The Kalispell Run Page 11

  “I bet you wouldn’t.” Watson beamed, relishing his verbal victory.

  Hickok noted the friction between the two and filed it for future reference.

  “So what’s your bright idea?” Goldman asked in an annoyed tone.

  “See those bushes?” Watson pointed at a thick stand of tall bushes fifteen yards away, at the perimeter of the forest.

  “Yeah. So?”

  “So I take one of them over there at a time. They undress, I examine them, and they put their clothes back on. This way, we avoid bloodshed.”

  Goldman snickered. “What a dumb idea!”

  “Why?” Watson patiently inquired.

  “What’s to stop them from taking off once they’re in the bushes?” Goldman demanded.

  Watson frowned and sighed. “With the guards so close? How far do you think they would get? Besides,” he added, “I doubt one of them would run if you keep the other one here.”

  Goldman stroked his hairy chin. “I guess you’re right. Go ahead. But you’re responsible.”

  “Fine.” Watson faced Hickok and Sherry. “Which one of you wants to be first?”

  “I’ll go,” Hickok volunteered. He smiled reassuringly at Sherry and followed Watson to the forest. They found a small open space in the center of the bushes, wide enough to accommodate two people and shielded from prying eyes in the clearing. “Turn your back,” Hickok directed.

  Watson’s eyebrows raised, but he complied with the request.

  Hickok quickly removed his clothes and the backups, hiding them in the pile of buckskins at his feet. “You can examine me now.”

  Watson performed his examination in silence. As he replaced his instruments in the black bag, he glanced at Hickok. “I wish everyone in the Mound was as healthy as you are. There’s no evidence of malnutrition, a common malady these days. Except for a few bumps and bruises, and a lot of scars, you’re one of the fittest specimens I’ve ever seen.”

  “You think I’m fit?” Hickok motioned for the physician to turn around.

  “You should see a friend of mine named Blade. He has so many muscles, he makes me look like a ninety-eight-pound weakling.”

  Watson, absently staring at the vegetation, shook his head. “I wish everyone here would follow the dietary advice and hygienics guidelines I’ve established. It would drastically reduce many of our health problems.”

  Hickok, his eyes on Watson’s back, dressed, reattaching the Derringer and the C.O.P. and their respective holsters and leather straps. Satisfied the hideouts were safely concealed, he patted Watson on the right shoulder. “I’m ready.”

  “Funny. I didn’t take you for the bashful type,” the Mole observed as they moved through the bushes to the clearing.

  Hickok declined to comment, wondering if Watson’s suspicions were aroused.

  Goldman was visibly relieved when they appeared. “Okay,” he barked at Sherry. “Get it over with.”

  Hickok winked and grinned at Sherry as he passed her.

  “Take a good look around,” Goldman gloated as Hickok stopped near Silvester. “It’s the last daylight you’re ever going to see!”

  Chapter Twelve

  In the middle of the afternoon, with the sun high overhead, she finally found him standing on the bank of the moat, all alone, in the southwestern corner of the Home. His long brown hair, the same shade as his eyes, was blowing in a stiff breeze. Although, at sixteen, he was two years her junior, since the death of their father he had adopted a paternal attitude toward her, an unexpected protectiveness and intense loyalty. She suspected the realization they were the last members of their family left alive had something to do with the change in his behavior.

  “Hi, Tyson,” Cindy greeted him. “What are you doing?

  Tyson, startled, glanced around until he saw her approaching from his rear. “Oh. Hi, Cindy. I didn’t hear you,” he said.

  “I asked what you’re doing out here,” she repeated.

  Tyson stared into her deep blue eyes. “Just thinking.”

  “About what?” Cindy leaned against a tree and watched his face as he spoke, striving to detect signs of possible stress.

  “About us,” Tyson responded.

  “What about us?”

  Tyson faced her, placing his hands into the pockets of his camouflage pants. The pants and the matching shirt he wore were gifts from Nadine, Plato’s wife. Both garments were worn and faded, but after Nadine had hemmed them and patched the holes and rips, repaired the frayed sections and completely cleaned them, they were almost as good as new and the best clothes Tyson had ever owned. He frowned as he gazed at the moat. “Are you happy here, Sis?”

