more and more labored, as much from allergies and humidity as the exertion. I just dropped the raincoat alongside the trail. I continued, but had slowed to a cautious walk. Shot. I just couldn’t believe it.
‘‘Three, where you at?’’ came crackling from my walkie-talkie. Johansen. I turned the volume down.
‘‘Just about there, Four.’’ I was panting. Nerves, exertion, sinuses . . . ‘‘Just about.’’
‘‘Okay, it might be clear. I can’t hear them moving around at all.’’ He was whispering now.
‘‘Okay.’’ I whispered too. Them. Not him, them. And if you can’t hear them, it doesn’t mean they’re gone, and it sure as hell doesn’t mean they can’t hear you.
‘‘He’s dead.’’
What? He was whispering, and it was difficult to understand him. ‘‘Repeat.’’
‘‘Dead. He’s dead. Hurry up . . .’’ He was whispering.
Dead. ‘‘Who’s dead?’’
‘‘Kellerman. He’s dead.’’
I had really slowed by now, from both exertion and caution. My pulse was making so much noise in my ears that I wouldn’t be able to hear a horse on the path. I stopped, and caught my breath, moving carefully off the trail and into the brush as I did so. Five feet from the trail, and I was invisible, even standing up. So, of course, was anybody else. I tried to catch my breath and adjust to the situation. Dead. Oh, boy. One dead state narcotics officer, a well-armed deputy sheriff somewhere up the trail who was scared, and an unknown number of hostile dope growers, armed to the teeth, somewhere in the woods. I took a very deep breath. And me. Didn’t want to forget me.
After a second or two, I heard a thumping sound, starting up the trial and going by me and off down the trail toward the road, at what seemed like a hundred miles an hour. I brought my rifle up to my shoulder, and froze.
Silence.
‘‘Three, are you moving?’’
Don’t talk to me now, Ken . . . I have to lower my rifle to use my walkie-talkie. But it was a question he had to have answered. ‘‘Negative, no. Not moving,’’ I whispered. ‘‘You?’’ My voice sounded funny, and my throat was dry. Rifle back up.
‘‘Negative.’’ Great. If he wasn’t moving, and I wasn’t . . .
I waited a few seconds, but there was no more noise. I found my left hand on the pistol grip of my assault rifle almost cramping. I took a deep breath, and slowly stepped onto the narrow trail. I stopped. I looked both ways, but saw nothing. Total silence. For the first time, I doubled over, and began to move very slowly up the little dirt track. It curved to the right. I knelt down on one knee just at the bend, and listened. Nothing. It was really hard to force myself to get back up, and go around that blind curve. I stayed bent over, and very cautiously started into the bend.
The shots just about deafened me. I threw myself into the brush, landing on my right side in the damp dirt and grass. Bits of shredded leaves were slowly falling around me, and dust motes filled the air. Then silence.
Two
THE QUIET in the woods seemed even quieter, after the explosion of noise. I moved my legs slightly. I wasn’t hit. After a couple of seconds, it stopped raining leaf bits. I realized I was holding my breath, and let it out slowly. The shots, three or four of them, must have been high. Then I remembered the tops of the bushes were just over my head. Not that high.
‘‘Carl . . .’’ came a whisper on the walkie-talkie. ‘‘Carl . . .’’
Cautiously, I reached down and brought the