“You’re forgetting something,” Carlyle said. Surrender wasn’t an option for Sam Pasco and it won’t be for his grandson. Do you really want some Rambo conducting guerrilla warfare for months on end in these hills? I think there’s another way to handle this.”
“You’ve got one minute.”
“I’ll try to talk him down off that mountain.”
“That’s insane,” Morris said. “They’ll have my scalp if I put a civilian in harm’s way.”
“Lieutenant,” Bognor said, “Carlyle has spent the past month studying the way Sutcliffe thinks and behaves.”
“Sutcliffe’s a psychopath. You can’t negotiate with that type.”
“He may be delusional, but I may be able to break through to him if you give me some time, Carlyle said.”
Morris shook his head. “Not a chance.”
Bognor said, “If you go in there without Carlyle, you’re risking a major bloodbath. Are you willing to take responsibility for that?”
Morris began tapping his finger on the desk. “If I agree to allow Carlyle to negotiate with him, will you accept my conditions?”
“Let’s hear them.”
“My men will cordon off the mountain and surround the cabin. Carlyle will have three minutes to lure Sutcliffe out of that cabin. But if he gives any sign of resistance, we will take him down. Is that clear?”
Grace picked up her backpack and stood up. “It may be too late for negotiations.”
“What do you mean?” Morris said.
“Just before I walked in here, I told Betts I saw Sutcliffe’s van parked outside of Giuseppe’s Pizza.”
“I thought you said Alex was in the gear shed,” Bognor said.
“Not anymore. Twenty minutes ago, he drove out of the parking lot like his hair was on fire.”
“For heaven’s sake,” Pierce said. “Why didn’t you say something?”
“You jumped all over me when I walked in here. What the hell was I supposed to do, talk reason to you?”
Seventeen
Betts was lying on his side in the van, his hands and ankles bound with nylon cord. His head rested on a pile of oil-soaked rags. Every time Sutcliffe’s vehicle hit a crack in the pavement, the business end of a lug wrench ground into his ribs. “God damn it, where are you taking me?”
“You’ll see soon enough,” Sutcliffe said. “But if you don’t shut up and lay still, I’m going to tape your fucking mouth. And forget about kicking out a window; that would really piss me off.”
“Any chance you can loosen these ropes? My shoulders are killing me.”
Sutcliffe laughed. “If you hadn’t tried to stop me in town, you wouldn’t be hog-tied now.”
A siren, like the cry of a stranded gull, echoed through the valley.
“The cops will find you,” Betts said.
“For your sake, they better not.” Sutcliffe’s van turned onto a narrow unpaved Forest Service road and stopped. “You and me are going for a little hike. If you try to get away, this peavey will be the last thing you ever see.”
“I’m trussed up like a pig. How the hell am I supposed to escape?”
Sutcliffe wrenched open the side door of the van, dragged Betts out, and dropped a rope over his head.
“What are you going to do with me?”
“Be quiet. Your job is to do what I tell you. Now get moving.” Sutcliffe pulled the peavey and a shotgun from the front seat and slipped his arms into a large army-issue rucksack.
“What have you got in that thing?” Betts said.
“None of your damn business.”
With Betts in front and Sutcliffe watching him from behind, the two men marched along a plank boardwalk that meandered through a stagnant bog at the foot of Johnston Mountain.
White cedar surrounded the marsh. Fern, cattail, and water plantain carpeted the damp ground. Pickerel weed floated in the murky water. The smell of rotting vegetation, a mixture of dead leaves and decaying logs, filled the air.
“Fantastic, huh?” Sutcliffe said.
“You out of your fucking mind?”
“This is a special place. I used to hunt this swamp as a kid.”
“You really expect me to say I’m having a lovely time?”
“Another comment like that and you’ll be fish food.”
Betts kept his eyes fixed on the boardwalk. “You mind telling me why you killed Sanders and Blake?”
“They weren’t supposed to get hurt.”
“Then who were you gunning for?”
“Marshall.”
“Why are you so pissed at him?”
“You don’t remember what happened last April when I flipped a boat in the Narrows, do you?”
“For Christ’s sake, that was a year ago.”
Sutcliffe hesitated a moment. “When we got back to the lodge, Marshall told everyone—you, Nash, Blake, Sanders, and a Forest Service ranger—to meet him in the gear shed.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Marshall picked up a guide paddle and said to me, ‘Have you completely forgotten how to use one of these things? I don’t know how Burton puts up with you.’ He said he couldn’t believe why he’d ever hired me. I had to stand there like some stupid, snot-nosed kid and take it from that spoiled little bastard.”
“It’s coming back now.”
“Good. Then maybe you also remember that he told me to pick up my gear, get in my van, and go home to think about the stupid mistake I’d made. When I drove out of the lot, you all were staring at me.”
“You don’t go berserk because some moron hurts your feelings.”
“No? I never even got a chance to say there was nothing I could do to prevent what happened.”
Betts tried to loosen the rope around his neck. “Everyone hates it when Marshall pulls shit like that. No one takes it seriously. But because you couldn’t put that story out of your mind, two guys are dead. How fucked is that?”
Without warning, Sutcliffe threw Betts on his side, pressed his head to the mud, and brought the peavey’s metal spike close to his ear. “I suggest you shut up.”
Betts went limp. “I get it. Just let go. Just let go.”
“Stand up and get moving.”
Following a series of switchbacks, they hiked through thick stands of sugar maple and hemlock. A stream engorged with snowmelt poured down the side of the mountain.