  “Of course I am,” Cindy affirmed. “What kind of dumb question is that to ask?”

  “Are you sure?” Tyson pressed her. “I mean, is there anything about this place you don’t like? Would you like to leave the Home?”

  “Leave the Home?” Cindy straightened, shocked by the query. “Be serious!”

  “I am,” Tyson emphasized.

  “Why would I want to leave the Home?” Cindy demanded. “The safest, happiest place we’ve ever been! Of course I want to stay right here, dummy!”

  “Even with all the things that’ve happened to you?” Tyson inquired, his expression somber.

  “What’s happened to me?” Cindy countered, perplexed by his conduct.

  “You tell me.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Cindy could tell something was really bothering him, eating at her brother’s insides. But what?

  “Has anyone been bothering you?” Tyson asked, confronting her.

  “Bothering me? In the Home?” Cindy shook her head. “Of course not.”

  “These people aren’t the angels they like you to think they are,” Tyson said bitterly.

  “The Family members are the nicest people we’ve ever run into, Ty,” Cindy said, disagreeing. “How can you make such a claim?”

  “And you’re sure no one has been bothering you?” Tyson asked.

  “No.” Cindy laughed, finding the suggestion ludicrous. The Family members were moral to a fault, and most of their energy was devoted to loving their Maker and one another as perfectly as possible. “Who would bother me?”

  Tyson sighed and crouched, absently plucking blades of grass and tossing them aside.

  “Answer me,” Cindy ordered him. “Who would bother me?”

  “Drop it,” Tyson said. “I didn’t think you’d tell me.”

  “Tell you what?” Exasperated, Cindy moved away from the tree and positioned herself directly in front of her brother, forcing his eyes to meet hers. “Tyson, I want you to tell me what’s bothering you.”

  “Why should I?” Tyson snapped. “You won’t tell me who’s bothering you.”

  “No one is bothering me!” Cindy exploded.

  “He said you wouldn’t tell me,” Tyson muttered.

  “Who said…” Cindy began, then stopped, insight dawning. “Was it Napoleon? Did he tell you something about me?”

  “Napoleon is our friend,” Tyson stated.

  “Tyson…” Cindy crouched and gently took his rough hands in hers. “I want you to listen closely to what I’m about to say. We are brother and sister, the last of our family. You know I love you and would never lie to you, don’t you?”

  “Yeah,” Tyson grudgingly admitted. “I guess so.”

  “Then believe me when I tell you Napoleon isn’t our friend.”

  Tyson went to protest, but Cindy quickly placed her left hand over his mouth.

  “Don’t interrupt!” she directed. “Just listen. I overheard Napoleon plotting a rebellion. He mentioned your name. How do you fit into his scheme?”

  “What do you mean, a rebellion?” Tyson asked after she removed her hand.

  “Napoleon is planning to kill Plato and Rikki-Tikki-Tavi and take over the Family,” Cindy explained.

  Tyson grinned. “You must have misunderstood. The only one Napoleon wants to kill is Rikki, that bastard
.”

  “What?”

  Tyson’s face clouded with anger. “Napoleon told me how Rikki has been bothering you! Why wouldn’t you confide in me? I can help you, you know. I won’t let the son of a bitch get his hands on you!”

  “Ty, Rikki hasn’t…”

  “Napoleon told me all about it,” Tyson said, cutting her off. “About how Rikki wants you to go to bed with him, how he’s been pressuring you to give in or he’d kill me. Well, just let the prick try!”

  Comprehension flooded her mind, and Cindy gripped him by the shoulders. “Ty, calm down. Listen. Napoleon lied to you…”

  “But…”

  “He… lied to you,” she reiterated, her voice rising. “He is using you to get at Rikki. I give you my word, Rikki-Tikki-Tavi is not trying to force me to have sex with him. He would never do a thing like that. And besides, don’t you think I’d come to you if I really was in trouble? I’d tell you about it, and we would probably go to Blade or Hickok and let them know.

  They’re our friends. What do you think Hickok would do to anyone trying to do what you said Rikki is supposed to be doing?”

