Page 141 of The Instruments of Darkness

“I’ll ask you again,” I said. “Where is he?”

But “My brother and sister will kill you for this” was all I got out of her.

Angel came back. “Nobody else in the house, just her.”

“Reggio was here. I think he wadded his gum under the table.”

Angel went over and touched a finger to it.

“Soft.”

I leaned closer to Aline Michaud.

“If he’s dead, his DNA will be all over that gum,” I told her. “You’ve just been marked for a life sentence.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Find something to tie her up with,” I said to Angel.

“Where’s Louis?” he asked as he yanked the phone cable from the wall.

“Going after Eliza, I hope. Last I saw, he’d taken some splinters, but hopefully nothing worse.”

In retaliation, Angel pulled the phone cable tight enough around Aline’s wrists to make her yelp.

“By the way,” he said, “it sounds like someone’s starting a war.”

“I think they came from the Hickman place,” I said, as I left the woman to his care. “If it’s war, it’s been declared on Antoine Pinette and his crew.”

CHAPTER XCVI

Ellar Michaud had the creek in sight when he picked up signs of pursuit. His arm was now hurting like a bitch, not helped by a couple of tumbles he’d taken because the injury was screwing with his balance. At least it was the left arm, which meant he could still hold a weapon. He came to what had once been a healthy thicket of trees, now reduced to ruin by emerald ash borers. Den Hickman had already chopped the bulk of them, leaving only a couple to stand against the insects. The cut trunks lay piled by the creek, but Hickman hadn’t done anything more with them, content to consign them to rot. Ellar got behind the pile, the creek to his back, and watched for movement. He thought it might be a lone chaser, but if so, they were making a lot of noise. Then again, they weren’t carrying a flashlight, which was smart. The beam would have made them an easy target, but additional noise was the downside.

Ellar remained very still and tried to control his breathing. Sirens sounded, approaching from somewhere to the west. It wouldn’t be long before Hickman’s woods were crawling with police. Ellar needed to be home, with his clothes changed and his arm in a sling, before the law got anywhere near him. Nevertheless, whoever was out there would have to be dealt with first. Ellar didn’t want them talking to the police, but neither could he leave the body to be found, because that would erase any doubts about the explosions at the camp being the result of an accident. He’d have to kill them, get the corpse onto Michaud territory, and hide it until he and his sisters had time to dispose of it. The police wouldn’t be able to search the property without a warrant, and they wouldn’t get a warrant without evidence of involvement. The incendiaries were designed to leave no trace, so the only major risk of apprehension lay in Ellar being seen crossing the creek—or worse, being waylaid before he could reach safety.

He felt a drop of moisture on his face, followed by another. It was starting to rain, which would help to erase any tracks he’d left. Within seconds, the droplets had become a downpour, and Ellar could barely see more than a few feet ahead of him.

A thrashing came from the rise above him and to the left, followed by the thud of a body landing hard, and a man grunting. The rain had caused his pursuer to lose his footing. Ellar squinted through the deluge and saw a silhouette pass between two trees, making its way down the slope toward the creek, clutching at branches so as not to slip again. Ellar could have taken him with the Armalite or the pistol, but he didn’t want to make more noise than necessary for fear of drawing others to him. The man would pass directly in front of him. All Ellar had to do was stand by.

Another smaller misstep, another grunt. Closer now. Ellar eased the Bushmaster from its sheath. He’d have to discard it later. He hated ditching a good knife, but he’d take the $75 hit over a murder conviction. He inhaled, then held the breath as the man reached the stack of cut ash. The gradient eased as the hill neared the creek, and he paused to get his bearings, one hand resting on the nearest of the trunks, his back now slightly to Ellar as he faced the water. Ellar rose to jam the blade into the right side of his neck, where he could see exposed skin. He didn’t want to risk a thrust to the body, only to hit a padded vest or holster. The man spasmed, causing the gun in his right hand to fall to the dirt. Ellar had the tree trunks for support, so it was easy for him to twist the blade in the wound. A spray of red joined the rain as he pulled the blade free and let the body drop. The dead man, familiar from the camp, was much older than Ellar, which might have explained why he’d struggled with the terrain. His hair was thin and straggly, and his beard nearly white. He resembled someone’s grandfather, and was therefore, in Ellar’s view, old enough to have known better.

Ellar kicked the body down the slope to splash in the creek. He went after it, grabbed it by the collar, and dragged it awkwardly through the water to the other side, where he concealed it as best he could in the undergrowth. Then, with the first light of dawn seeping into the sky, he commenced walking in the direction of Kit No. 174.

CHAPTER XCVII

I entered the woods behind the Michaud house with a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach as the rain came down. Among the trees was a woman armed with the ideal weapon for this kind of fight. At close range, say twelve feet or less, a 12-gauge loaded with No. 6 shell can cut straight through a four-inch telephone directory. It’s a central, lethal blast, capable of carving a hole about six inches in diameter. The farther from the target the shooter is, the greater the diameter of the pellet spread. Up close, therefore, Eliza Michaud was sure to kill whoever she was aiming at, because few people hit with No. 6 buckshot at close range ever trouble a hospital. But I’d also come across one of her spent shells as I entered the woods, and its long brass base marked it as a magnum, which meant extra powder, so it could propel even more pellets. Louis and I had been lucky once. We weren’t apt to be so fortunate again.

Well, relatively fortunate, because now I saw Louis. The left side of his face was perforated with splinters and his scalp was bleeding. The only positive thing that could be said was that none of the splinters had entered his eye.

“How does it look?”

“At least as bad as it probably feels,” I said.

“It feels like I tried to head-butt a porcupine.”

“I hate to tell you, but the porcupine won.”

The sun was coming up, which gave me some light by which to remove the largest of the splinters. The rest would have to wait for the emergency room.

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