Aaron’s shoulders were dusted with snow, and snowflakes clung to his hair and lay melting on his face. The rifle in his hands was aimed directly at Indigo’s chest. Cork looked up at the man who held the Glock to his head. Indigo’s eyes were intense, excited. Cork understood that this kind of confrontation fed something in him. He was not a warrior, not like Aaron. Not like Cork. Not ogichidaa. Indigo was majimanidoo. A devil who thrived on cruelty. Among all the people of the earth, regardless of the color of their skin or their language or their culture, devils like this walked.
“Do as our host has asked, Mr. Indigo,” Fox said. “Put your firearm away.”
The gunman didn’t immediately obey. He faced off with Aaron for a good while before he let a smile play across his lips.
“Sure,” he said. “For now.”
He slipped the Glock into his shoulder holster. As soon as this was done, Aaron took three long strides across the space that separated them and swung his right fist into Indigo’s jaw. The man fell back against the stone of the fireplace. He quickly returned to his feet in a stance prepared for battle. But once again, he faced the barrel of the rifle Aaron held.
“You left me,” Aaron said.
Indigo stood tensed, assessing the situation, the rifle, the man who held it. Finally he relaxed. “I had a job to do,” he said. “How’d you get here?”
“Borrowed a truck. I have a lot of friends in Gordonville.”
“Borrowed a rifle, too, looks like. The kid?”
“He’ll be fine.”
Fox said, “I’ve been told about Bird. I’m glad to hear he’ll be okay. As I understand it, the same can’t be said of Mr. Gray.” He sounded detached. Academic. As if the dead man were something he’d just erased from the blackboard.
Aaron glanced down to where Cork still knelt on the old floorboards. “Get up, O’Connor.”
Cork got to his feet.
“Over there.” Aaron nodded toward the place on the divan next to Lindsay Harris.
Cork went and sat down.
“You were going to kill him?” Aaron asked Fox.
“That was my intention. The object lesson we’d all discussed. And,” Fox said, his voice piqued with irritation, “we’d all agreed on. When you went to fetch Miss Harris, you were fully on board with sacrificing O’Connor, if necessary.”
“I didn’t know him then.”
“That makes a difference?”
“All the difference in the world.”
Fox nodded, thought over this turn of events, and said, “So, what do you propose now?”
“Let them talk.”
“There’s been nothing but talk. Too much of it. We need to act.”
“Let them talk,” Aaron said again. “Alone.”
“You think it will make a difference?”
“We won’t know until we give it a chance.”
Fox’s eyes moved over them all, assessing every variable of the equation he was putting together in his head. Finally he said, “Very well. Your way first.” He leveled a menacing look at Aaron. “Then mine.” He gestured to Indigo. “Take them to Mr. Harris’s room.”
Cork rose from the divan. Lindsay started up, and Brown reached down to help her. She glared at him, and he drew his hand back as if he’d been burned. John Harris tried to rise, but his battered body failed him. Cheval left the table, slipped his meaty hands under Harris’s arms, and helped him stand. Then he guided Harris away, and Cork and Lindsay followed. Indigo brought up the rear.
They walked down a short hallway to an opened door. Cheval helped Harris inside and sat him on the bed. Cork and Lindsay entered, and Cheval cut the tape that bound their hands. Then the pilot backed out and joined Indigo in the hallway.
“Don’t try to climb out a window,” Indigo warned them. He gave a little grin, as if he hoped that was exactly what they might try to do, and he closed the door.
Lindsay went to the bed and carefully assessed the damage that been done to her grandfather’s face. “Oh, Grandpa John. I’m so sorry.”
“Not your fault,” Harris replied.
That’s when Cork said, “On the contrary, Johnny Do, I think it’s all her fault.”