  “Put a bullet in his head,” Tyson answered thoughtfully.

  “Right. So there’s no reason why I wouldn’t confide in you, is there? Not when we both know we could count on Blade and Hickok to help us. Do you agree?”

  “Yeah…” Tyson concurred, her logic making an impression.

  “So when Napoleon claimed I wouldn’t tell you,” Cindy said, her features reflecting her affection, “why the hell did you believe him, Ty?”

  Tyson seemed confused. He vigorously shook his head and held his hands out, palms up. “I… I don’t know, Sis. It made me so mad when Napoleon told me, I wanted to kill Rikki. I wasn’t thinking. Napoleon said you wouldn’t tell me because you were afraid I’d do something rash and Rikki would kill me. I don’t know Rikki that well. For all I knew, it could have been true.”

  “I bet Napoleon had a way you could do something about it,” Cindy surmised.

  “As a matter of fact,” Tyson stated slowly, “he did.”

  “What was his plan?”

  Tyson’s anger was building again, only this time at the realization Napoleon duped him. “Napoleon said he knew this spot Rikki goes to sometimes to be alone. He said we should confront Rikki, and he offered to give me a gun for protection.”

  Cindy’s mind raced as she tried to deduct Napoleon’s true motive. “I’ll bet Napoleon planned to shoot Rikki and lay the blame on you. He’d probably kill you too. He wouldn’t want any witnesses.”

  Tyson rose, his eyes blazing. “That prick!” He looked at Cindy. “What do we do now, Sis?”

  “One thing’s for sure,” Cindy said as she stood. “We can’t afford to wait until Blade and Hickok come back. Napoleon is too dangerous. There’s no telling what he may do.”

  “But how can we stop him?” Tyson asked.

  “We can’t,” Cindy declared. “But I know someone who can.”

  “Who?”

  “Rikki-Tikki-Tavi.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The first and second floors of the Kalispell Regional Hospital were uninhabited.

  Geronimo, standing in the stairwell between the second and third floors, paused, debating his next move. He’d spent the better part of the afternoon painstakingly searching the first two floors of the hospital, and there was still no sign of whoever was lurking in the upper stories.

  Apparently, whoever it was knew they had been spotted and had seen him enter the hospital to investigate. He leaned over the ring and peered up the darkened stairwell. Either his quarry had used another exit, or they had gone higher, believing a lone man wouldn’t be foolish enough to pursue them.

  How he missed Blade and Hickok! As Alpha Triad, as a functional fighting unit, they relied on one another for support and assistance. You didn’t worry about covering your back because you knew someone else was doing it, someone who would gladly give his life to defend your own.

  Now, alone in hostile territory and probably outnumbered, he considered returning to the SEAL. The further he ascended, the more vulnerable he became.

  He didn’t like it one bit.

  Something scraped against a metallic object above him, the slight noise the equivalent of a thunderclap in the deathly silence of the musty stairwell.

  Someone was on the stairs above him!

  Geronimo crouched and slowly climbed the steps, one at a time, his eyes alertly probing the shadows for movement.

  The stealthy pad of a foot on concrete reached his ears.

  They were close!

  Geronimo leaned against the wall, blending his body into the stygian inkiness of a recessed corner.

  Was it someone coming down to see if he was still in the building?

  The waiting was nerve racking, the seconds seeming like hours.

  Geronimo pointed the FNC at a stretch of stairs descending from the third floor. If someone was coming, it would be his first…

  A black form materialized on the stairs, the vague shape of a man in discernible contrast to the dusty paleness of the concrete steps.

  “Don’t move!” Geronimo shouted.

  The figure above him snapped three shots in the direction of the yelled command. One of the bullets struck the wall inches from Geronimo’s head.

  Geronimo fired a short burst from the FNC, the slugs ripping into his target and flinging the man to the steps.

  The man gasped once, then tumbled down the stairs. A pistol fell from his hand and clattered to the landing.

  Geronimo cautiously moved to the body and knelt over it. He could hear the man wheezing.

  Was he alone?

  Geronimo patiently waited for any reaction to the gunfire: voices, footsteps, anything.

