Windigo fire, p.26
Windigo Fire, page 26
The catwalk he’d landed on ran along the northern side of the building twenty feet above the operations floor. Looking up, he could see another much higher catwalk close to the roof of the building: it seemed to run parallel to the one he was on.
Still can’t hear anything; good thing.
A chaos of pipes and vats stood between him and the opposite side of the building, the southern side that looked out onto Logan’s van.
He moved softly along the catwalk, following it past the mill workings, looking for a way down.
The catwalk ended in a flight of stairs that led down to the concrete operations floor behind a large leaching tank. He went down the steps, and hunkered down next to the tank. Beneath it, he spotted a heap of broken pipes. Much as he didn’t want to touch anything in the dust-covered mill, he carefully removed a two-foot piece of pipe from the pile.
Not much help against a gun, but better than nothing.
He stayed close to the tank and tried to map out the layout of the building. Directly in front of him, on the other side of the operations floor, he could see the gigantic doors that once had given the ore trucks access to the mill. All sealed now.
He looked over his right shoulder and stared into the mouth of a dark tunnel-like corridor. He remembered it all too well. It was the passage that connected the mill to the gallows frame and the mine shaft.
He and his cousins had torn through it using their flashlights to light the way. His cousins claimed that Logan had hidden his liquor stash in the mine shaft. Even if that didn’t make a lot of sense, they desperately wanted to find the shaft.
To look down it. And climb down it.
He remembered the beams of their flashlights criss-crossing through the vast darkness of the gallows tower. There was no way to get down the shaft. The cage, the elevator that lifted the miners up and down, had long since vanished. In the interests of safety, departing workers had fastened heavy wooden planks over the shaft opening.
His cousins couldn’t pry off the boards so they jumped up and down on them, yelling like madmen, calling him a wuss for not joining them.
He’d let them get to him. He’d leapt up beside them.
The Archangel was called a shallow mine, because its shaft only reached down two hundred metres. Puny compared to the thousand-metre nickel mines in Sudbury, but an amply fatal depth, of course. Staring into that dark corridor now, he could still hear the crack of the wood plank giving way under him. Still feel his feet crashing through into the dark void.
He shuddered.
The hole in the wood hadn’t been big enough for him to slip through. He got caught by the waist and hung there suspended, unable to free himself. The Fortins laughed their guts out while they snapped photos of him on their cellphones. Somehow he’d pulled himself out. He remembered going nuts, beating on them, though they were both into bodybuilding and much bigger than he was.
He’d lost the fight. Even now he wanted to kick their heads in.
Hendrix would’ve found his way to the tower through that corridor. Danny held his breath. He sensed no movement in the dark passageway. All he could hear was the faraway crackle of trees burning, like gunshots from a distant battle.
Forget about the mine shaft, he told himself. There’s got to be a door or a window along the south side.
There! A human-sized door fifty feet down to his left. Tendrils of smoke were curling around its edges.
Leaving the shelter of the leaching tank, he crept down to the door over a litter of dirt, broken glass and metal. He flung it open and stared out at Logan’s VW van.
The outside air was thick with ashes. He wiped his streaming eyes. The VW’s rear door was hanging open. Had Logan climbed back inside the van?
A trail of black splotches on the ground, leading from the van back into the mill building.
Clutching the pipe, he noticed dark fluid smeared on the inside of the door. He reached out and touched it.
Too watery for oil. Blood!
It had to be Logan’s blood. One of Hendrix’s bullets had found him.
The sinister trail continued inside, fading into the dust and detritus of the operations floor.
He followed the deadly track, running, searching. It led from the door into the body of the mill, in the direction away from the gallows frame.
It ended at a rusty stairway halfway down the mill. Splashes of bright red blood filled the mesh treads of the stairs.
They led up to the former control room twenty feet above the operations floor. It resembled a railway car that had become entangled in the metallic entrails of the mill.
Something protruded through the control room’s empty doorway: the sole of a cowboy boot, the heel scraped down so far, wear had bitten into the tooled leather.
