The Patch of the Odin Soldier, page 18
At best, the odds were even; at worst, they were going to have a hell of a time pulling it off.
But at least, he thought, they would be able to use the seaplane to get away in, as long as Lymington didn’t get himself killed, wounded, or otherwise incapacitated.
The ground rocked gently.
“Uh-oh,” Molly said.
The center of the lake began to rise as though a monstrous boulder were being raised from beneath, and smoke wafted upward, momentarily hazing the air over the water.
“Amazing,” Lymington whispered.
The surface settled again, but left behind it the smoke and a thousand small bubbles that floated for several seconds before beginning to burst.
“I think,” Lincoln said, “we’d better not wait until dark.”
“Good thinking,” said Florenz Cull. “You’d miss dinner, otherwise.”
TWENTY-THREE
“Let me ask you something,” Lincoln said since there was nothing else he could do, being tied up as he was in the windowless cabin with her, Lymington, and Montague, who was in the far corner, unconscious and battered. “Unless, of course, you’d rather just hang around until Cull gets back.”
Molly glared at him.
“What the hell were you doing in Maine?”
“Why do you want to know?” she asked sullenly.
“Because I would like to know if all this is mere rotten coincidence, something I said, or if there is the heavy hand of Fate involved.”
“If by Fate you mean your friends in New Jersey, then yes. Damn.”
“They’re nice people.”
“They have big mouths.”
“They didn’t want you to stagnate.”
Had he been able, then, he probably would have hit her. As it was he was standing against the lefthand wall, his arms over his head and his wrists shackled. Molly was on the opposite wall. Lymington was next to Montague, cocooned in rope and snoring.
She saw where he was looking and shook her head. “Don’t blame him. He needs to preserve his energy.”
A shadow appeared in the doorless entrance then, and he stiffened. The face was hidden, but the red patch was clear, as was the tiger-headed walking stick in the man’s red-gloved hand.
“Welcome back,” Cull said as he strode into the room.
“I’m going to kill you!” Molly shouted.
Cull put his back to her, and she berated him for his rudeness. “Mr. Blackthorne,” he said, “we have unfinished business.”
“What,” Lincoln said. “Me, or your new country?”
“Ah, so you’ve learned about that, have you?”
“Only rumors.”
“Not rumors, Mr. Blackthorne. Fact. With Montague’s little man I am going to have a place all my own. A large place. A very large place.”
“Which country are you going to destroy to get it?” he said. “None.”
“Look, Florrie, I—” He stopped, did swift mental arithmetic, and didn’t believe it.
He looked at Cull.
He believed it.
The man was actually going to attempt to create land the way it had been created in the beginning—with volcanos. He was going to resurrect a few, make himself some new ones, and use the surface thus raised from the sea for his own private empire, maybe even have his own stamps.
“You’re crazy.”
Cull cocked his head to one side. “I have foresight.”
“You only have one eye.”
“Is that a crack?”
“It means that you’ll probably destroy half the world doing this. The tidal waves will wipe out most of the coastal cities, the earthquakes will split continents …” He gasped at the enormity of it. “Jesus, you’re out of your mind!”
“I am prepared to make sacrifices.”
“Go jump in the lake!” Molly screamed.
Cull looked over his shoulder. “No, my dear. Ladies first.”
At that, Molahu and Takana walked in, their civilian clothes exchanged for Hawaiian kilts. It would have been laughable had not the muscles that ribbed and ridged their chests and arms been so unpleasantly impressive, and it would have been anachronistic had it not been for the bow and arrows Molahu carried, and the oversized machete Takana tapped against his palm.
Lymington moaned in his chest.
Montague began to shift, and Takana strode over to him, grabbed an arm and yanked him to his feet. Though he was a full head shorter than Partridge, he had no trouble forcing him back across the room toward the door.
“Monty!” Molly called.
Montague stopped and looked at her dazedly.
“Monty, for god’s sake, don’t let him do it!”
“I am going to have my own island,” her brother said through a picket fence of broken teeth. “I have seen the light.” Then he shook off Takana’s hand and walked out, his guard following with a glance to Cull.
“Crazy as a loon,” Molly said glumly. “Just like Father.”
Cull laughed shortly and walked over to her, fingered a large key from his shirt pocket and, with Molahu standing watchfully beside him, opened the shackles. She lowered her arms painfully and rubbed at her wrists, then swung her left hand in a roundhouse blow that was, just shy of Cull’s right cheek, trapped in Molahu’s grip. She struggled. Molahu tightened. She whimpered and sagged, and Molahu took her out.
“It’s just you and me now, my friend,” Cull said, turning slowly. “Just you and me.”
He raised the walking stick and swung it back and forth in front of him, the head cutting the air like a whip, the teeth catching the light and glinting like razors.
Lincoln sucked in his stomach when the head breezed past his middle.
Cull grinned and held up his gloved hand. “Tit for tat, Mr. Blackthorne.”
“I’ll never sew again.”
“You shan’t do much else, either, I guarantee it.”
The head passed his chest again, and the fabric parted with a hiss that matched the noise he made when he felt the skin below his breast part.
