“The Rogers woman,” said Cabral in his soft voice, his eyes on Cilla. “Loni wouldn’t - hell, she couldn’t do things like that. The man Gil shot, is he dead?”
“Not yet...”
“And the other?”
“He was just coming around.”
“Then you go back and take care of them! Are you out of your minds leaving witnesses? Have you forgotten why we’re doing this? You and Gil.” He nodded at Groper. “I’ll splint Crow’s finger.”
“The girl...,” croaked Gil.
“Yes, the girl.” Cabral looked thoughtfully at Cilla, who had been absorbing the importance of being Loni.
“I guess there’s no point in hiding it any longer, ” she said. “I am Loni Sturgis.”
“Sure you are,” said the Nutcracker. “So would I be if my option was sky-diving sans parachute.”
“Ask Frank. He knows me.” Frank had certainly seen her last, and would at the very least be uncertain.
“Knows you well?”
“Enough to tell you who I am.”
“So, lock her ...in the room ...with Frank,” croaked Gil, a light coming into his eyes. There were chuckles and grins from the others that took Cilla by surprise. What ...?
Cabral had been watching her closely. “I see you’re not familiar with our colleague Frank’s reputation. That surprises me...Loni.”
“Do it!”
“Ease off, Gil. Loni, Loni, Loni. You’re making me wonder. Frank comes to us with quite a resume, as someone who knows him as well as you should be aware.”
“He carves...initials on babes,” Gil with a grin of anticipation.
“Frank isn’t really one of us,” explained Cabral with his eyes on Cilla. “Poor fellow’s first experience with a woman was apparently a losing one. Now...”
“He signs them,” finished Gil with satisfaction. “With a knife.”
“Once he bore down a little too hard. Fortunately it was in Mexico, and the border wasn’t far.”
“Enough...talk.”
Cabral reached a decision. “Take her pants off.”
As Gil reached eagerly for her from the front and Crow behind, Cilla attacked. She caught Gil with a hard kick between his legs and brought an elbow back to Crow’s stomach. With no wasted movement, she launched herself at Groper with a chop to the side of his neck. Something crashed on her head, and she fell. Only half-conscious she felt someone unzipping her parka.
“The pants, get her pants off,” Cabral’s voice came through the fog. Someone sat on her; another pulled down her ski pants. She tried to struggle, but couldn’t breathe from the heavy body on her chest. Her lungs fought to pull in air. She thrashed her legs as she felt hands tugging at her long underwear. Then someone was between her legs holding them down and something touched her thigh.
“Okay,” said Cabral. The weight went off her. “Let her up.”
Cilla tugged at her clothes. They hadn’t taken them off, just down.
“It’s the Rogers girl, that scar on her thigh. Fun games later, she’s not going anywhere, but those other two might. Groper, you and Gil bury them where they won’t be found till the snow melts.” A rifle appeared in Gil’s hands, and the two headed for the door. “Crow, help me tie her up. We’ll put her in the penthouse. There’s a telescope there, Mrs. Rogers, at a window that looks right out at Mt. Field; you can watch the sport.”
It was one measure of Cabral’s humor that she was bound spread-eagled to projections from the walls of the third floor room in front of the window, with the small telescope right in front of her face, but the ropes were so tight she couldn’t move her arms or legs an inch in any direction. The window was right next to the third floor door, and Crow was able to bang it against her when he went out. He then propped it open – presumably so they could hear her when she begged for mercy.
Another little barb was Cabral’s comment about her “watching the sport”; she couldn’t reach the instrument to change it from its present focus on the Lakes of the Clouds AMC hut and, looking out the window, realized that the location of Todd and Kurt on Mt. Field wouldn’t have been visible even if she had been able to move it.
Her head was still full of cotton. The window was none too clean but she glimpsed the helicopter becoming a speck as it flew over the frozen, wind-swept sea monster that was the northwesterly spur of the Presidential Range, into a darkening sky. At the end of that cold, black and white, serpentine row of mountains would come fire from the sky. Kurt’s wounds meant he was out of it; Todd would be the only defender, him with Kurt’s rifle at the edge of the clearing. Todd would have to make do with it. Cilla felt he had a good chance; neither of those in the plane was dressed for pursuit on the ground, and they weren’t aware that Todd and Kurt were armed.
In any case, there was nothing she could do. She had been promised her own monster. Frank. Was he really what they made out? She remembered his inhumanly dispassionate voice as he’d spoken of killing Hudson. Her shiver had nothing to do with the heating system in the building. A television set suddenly was loud.
“...ninety-five minutes ago. Though no incident has occurred that has been officially attributed to the Nutcracker, a pall hangs over the six state region, which resembles a war zone in the wake of a victorious enemy. Smoke is rising from uncounted accidents on major highways and fires in commercial and residential property that firefighters are unable to reach. Storefronts are being demolished by looters in otherwise empty cities, whose streets are clogged by silent vehicles abandoned by frustrated drivers. Colonel Mark Silton of the Maine National Guard has issued a call for calm. `There is no reason for panic. Stay off the streets. Those who are near rivers should remain inside with their windows shut. But...’” The sound clicked off.
“Don’t even need the pods,” Crow’s voice came from downstairs. “Shit! Don’t pull the finger off!”
“Well hold it still.” Cabral. “The pods are essential. They’ll get through this panic, go back to how they were. A couple of weeks or a month, when everyone’s back at work as though nothing had happened, warm breezes will come in from the south, and they’ll start dropping like flies.”
“You planned it this way all along. You never expected them to pay,” There was a tone of admiration in Crow’s voice.
“Mmmhmm. This isn’t a battle Crow, it’s a campaign. You got to hurt an enemy before they surrender. Note number two will be on TV tonight so they remember us when it happens. Note three will arrive after the pods do their work. Then they’ll pay. When they sit and think about the family and friends they’ve lost and say to themselves `they are all gone into the world of light and I alone sit lingering here.’”
“What?”
“Henry Vaughan.”
“Sure.” Ex-private first class Crow wasn’t comfortable when Sergeant Cabral got weird. “Where’d we get those pods anyway?”
“Frank.” He lowered his already whispering voice so Cilla could barely hear him, even with her good ears. “Think I’d keep him around otherwise?”
Crow sounded concerned. “Is he really...?”
“Worse. You remember we used to have guys like that in the Army. Killing’s okay once you get used to it, but those guys like it. And Frank’s got it all screwed up with sex.”
“Jesus. Carving initials on women...”
“Right across their chests. The ones who live never wear bathing suits or low cut dresses.”
Do they know I can hear them, Cilla thought. Feeling particularly vulnerable - as they obviously intended - with her arms and legs tied wide apart, she grasped at the idea that this was all for her benefit. A way to frighten her into doing...What? That was the ravine she couldn’t bridge. What use was she to them? No matter how she searched for a hidden asset, some reason for them to keep her alive, her mind kept sliding back to...“fun time”. She’ll be an amusement for a while. Then Gil will have his wish, and what was left of her dropped from the plane. It was not a warm room, but drops of perspiration stood out on her forehead and ran down her cheeks.
“...in the desert. I sent him plane tickets and a recognition code.” Cabral.
Desert! Damn, what had she missed?
“So you didn’t know him before?”
“Hell, he’s not
The unconscious irony was probably lost on Crow.
The telephone rang.