Logan’s boot.
“John,” Danny cried out.
Logan’s foot did not stir.
“John, for God’s sake, answer me.” Danny started up the stairs.
Something rustled in the darkness of the control room: a shimmering whiteness in the shadows.
Hendrix emerged through the doorway, his face dead white. Strands of his pale hair fell across a crimson gash in his forehead.
The star …
The windigo had emerged from his cave.
40
“Well, I’m damned,” Hendrix said. “The rat has returned to the nest.”
He pointed a grey rifle directly at Danny’s heart. A twin of the one Anderson, the Norwegian, had emptied into Pasha’s body, his pale eyes boring through his steel-rimmed spectacles.
Hendrix stepped over Logan’s still form onto the platform at the top of the stairs. “Do us a favour, Mate. Set down that nasty bit of pipe.”
Danny found his voice. “What for? You’re going to shoot me anyway.”
“Right you are.”
Hendrix hobbled onto the first step. Danny flinched. Hendrix’s flesh flashed crimson through dozens of tears in his black motorcycle leathers. His right leg was a mess of blood and splintered bone held together with two flat bits of wood and a yellow bungee cord. How had he managed to climb up the tower? The pain must have been agony.
“You shot John.” Danny’s arms were shaking. He wanted to crash the pipe deep into Hendrix’s skull.
“Self-defence. Wouldn’t stop shooting at me.” Hendrix was sweating, but he held the rifle steady despite his painful progress down the steps. “Hated to punch the ticket of an old soldier like him. Not many of us left.”
“You lying, murdering bastard!”
“What?”
“I know you killed everyone on the island. You gutted Morty like a trout. You sliced off Anderson’s arm, cut his throat and stuffed him under the lodge.”
“No, Mate, wasn’t me.” Hendrix neared the bottom of the stairs. “No more talking, Rat. Time’s short. Too tired to skin you alive. Consider yourself lucky.” He pointed the rifle. “This is for Curtis.”
“You killed Curtis. You murdered your own brother, you psycho.”
Hendrix’s eyes were a still, almost transparent grey. “Bollocks, you killed him.”
“I never killed anybody!”
Hendrix eased off his ruined leg. “Well, not you precisely. More like it was that festering nark, Tom Rudd, the one masquerading as Ricky Fountain. Oh, yes, Curtis radioed me. Old Tom favours cowboy justice. Can’t arrest ’em, kill ’em. Forest fire to erase evidence. Out in the wilderness where no one bothers. Tell us, did Tear Drop get him? Is he dead?”
“Yes,” Danny lied, gripping the pipe. Keep him talking. “I’m not a nark. I’m a camp counsellor.”
“Buying weed from Merry, all summer, weren’t you, Rat? So you could shop him to Tom Rudd and that bitch McKenna. Tear Drop saw the obvious. Two natives thick with each other.”
“Go to hell.”
“What? Not politically correct enough for you?” Hendrix sneered. “If you’re offended, I’m happy.”
“Burn in hell, Windigo.”
“What did you call me?” Hendrix rammed the end of the rifle barrel into Danny’s chest. Danny felt the pipe slip out of his fist and heard it clang onto the concrete floor.
“I called you a demon,” Danny said. “Because that’s what you are.”
Hendrix smiled. “That’s what the old lady at the bookstore called me.”
Odile, Grandmother.
“What did you do to her? What did you do to her, you son of a bitch?”
“The oldie? Nothing.”
“Liar!” Danny caught the rifle barrel with both hands. Wrenched it up and away from his body.
Hendrix hung on, amazingly strong, struggling like a wounded tiger. Danny felt his hands sliding on the gun barrel. He was losing his grip, he couldn’t hold it …
A loud guttural cough behind them.
“Charlie?” a familiar voice said. “My God, you’re alive.”
Santa!
Hendrix twitched in surprise. Danny let go the rifle. He snatched the pipe from the ground.
And smashed it into Hendrix’s shattered leg with everything he had.
Hendrix screamed in agony. He staggered against the stair railing.