“You might as well relax, Mr. Blackthorne. It’s going to take a long, long time.”
The room was strangely silent, and Linc couldn’t understand why he heard nothing but the passage of the tiger’s head. There was something missing, something important, and this time he didn’t think it was the out-of-place sound of a crow calling in the forest.
His thighs twitched when the teeth took a piece of his trousers just above the knee.
Outside, he could hear Molly screaming unintelligibly, but he knew it had nothing to do with the way the cabin rocked when the ground shook again.
“Nothing to worry about,” said Cull, his face gleaming with perspiration, his one eye opened wide in pleasure. “Just a brief test, that’s all. I wouldn’t do anything drastic while I was here, would I?”
The tiger sparked over his head, and he ducked instinctively, groaning when he nearly pulled his arms out of their sockets. Then Cull stood less than a foot from him, glaring, baring his teeth and licking his lips. There was the smell of arrogance about him, and madness, and Lincoln could not decide whether to close his eyes and wait, or face it like a man and see death coming.
He closed his eyes.
He heard Cull groan.
He opened them again, and saw the man crumple to the floor.
Lymington instantly grabbed the key and proceeded one-handed to part Linc’s shackles. His left hand he held against his chest, stinging from its use as a club.
“He shan’t be out for long,” the pilot said as the chains rattled to the floor. “I’m not as strong as I used to be.”
Linc was about to tell him it was all right, nothing to worry about, when Lymington yelped and fell into him. Linc pushed him aside just as Cull, from his knees, swung the cane again at the middle of the old man’s back.
Linc used his boot and caught Cull on the shoulder, leapt for him and pinned his right hand and the walking stick to the floor while his free hand smacked him on the side of the face. Cull groaned. Linc chopped his throat and rolled off, snatching up the walking stick and waiting as Cull staggered to one knee, gagging and holding his neck.
“Angel, get out,” he ordered.
“Sir, he’s much too big for you.”
“Angel, get the hell out.”
Lymington pushed himself to his feet, took one look at Linc’s expression and left.
And staggered back in when Molahu punched him full in the chest.
“Get him,” Cull rasped, still unable to get to his feet.
Molahu eyed Linc and the tiger-head warily, but advanced, tossing his bow and arrow aside with a sneer of disdain and holding his arms out as if to hug Linc to death.
Linc backed up, kicking Cull’s side to topple him out of the way. As Molahu followed, he showed him the tiger’s teeth with a pass that only made the Hawaiian show his own teeth in a humorless grin. He swung the deadly weapon and jumped to his right, forcing Molahu to follow at an angle, thinking that he might be able to get to the door and run out, catching the man on the narrow confines of the porch.
Molahu looked behind him at the entrance, raised his arms over his head, and bellowed wordlessly.
“Jesus,” Linc said, and swung the stick again.
Molahu brought down his arms and snapped it in half.
“Jesus,” Linc said, and dove for the tiger, was caught in midair and gathered to Molahu’s chest. He put the heel of his hand under the man’s chin and pushed; Molahu tightened his grip. He slapped the man’s ears as hard as he could with an open palm; Molahu tightened his grip. He brought his knee up into the man’s groin, and Molahu tightened his grip, then yelled and fell backward. Linc pushed out of the embrace, snatched up the tiger and waited, kicking Cull in the side again to keep him from getting up.
Molahu straightened, and charged.
Linc dodged and swung his arm.
Molahu slammed against the rear wall, pivoted and held his hands to his throat in an attempt to stem the rush of blood that spilled over his chest. He fell without a sound.
Lincoln blinked away the sight and headed for the door, stopping only long enough to kick Cull in the side and topple him again. The one eye glared, glazed, and closed.
“It’s about time,” he muttered, and pressed himself against the frame. A moment to catch his breath, and he looked out, but saw nothing. A check to make sure Cull was still unconscious, a fast count to ten, and he raced along the wobbly porch to the nearest ladder, took it down barely touching the rungs and sprinted to the vanguard building, coining up against the corner piling. He could hear nothing overhead, but out on the lake he saw a wide platform floating on the surface. An anchor chain extended from one corner into the water.
Neither Takana nor Montague could be seen.
But once his eyes adjusted to the sun’s glare off the water he saw Molly out there, lying unmoving on her back, rocking side to side as the water around her began to boil.
Damn, he thought, and moved quickly to the front, scanning the shore for signs of a boat, then ducking back into the cabin’s shadow when he heard footsteps on the porch.
“You get on with it,” said Takana.
“Well, hurry,” Montague answered. “I don’t want him to miss this.”
“He won’t.”
“He will if you don’t fetch him.”
“You don’t speak to me like that, Partridge.”
“I’ll speak to you any way I want to, you squinty-eyed little beetle. Now get him or he’s going to miss the show. And this time it won’t be my fault.”
The corner ladder quivered, and Takana climbed down, had reached the second rung above the ground when Lincoln darted out his hand, grabbed his ankle and toppled him off. Takana yelled as he fell, and yelled no more when Lincoln put an apologetic but firm heel into his throat. Then he scrambled up as fast as he could and saw Montague standing in front of the doorway, the Soldier in his hand, the patch up and pointing toward the lake.
