Jeff pulled on a sweater and put a log in the stove. “We’re young and have lots of time.”
“We’ve put in a garden,” Lisa said. “When we can afford it, we’ll have a contractor dig a well. Hauling water gets old pretty quickly.”
A leather couch, its seams stretched and worn to shreds, sat against one wall. Above it was a shelf of books on sustainable agriculture, Eastern religions, women’s health, the history of Ireland, and basic woodworking techniques. Glass jars containing spices, herbs, and dried vegetables filled a small pantry near the sink. The couple had replaced the ladder to the loft, which Sutcliffe had climbed a thousand times, with a rough plank circular staircase. In one corner of the single downstairs room sat the child’s playthings—a six-car wooden toy train; miniature cars; assorted dump trucks, graders, and front-end loaders; and a half-dozen painted metal warriors standing alongside a gray plastic castle.
When it grew dark, Jeff lit two large candles and placed one on a table and the other near the door.
Sutcliffe said, “How about some real light in here?”
“Sure,” Jeff said. “If you say so.” He hung a small kerosene lantern from a beam running down the center of the room and touched a match to the wick. “Better?”
“That’s good,” Sutcliffe said.
Lisa carried the drowsy child up to bed, read him a story, then came downstairs. She sat next to her husband and began folding clothes.
The boy cried out once in his sleep, then was still.
Sutcliffe said, “Mind if I say something?”
Jeff stood and turned up the lamp. “Sure, go ahead.”
Sutcliffe leaned forward. “The soil around here is nothing but powdered granite. There’s only a three-month growing season. Everyone who’s tried farming has failed.”
“We don’t need a whole lot to survive,” Jeff said.
“My parents were like that,” Sutcliffe said. “They had no money and no education, but they thought this land would provide for their children. Someone took it all away from them.”
Lisa began putting the child’s toys away. “How did they survive?”
“He roofed houses, drilled wells, and cut trees. She cleaned homes, watched children, and cared for old folks.”
The lantern began to dim. Jeff unhooked it and refilled it from a two-gallon can he took from a low kitchen cabinet.
Lisa stared at the knife hanging from Sutcliffe’s belt. “You work on the river?”
“I did.”
Lisa moved close to her husband. “We’ve been listening to the radio. You’re the one they’re looking for, aren’t you?”
Sutcliffe got up and locked the front door. “Don’t be afraid. I’ll be gone in a few minutes.”
“Why are they saying those things about you?” Lisa said.
Sutcliffe walked back to the sofa. “I didn’t mean for anyone to die. I was just trying to save this area from ruin.”
“What do you mean?” Jeff said.
“All that talk about a ski resort? It’s a lie. A company’s planning to work the garnet mine running under this mountain. They’ll drain water from the Hudson to separate the ore from the tailings. The trout will die, and chemicals, arsenic especially, will leach into the ground. In ten years, the river will be dead.”
“How do you know all this?”
“I’ve spent the past two years watching their engineers doing mineral tests and laying out stakes for roads and holding ponds.”
“You’ve got proof?” Jeff said.
“The corporation’s plans are in the assessor’s office.”
It was full dark outside now and quiet as death.
The child awoke. “Papa, I’m afraid,” he called out from upstairs.
“Go to sleep, Adam,” Jeff said. “Everything’s fine.”
“I’ll go up,” the woman said.
A helicopter rose over a nearby ridge, its rotors shattering the night air. It hovered two hundred feet above the cabin, its powerful downdraft buffeting small trees and rattling the front windows. The candles flickered and went dark. A powerful searchlight swept back and forth across the clearing before the chopper moved off into the darkness.
Sutcliffe stood up. “Get the child. Bring him down and you all sit against the back wall. Stay away from the windows.” He walked toward the front door. “Don’t worry. This will all be over soon.”
Eighteen
At 7:05 p.m., Carlyle led Bognor, Morris, and Grace out the front door of the inn. A convoy of vehicles—four patrol cars, two twelve-passenger vans with blacked out windows, and an armored personnel carrier, its engine growling—stood near the road.
When they reached the parking lot, Morris said, “How can you be sure Sutcliffe’s headed for his parents’ home?”
“It represents everything he’s lost,” Carlyle said. “He’ll go back again before he makes a break for it.”
“You better be right,” Morris said. “I lose my job if we screw this up.”
Grace said, “Let me show you how to find his place.”
“We’ll find it all right,” Morris said.
“His neighbors tore out all the road signs when Marshall evicted them,” she said. “There’s nothing but unmarked trails now.”
Morris started walking toward his car. “Don’t worry. We’ve got satellite images of the place.”
Grace looked up at the sky. “Fog thick as wool usually rolls in at night. You’ll be going in blind.”
“You think the state police are that incompetent?”
“No, sir. I would never say that after the way you handled that Bucky Phillips thing. Just turn right at the first unmarked intersection. A bit farther on, you’ll find a red mailbox with the name Sutcliffe on it. The trail begins there.”
“Let’s move then,” Morris said. “I don’t want a firefight on my hands after dark.”
At 7:22 p.m., the convoy reached the place Grace had described. Between the road and a path running through the woods was a quarter acre of open ground surrounded on all sides by sixty-foot blue spruce.
Morris said, “We’ve got less than a half hour of daylight now. Let’s get moving.”
“If you’d taken Sutcliffe out earlier,” Pierce said, “we wouldn’t be doing this now.”
“Caleb,” Bognor said, “It’s time for you to stand down.”
“Remember,” Carlyle said, “First, I get a crack at negotiation.”
“You’ll get three minutes,” Morris said. “If he’s not in cuffs by then, my men will take over.”
“A