Danny scrambled into the jungle of pipes, ladders, and cables under the control room. Breathing hard, he weaved his way through the maze.
Get to the other side. Find the catwalk. Get to the window.
An ear-shattering explosion. Dust spurted from a pipe by his head. Metal fragments stung his cheek. Hendrix had fired and missed.
Danny ran, ducking and weaving through the workings. A ladder appeared in front of him.
He climbed the rusty rungs one after the other. He reached a metal landing and bellied onto it, gasping for air.
Shouts and bangs below him. He rolled over, pressing back into the shadows by the crumbling wall. He saw that he’d landed on the highest catwalk, the one that ran along the roof of the mill. From here, he had a full view of the plant.
He looked down through the rusting metal mesh of the platform and watched Hendrix and Santa as they searched for him.
They emerged from under the control room.
Santa was naked except for a filthy pair of boxer shorts. His hair was a wild tangle, his limbs and torso caked with blood and dirt. In one fist, he held a bottle of coppery liquid that looked like rye whisky.
Hendrix could barely walk, but he swung his rifle, looking, hunting.
“Leave him, Charlie,” Santa said. “He’s a wanker. Here, have a drink.”
Hendrix spun with astonishing swiftness and crashed the rifle down on Santa’s head. Santa screamed and fell on his knees, clutching his ear.
“For God’s sake!” Santa cried.
Hendrix stood over him with the gun. “That’s for starters. You didn’t just turn up here.”
“Edgar saw the Twin Beech. He saw the crash from the air. I was worried sick. I had to find out if you and Tear Drop were all right.”
“Tear Drop’s dead. Broke his neck in the crash.”
“I-I’m sorry.”
“Bollocks, you’re after the product.”
“Oh.” Santa wiped his nose with his fingers. “All right, fine. So what if I am? You stole the whole bloody lot. You crashed my plane. You’ve ruined me. I didn’t deserve that, Charlie.”
Hendrix hit him again. “You lying, murderous bastard, Tear Drop said you buggered the engine. You made the Twin Beech go down. And us with it.”
“No, never.” Santa cowered, hands over his head. “You know me, Charlie, I’ve got no mechanics. Wouldn’t know where to start messing about with the engine even if I wanted to. And I wouldn’t want to. I’d never do that to a mate.”
“You self-serving rat. My brother’s dead and it’s your bloody fault.”
“I didn’t know there’d be a forest fire. Please God, be reasonable. How could I possibly know?”
“You ratted me and Curtis out. You planted those two narks on the island. I know you, Merry. You’d cut your own Ma’s throat for a dollar.” Hendrix braced the end of the rifle barrel on Santa’s glistening forehead. Danny couldn’t breathe.
“All right, all right, I’ll tell you,” Santa shrilled. “Edgar was the rat. Edgar ratted us out.”
“That lamb brain? That’s a pathetic lie, even for you, Merry.”
“I had no idea until last night, I swear. Told me to my face, the sod. Boasted about it. He’s a monster. He killed his own ma for her pension money.”
“Bollocks. Fleecing old women, that’s one of your habits.”
“No, no, for God’s sake, hear me out. Edgar buggered the Twin Beech. He told me. Think about it, Charlie. Other than Tear Drop,
Edgar was the only one who knew how to fly the bloody thing.”
“Knew? That’s past tense, Mate.”
Santa let out a huge sob. “I’ve made an awful mess, Charlie. Shouldn’t have trusted Edgar, but you get close to a man when you work with him for three years. I got sentimental. It’s a weakness of mine. B-but I did the necessary. Not pretty, but I got it done. The coppers are after me. I’ve got to get out. Please, Mate, we’re losing time here arguing.”
Hendrix lowered the rifle. “All right, go on, get up.”
Santa wiped his face, teetered to his feet and took a long gulp from his bottle.
“The crystal’s in my pack,” Hendrix said. “Left it in the tower.
Too heavy. Go on, fetch your car.”
“Car?” Santa echoed.
