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He once heard her say to his mother: “It was better when he had the Bone House.”
And his mother had replied: “Better if he’d died in there.”
Of course, Beau didn’t know what they meant at the time. Later, he understood. And maybe that was the curse of growing up, the passing of youth and innocence. Understanding that the adults we once looked up to are flawed and imperfect and, sometimes, just plain rotten.
His father had followed in the family tradition. Beau had felt the lash of his heavy leather belt on more than a few occasions, some deserved, some not. And while beltings weren’t uncommon for most kids growing up back then, Beau had never forgotten the look of pleasure in his father’s eyes whenever an opportunity for a beating or punishment arose.
Beau liked to think he was a better man. But we all like to believe that we are different from our parents. The truth is that we can only fight our genes so much. Hadn’t he, on occasion, been cruel to Patricia, even if he didn’t raise his fists? Hadn’t he enjoyed the thrill of hunting, of killing, a little too much?
Maybe that was the problem with old age. As your days grew shorter, your memory grew longer. It stretched away from you like a shadow in the dying sun, reaching further into the past.
“Or maybe you just see things more clearly, old man. Proximity to death makes honest men of us all.”
Beau reached for a tumbler of whiskey and took a sip. It dulled the whispers, but only a little. They rustled around inside his head, like dead leaves blowing in the breeze. He couldn’t catch all that they said, just the odd phrase. Sometimes they talked to each other, sometimes directly to him. They taunted, chided, cajoled, bullied. They were growing, and eventually he knew they would drown out his own thoughts.
He looked at the heads above the fireplace. Their eyes swiveled to stare back at him. Bright and accusing.
“You did this to us, old man. How can you say you’re not like your father?”
“Shut up,” he murmured, but his voice was weak.
He reached for the whiskey again, but his hand twitched and swiped the glass from the table, sending it crashing to the floor.
“Dammit!”
He stood wearily, bones creaking, to get a brush to sweep up the glass. A knock at the front door caused him to pause. He hesitated. The knock came again. He walked to the door and pulled it open a crack.
A trio of men stood outside. He’d known them all since they were kids. Jared, Hal, Frank. He pulled the door open wider. An icy blast of wind blew in.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“We’re done waiting, Beau,” Jared said. “We plan to attack, in the morning, first dawn.” He glanced at the others. “We thought you might want to be there. Finish what you started?”
“Are you ready to finish it, old man? You really think you can beat us?”
No, Beau thought. But he could die trying.
56
Within the folds of the forest, the wind abated. The spruce provided cover from the snow, which fell more gently between the branches.
Tucker could still feel the chill of the descending night biting at his bones. The cold out here was stealthy like that. Minus five doesn’t feel so different to minus twenty-five. But cold is insidious. It creeps. Before you know it, you’re finding it harder to think. Your movements are getting sluggish. Your breathing erratic.
Tucker was used to it, but he knew he needed to keep his wits about him. He kept his hood pulled well over his head, his gaze ahead, footsteps regular. He clasped a flashlight in his gloved hands, but he didn’t really need it. His eyes were well adjusted to the dark and he knew this route from memory, or maybe instinct.
About an hour into his trek the land started to rise and the trees thinned. Tucker could feel his calves aching as the incline steepened and, despite the cold, sweat trickled down his back, his breath coming in rasps. Eventually, he crested the ridge and paused.
The forest fell away before him, and the land opened up. Between Tucker and the settlement, undulating mounds of gravel and rock sprawled out (waste from the mine’s excavations), the bleak hillocks dotted with sparse vegetation. To his right, a splintered and derelict railroad bridge ran over the shallow river below; all that was left of the old Deadhart spur that used to connect the mine to the Alaskan railroad.
The mining village had been a huge settlement in its heyday. Now, the half-derelict buildings loomed up out of the mountainside like the jagged ruins of some ancient mythical castle. Many had succumbed to the elements and collapsed, sliding slowly down the incline. But the main processing plant was still intact, rising up like a watchtower, and the lower part of the settlement, the residential buildings of the town, were in good repair.
The front gate was illuminated by two huge flaming torches. More torches were dotted around the settlement. Tucker couldn’t see from here, but he was sure there would be guards at the gates. The settlement was secure. Approach over the rock and gravel dunes and you could be seen a mile away. Around the back, the forest was dense. Easy to get lost. The only way in was over the rickety old railroad bridge. If the Colony decided to let you cross.
Tucker started to make his way down, around the side of the waste mounds, keeping to the scrub and shelter of the trees. The ground was rough and uneven, and there was another near-vertical climb to reach the railroad tracks. He scrambled up to the top. The bridge lay a couple of hundred yards ahead. A Russian-roulette course of splintered rotten sleepers and a twenty-foot drop to the stony riverbed.
He took a step forward. A low snarl stopped him. He turned. To his left, twin pairs of amber eyes glowed in the gloom. Another growl to his right. Sleek gray snouts twitched in the undergrowth. Wolves. They slunk from the cover of the trees, teeth bared, haunches raised, forming a loose circle around him, blocking the bridge and any escape route back into the woods.
Tucker swallowed, not daring to move a muscle. He could see the wolves’ hot breath misting in the air, feel the barely contained aggression. But they didn’t advance any further. They were waiting, he thought. For a command.
