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Valentine listened to the footsteps move about as Virgil was escorted to the door and Mr. Carlson retired to the kitchen. Valentine thought he heard him exchange a few words with Frat.
"Now listen, Gwen," Valentine heard Flanagan say to his sister, keeping his voice low enough for it not to travel out of the room. Not quiet enough for my ears, though, Valentine thought.
"You know I'm not the law. The law is whatever the Triumvirate says it is. This Touchet is a big wheel in Illinois, one of the biggest outside of Chicago. The New Church wants him happy, and I'm going to see that he's happy. I'm making it look like Alan has a choice in this, but he doesn't. Neither does Molly. You follow me?"
"I follow you," Mrs. Carlson said in a low tone. Valentine picked up the anger in her brittle voice. He wondered if her brother did.
"Touchet's going to have her one way or another. I know what you have to say cuts a lot of ice with Alan. So you might as well profit from it and get that bond."
"Is there a bond in it for you, too, Michael?" she asked.
"Can't fool you, can I, Sis? Maybe there is. This is pretty important. I think the Kurians want Touchet to consider moving here permanently. That is, if we can pry him away from the Illinois Eleven. They want him running the Wisconsin farms like he does in Illinois."
"We, Michael? Are you a we with the Kurians?"
"Always have been. I know which side of the bread my butter is on. I always figured I got Mom's brains. I think all you got was Dad's stubbornness."
Mrs. Carlson sighed. "Okay, Michael, you're right. I'll see what I can do."
"There, that wasn't so hard now, was it?"
"Harder than you'll ever know."
"Wow, man, you're losing it," Frat exclaimed, eyeing the mountain of cordwood.
Valentine was turning logs into firewood with his usual vigor. He stood outside one of the many little buildings budding from the barn's walls, filling the woodshed with fuel. During his stay with the Carlsons, he had chopped a little every day to keep himself exercised. Valentine did not use an ax. He preferred a saw to reduce the trunks into manageable two-foot lengths, which he could then split with a wedge. He followed his routine with robotic precision. He grabbed a length of trunk and placed it on his chopping block: an old stump that had no doubt served in this capacity for years. Then he picked up the wedge in his left hand and the twenty-pound sledgehammer in his right, gripping the latter right up under the rounded steel head. A vigorous tap seated the triangular metal spike. Then he'd step back, shift his grip on the sledge by letting gravity pull the handle though his callused fingers, and whirl it in a sweeping circle behind him, up and then down to the wedge. He would then stack the halves and quarters in a nice, tight pile.
The day's woodcutting began after a halfhearted appreciation of one of Mrs. Carlson's epic breakfasts. Everyone ate with a preoccupied detachment, as if the family dog had gone rabid and no one wanted to talk about who would have to shoot it. Molly looked drawn, her mother pale and tight-mouthed, and Mr. Carlson sported a dark crescent under each eye. Frat gobbled his breakfast like a starving wolf and fled to the backyard and his chores, taking the dog with nim. Even young Mary seemed to pick up on the tension; she shifted her gaze from her sister to her parents and back again.
Valentine decided Frat had the right idea, cleared his plate, and went outside. He had played the role of a forester the past few days and brought down several likely looking trees from the wooded hills to turn into split-rail fences and fireplace fodder.
He lost himself in the chopping, thinking about how to im-provise a pack for his Morgan and some spare saddles. He could tie together a sawbuck rig, and there was enough worn-out leather and canvas in the old tack trunk to strap it to his horse. By having the Morgan carry feed for itself and Gonzalez's horse, and with Valentine loaded, as well, they should be able to get within striking distance of the Ozarks before the oats and corn ran out. He planned to cross the Mississippi farther north and move quickly across Iowa, returning to the Free Territory somewhere southwest of St. Louis.
But despite the hard work and plans to get his crippled Wolf home, thoughts of Molly continually shifted his train of thought to emotional sidings.
Frat's comment brought him out of his sledge-swinging meditation.
"What was that?" Valentine asked.
"You've been chopping wood almost every day since you got here; you're a regular Paul Bunyan. We've got enough to get us through two winters. It's going to rot before we can use it."
"Well, maybe your dad can sell some of it."
Valentine realized his back and arms ached. He looked at the sun; the warm September afternoon had already begun. Even better, his mind was relaxed, tranquil.
"Hey, David, why are they watching the house?"
Valentine put down the sledge, leaning the handle against his leg. So much for tranquillity. "Who is watching the house?"
"The patrols. There's a car down the road toward La-Grange. One guy in it, so his partner is probably in the hills somewhere with binoculars or a spotting scope." Frat shaded his eyes and looked up into the hills and shrugged.
"How do you know there are two?"
"They always go in pairs. Uncle Mike talks about it. They switch around the partners a lot so no one gets used to working with anyone. Keeps them honest, I guess."
"You're pretty sharp, Frat."
"Naw, it ain't that. It's just when it's the same thing day after day, you notice the patterns. Like you-anytime you're worried about anything, you cut wood."