  Nothing.

  Good.

  Geronimo reached into his left front pocket and removed a pack of matches, part of the booty taken from the Watchers in Thief River Falls.

  He struck a match and held it over his fallen foe.

  The man was a Flathead Indian, in his early or mid-thirties. He wore buckskins and carried a knife and a pouch on a belt around his waist. The slugs from the FNC had perforated his chest and lungs. Blood was oozing from the wounds and staining his shirt. He was still alive, but barely.

  Geronimo frowned, unhappy with himself. Maybe he should have let the man come closer and tried to knock him out, to somehow subdue him without using the FNC. A commendable idea, he noted, but not very practical. The Flathead might have seen him, or sensed him, or simply resisted, and at close range one of his shots was bound to find a target.

  There was no other way.

  Geronimo leaned back on his heels, relieving a slight cramp in his lower left leg, and the motion saved his life.

  The blast of the shotgun was deafening in the confines of the stairwell, coming from the landing above.

  Geronimo felt a stinging sensation in the hand holding the match, and the wall exploded in a shower of cement and brick.

  Unexpectedly, the Flathead Geronimo had shot abruptly opened his eyes and sat up, just as another deafening discharge of the shotgun filled the stairwell.

  Geronimo saw the Indian’s face blown apart, the eyes and nose and mouth erupting in a crimson spray of flesh.

  The match flickered out, plunging the stairwell into complete gloom.

  Geronimo rolled to his feet and ran, pressing his left hand tightly against his side. He had the impression his hand was bleeding, and he didn’t want to leave a trail of blood for his opponents to follow.

  “I got him!” someone shouted, elated, from the floor above.

  Geronimo reached the door to the second floor and pushed it open, holding it with his right hand so it wouldn’t bang when it swung closed.

  He heard feet pounding on the stairs and saw the faint beam of a light.

  “You asshole!” another voice snapped. “You shot Spotted Elk!”

  Geronimo raced down the hallway, caref
ully avoiding furniture and equipment left abandoned along the hall. He knew it was only a matter of moments before they came after him. If he could get to the SEAL, he’d be safe inside its protective bulletproof body. He was almost at the end of the hall, yards away from a door leading to another flight of stairs to the first floor, when the men after him, hot on his heels, came through the first door, the one he’d used to reach this floor. The door forcefully’ crashed into the wall behind it.

  At the sound, Geronimo glanced over his right shoulder, taking his eyes from the hallway ahead. He failed to see the discarded wheelchair in his path, and he flinched as his knees smashed into the wheelchair, his momentum carrying him forward and lifting him from the floor. He frantically tried to correct his balance, but it was too late. The wheelchair toppled over, Geronimo on top. He landed hard, one arm on the wheelchair gouging him in the ribs.

  “Down here!” someone shouted.

  His pursuers didn’t seem much concerned with stealth any more.

  Geronimo twisted and aimed the FNC at several figures hurrying toward him. He fired and watched them dive for cover.

  Keep moving!

  Geronimo scrambled to his feet and reached the door. He shoved his way through it and hastened down the stairs, limping now, his left knee throbbing. He could hear a commotion on the floor above him.

  They were still coming.

  He was three steps from the bottom and the door to the first-floor hall, when the door suddenly opened, framing an armed Flathead with a rifle in his hands.

  Geronimo didn’t hesitate. He went for a head shot, as Hickok constantly advocated, the slugs rupturing the Indian’s forehead. The Flathead fell to one side and Geronimo jumped over his body and raced toward the front entrance, a beacon of hope at the far end of the hall. He was going to make it! There was no way they could stop him now!

  The bright sunlight caused him to squint as he exited the hospital, and it took him a moment to adjust before he spotted Rainbow.

  She was standing at the bottom of the steps in a wide stance, holding the Dan Wesson .44 Magnum, Blade’s revolver, in her hands.

  Geronimo started down the stairs, surmising she was there to aid him, that she’d heard the gunfire and grabbed the revolver to help. He was on the third step when a thought struck him. How could she have heard the shooting if she had the windows rolled up as he’d instructed? He glanced at her and noticed her peculiar smile.