Blaze

“Got you, Tanner. Come back.”

“We’re at the head of the road leading to the orphanage. Chain’s still across the road, but the lock’s been busted. He’s up there, all right. Over.”

“That’s a ten-four,” Sterling said. Excitement raced along his nerves in all directions. In spite of the cold, he felt sweat break in his crotch and armpits. “Do you see fresh tire tracks, come back?”

“No, sir. Over.”

“Carry on. Over and out.”

They had him. Sterling’s big fear had been that Blaisdell had beaten them again — driven out with the baby and beaten them again — but no.

He spoke softly into the walkie and the men moved faster, panting their way through the snow like dogs.

Blaze clambered over the wall between the Victory Garden and HH’s back yard. He ran to the door. His mind was in a frightful clamor. His nerves felt like bare feet on broken glass. George’s words echoed in his brain, coming at him over and over: They’ve almost got you, Blaze.

He ran up the stairs in mad leaps, skidded into the office, and began to load everything — clothes, food, bottles — into the cradle. Then he thundered back down the stairs and sprinted outside.

It was 7:30.

7:30.

“Hold it,” Sterling said quietly into his walkie-talkie. “Everybody just hold it for a minute. Granger? Bruce? Copy?”

The voice that came back sounded apologetic. “This is Corliss.”

“Corliss? I don’t want you, Corliss. I want Bruce. Over.”

“Agent Granger’s down, sir. Think he broke his leg. Over?”

“What?”

“These woods are lousy with deadfalls, sir. He, ah, stumbled into one and it gave way. What should we do? Over.”

Time, slipping away. Vision in his mind of a great big hourglass filled with snow and Blaisdell slipping through the waist. On a fucking sled.

“Splint it and wrap him up warm and leave him your walkie. Over.”

“Yessir. Do you want to talk to him? Over?”

“No. I want to move. Over.”

“Yessir, I’m clear.”

“Fine,” Sterling said. “All you group leaders, let’s hump. Out.”

Blaze ran across the Victory Garden, gasping. He reached the ruined rock wall at the far end, climbed over, and skidded willy-nilly down the slope into the woods, clutching the cradle to his chest.

He got up, started to step forward, then stopped. He set the cradle down and pulled George’s gun out of his belt. He had seen nothing and heard nothing, but he knew.

He moved behind the trunk of a big old pine. Snow whipped against his left cheek, numbing it. He waited without moving. Inside, his mind was a fury. The need to get back to Joe was an ache, but the need to stand here and wait and be quiet was just as strong.

What if Joe got out of the blankets and crawled into the fire?

He won’t, Blaze told himself. Even babies are ascairt of fire.

What if he crawled out of the cave into the snow? What if he was freezing to death right now, as Blaze stood here like a lump?

He won’t. He’s asleep.

Yes, and no guarantee how long he he’ll stay that way, in a strange place. Or what if the wind shifts around and the cave fills up with smoke? While you stand here, the only living person in two miles, maybe five —

He wasn’t the only one. Someone was around. Someone.

But the woods were silent except for the wind, the creaking trees, and the faint hiss of falling snow.

Time to go.

Only it wasn’t. It was time to wait.

You should have killed the kid when I told you, Blaze.

George. In his head now. Christ!

I wasn’t ever nowhere else. Now go!

He decided he would. Then he decided he would count to ten first. He had gotten up to six when something detached itself from the gray-green belt of trees farther down the slope. It was a State Policeman, but Blaze felt no fear. Something had burned it away and he was deadly calm. Only Joe mattered now, taking care of Joe. He thought the Trooper would miss him, but the Trooper wouldn’t miss the tracks, and that was just as bad.

Blaze saw that the Trooper would pass his position on the right, so he slipped around the trunk of the big pine tree to the left. He thought of how many times he and John and Toe and the others had played in these woods; cowboys and Indians, cops and robbers. Bang with a crooked piece of stick and you’re dead.

One shot would end it. It didn’t have to kill or even wound either of them. The sound would be enough. Blaze felt a pulse thudding in his neck.

The Trooper paused. He’d seen the tracks. Must have. Or a piece of Blaze’s coat peeking around the tree. Blaze flicked the safety off George’s pistol. If there was going to be a shot, he wanted it to be his.

Then the Trooper moved on again. He glanced down at the snow from time to time, but he directed most of his attention into the thickets. Fifty yards away now. No — less.

Off to the left, Blaze heard someone else crash through a deadfall or some low branches and utter a curse. His heart sank even deeper in his chest. The woods were full of them, then. But maybe…maybe if they were all going in the same direction…