The Devil's bed

Pain brought Bo to consciousness. Pain, and the knowledge that he had an absolute duty left undone. That understanding had never deserted him, not even in the confusion of his fevered nightmares. His first thought when he came to, even before he groaned in agony, was that Kate was in terrible danger.

Ropes of fire twisted down his leg. He gritted his teeth, and a soft moan escaped his lips.

“What was that?”

The voice came from high above him. He opened his eyes to the dim gunmetal gray and stark black hues that were the colors of early night. The trunks of the trees were obsidian pillars. The slope of the hillside on which he lay was solid charcoal.

“I didn’t hear anything,” the other voice, which Bo recognized as Lester’s, said. “Must be your nerves.”

“Christ, I hate this waiting.”

“You won’t have to wait much longer.”

Bo lay on soft ground, hard up against one of the chunks of sandstone that had long ago fallen from the outcropping. He felt through the material of his pants, felt the swelling at his knee. Bruised, torn cartilage maybe, maybe even broken. His eyes were shut against the pain, and for a few moments all he saw were fireworks. When he looked again, he saw the river below him, flat and slate-colored, reflecting a sky lightly salted with stars. He gazed upslope. The fall from the rock had been maybe twenty feet, and he must have rolled after he hit the ground, for he now lay a dozen yards below the base of the outcropping. Lucky even to be alive, he thought. He took inventory of the rest of his body. His right eye was swollen half shut, and above it he felt a crusty mass of dried blood. The knife wound across his left forearm had not reopened, but the wound on his back ached, and when he touched his shirt there, he could feel that the fabric was wet. Bleeding, but not dead. Not yet. His right shoulder was sore. Although most of his body ached, his leg seemed to be the worst of his injuries. He was surprised to find that the rope that held the bedroll was still slung over his shoulder. He checked the blanket. The Sig was still tucked safely inside.

For a little while, he lay perfectly still. Night was falling, with moonrise not far behind it. On the cliff above him, the two men who’d hunted him in the city were poised for an assassination. If they knew their business, and probably they did, they’d been there for hours, citing landmarks on the bluffs at Wildwood that would give them range guidance when the moon was up and it was time for the shot. They’d be dressed in Ghillie Suits, uniforms onto which had been sewn clusters of burlap strips that broke the outline of their bodies to help them blend into the hillside. If the agents at Wildwood scanned this side of the river, the snipers would be all but invisible. There was no time, no way to get word to Calloway. If someone were going to intercede, Bo was it. Fire raged through his right leg every time he moved, but there was nothing to be done except endure. He clenched his teeth, dug his left heel into the ground, and with his good leg, began to shove himself upslope toward the rock.

He moved in inches. The hillside was thick with undergrowth and alive with mosquitoes that buzzed incessantly around Bo’s head. Probably, they were lighting and feeding, but he hurt too much to care. He crawled among the chunks of talus and realized how fortunate he’d been not to have hit one in his fall.

Although he took less than five minutes to reach the base of the outcropping, he felt the time as an eternity. When he finally leaned his back against the sandstone to rest, he was soaked with sweat.

Far below and to the south, he could see fires on the beach of the Kinnickinnic delta where boats had anchored for the night. He heard distant laughter, and even an occasional word he could almost discern. He thought of those people, blissfully unaware of the tragedy that was about to unfold above them. He envied their ignorance and their lack of involvement.

He inched along the ragged juncture where the sandstone met the hillside, hugging the rock. His bum leg was nothing but dead weight. Worse, it was fiery dead weight that sent constant, wrenching spasms through him. Bo fought a constant battle against his urge to cry out.

He made it three-quarters of the way before he paused, nearly exhausted. Every muscle burned with fatigue, and his brain was getting fuzzy. The last of the faint evening light was gone, and night was solidly on the land. He tried to figure out what to do when he reached his goal, how to play his position, but he couldn’t get beyond focusing on making the last few yards up the hill to the top of the rock.

“How long?” one of the voices asked. Curtis.

“Couple minutes.”

“See anything?”

“Not yet.”

“I’ll be glad when this is over.”

“It’s never over.”

They were quiet after that.

Then Lester said, “Wait a minute. I see someone.”

“Her?”

“Can’t tell yet. It’ll be easier once the moon’s up. Keep your eye on that scope.”