There were no laser-beam lights, no vision-blinding bolts of lightning; there was only the Soldier of a dead god with sword raised and both eyes open.
In a way, he would have preferred the lasers.
Montague heard him but didn’t turn. “You’re too late, Mr. Blackthorne,” he said as Linc approached cautiously. “You might as well get comfortable and watch.”
“For god’s sake,” he said, “that’s your sister out there!”
“Yes, I know that”
“Well?”
“Well what? She’s crazy as a loon.”
“And you’re not for working with Cull?”
“She wanted to stop my research.”
“Cull killed your father.”
“He was crazy too.”
Linc grabbed the single railing for support, wondering what in hell he had to say to this man to prevent him from murdering his own flesh and blood. He looked out to the lake, and the platform was rocking more precipitously now, the water bubbling, smoking, and sending waves across its surface that rocked even the seaplane on its pontoons.
His hold on the railing tightened—Molly was waking up, her arms flailing vainly for some sort of hold on the smooth, unbroken wood.
Lincoln braced himself to jump.
“Don’t,” Montague warned, finally turning his head. “I’ve never tried using this on a human being, but I will if you try to stop me.” Molly shrieked.
Montague looked back and waved.
Lincoln lunged forward, head down and arms wide, and engulfed the taller man in his grip. Partridge slammed an elbow down on his back, but momentum shoved him off-balance and he was forced to thumb down the patch and deal with the intruder. But by that time they were already at the far side of the porch, Partridge striking the railing first.
The thin wood splintered.
Lincoln thought he was flying.
The ground reached them, and he used the bearded man to absorb most of the landing, making sure he wouldn’t move again by keeping his head pressed against Montague’s stomach. Then he rolled to one side and stared at the sky. His arms were killing him, his legs felt as if they’d be delighted with amputation, and his own lungs were struggling to find a way to work.
Montague didn’t move.
The Soldier lay between them.
I will not move, he decided; I will stay here and make pictures from the clouds and drink the rain and let the native girls bring me ambrosia and coconut milk. I’ll grow a beard. I’ll live off the land. I’ll learn to make thread from vines and suits from ferns.
“Oh Jesus,” he groaned, and sat up, holding his head.
Molly called to him frantically, and he rubbed his eyes to clear them, saw that the lake had subsided and she was standing, semaphoring with her hands that he should stop lying around and get her on dry land, instantly if not sooner.
He smiled and waved back, pushed himself to his feet and leaned against the nearest piling until his head stopped spinning and his stomach stopped producing acid that made him gag.
She screamed again.
He waved again.
She screamed so high-pitched he wanted to cover his ears, and he turned away for a moment, and saw the shadow on the ground—the shadow of a man standing above him with a bow and arrow in his hands.
He looked up.
Florenz Cull smiled down.
“Would you shoot an unarmed man?” Lincoln asked him.
Cull would.
TWENTY-FOUR
Linc threw himself under the cabin, losing his balance in the process and landing on his rump. The arrow dug into the ground several feet to one side of where he had been standing, and he supposed that the man had closed his eye to aim. A mistake when the closed eye wasn’t the one with the patch.
On his feet again he heard Cull stomping along the porch, and he followed beneath him, waiting for an opportunity to do something constructive for a change. They made a complete circle of the cabin feinting sprints and escapes before Cull stopped.
The Soldier lay in the sunlight.
“Mr. Blackthorne?”
“Right here,” he said.
“A sporting proposition.”
“I’m listening.”
“If you can reach our little friend before I put an arrow through your back, you may have it and leave my island in peace.”
“And if I don’t?”
“You won’t be around for my coronation.”
What, he thought, were the chances of Cull closing his good eye again? What, he thought further, where the chances of hell freezing over in the tropics?
“I don’t think so, Florrie.”
“Then we have a stalemate.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that.”
Cull laughed.
Lincoln looked out to the float and saw Molly on her knees, one fist pounding her leg while the other hand pulled at her hair. She had every right to be upset, he knew, but hysterics weren’t going to get her anywhere.
He looked up and saw Cull’s shadow in the tiny gaps between the porch’s floorboards. It was clever the way these places had been built, admirable the way they hadn’t used any nails but rather the local flora to bind the logs and slats together, to seal them in such a way that not even a mosquito could squeeze through. Of course, he thought as he slipped his knife from its sheath and put it between his teeth, wrapped his hands around an inner piling and began to shimmy up, all that traffic is bound to loosen a few things here and there, and accidents will happen even to the best of us.
It had occurred to him to attempt to poke the blade through the breaks in the flooring, but they were ten feet over his head; he would have to jump with one arm extended, and with his luck he’d probably stick the knife into the wood and be unable to free it.
“Mr. Blackthorne?”
As close to the top as he dared to get, he took the knife from his mouth and began to saw at the thick vines.
“I hear you.”
“I have another proposition.”
He grunted loudly.
“I will toss down the keys to the seaplane. You will go there, coast over to Miss Partridge, who is going to be bald rather soon, I think, and take her with you off the island.”
“And … you … get … the Soldier?”