“You don’t travel farther than six inches without driving, Fat Gut. It’s twenty miles to Red Dog Lake. Where’d you leave it?”
“I-I don’t have the car,” Santa said. “The kid took it.”
Rachel! Danny crawled to the edge of the catwalk, straining to hear.
“What kid? You mean the little girl with the old soldier?” Hendrix said.
“She’s not a child, she’s a hyena,” Santa said. “I stopped to water the roses. She got in the car and drove off. Stole it when my back was turned.”
Rachel! Danny bit his hand trying not to scream.
“You lying snake,” Hendrix said. “The kid ran off into the woods with that native. Saw them from the tower. You hit her with the car, didn’t you? Didn’t see her running down the road, did you? You ditched the car after, didn’t you, you bloody coward?”
Danny lunged for the catwalk railing. “What did you do to Rachel?” he shouted.
Hendrix turned and fired.
His shot went wild.
Danny raced away down the catwalk, hugging the decayed inside wall. Behind him, a ringing bang of metal. They’d found the ladder.
“Can’t do it … You go up,” he heard Hendrix say.
“There’s no time. The forest fire, we’ve got to get out,” Santa said. “My leg’s bad.”
“Get up there or I’ll blow your guts out.”
“All right, all right.” Santa began grunting up the ladder.
Danny ran on. He looked down through the iron mesh and saw Hendrix on the operations floor, tracking him through the rifle scope to get a clear shot.
A whoosh of noise. Santa had flopped off the ladder onto the upper catwalk. Danny passed the top of the leaching tank.
“He’s over by that tank,” Hendrix shouted. “Get him.”
There has to be a way down. There has to be.
The catwalk was too high up; he couldn’t jump. Frantic now, Danny looked for a set of stairs, a ladder, anything.
The catwalk ended. Ended in a ladder, thank God.
He leapt onto it. Went down, the rungs trembling under him.
Suddenly he felt air. The ladder was broken.
How far up was he above the floor? Couldn’t see, too dark.
Using only his arms, he eased his body down rung by rung, his feet dangling in the air.
He reached the last rung.
“I’ve got him,” Santa shouted above his head. “He’s here, Charlie.”
Danny let go the ladder.
The ground rose up and whacked him in a teeth-jarring blow. A bolt of fire shot up his right leg. The pain was incredible. He rolled onto his back, clutching his knee.
“Charlie, get over here,” Santa shouted.
Danny struggled onto all fours, his hands sinking into soft yellow dust. He stared into the darkness of the passageway into the tower.
He hobbled onto his feet. Each step on his right leg was excruciating.
He tottered into the vastness of the gallows frame.
It was filled with a faint opalescent light. Smoke was flowing in through cracks in its wooden walls. A large black backpack rested on the ground next to the timbered platform over the abandoned shaft: Hendrix’s precious product.
A shattered stairway spidered up the inside wall of the tower, leading to the roof. He started crossing the room to reach it.
“Now I’ve got you,” Hendrix said. “Dead to rights.”
41
Danny threw himself at the pack. Only two planks covered the mine shaft opening now: silver wood beams forming a cross over complete darkness.
Arms straining, he heaved the pack onto the plank closest to him. He crouched behind it, using it like a shield.
He watched Hendrix trudge into the dim light of the gallows frame. His pale face seemed to glow.
“That pack won’t stop a bullet. Hiding behind it won’t do you a bit of good,” Hendrix said.
Danny had seen what Anderson’s gun could do. Hendrix’s bullets would pass through the pack, through him, through the wall of the tower and out into the woods.
He stood up and tilted the pack over the black void of the shaft, holding it by the straps.
“Fine, shoot me and watch your meth go down the shaft,” he said. “Six hundred feet straight down and no ladder to bring it back up.”
“I’ll risk it.” Hendrix took aim.
“Stop for God’s sake!” Santa staggered up to Hendrix, bottle in hand. “Listen to me, Charlie. Don’t chance it. We’ll never haul it back up in time. The fire’s on top of us. We’ve got to get out of here.”
“Don’t interfere,” Hendrix said.
