deadly, quiet tones. "He waited until you relaxed before he came out. He carried Crawford's body, knowing that you would focus your small minds on the fact that there was only one set of tracks."
Rage came to Tillman as naturally as tides to the sea. Now these men knew something of the cloning and DNA work. And that something was too much.
"I recall reading of an Indian tracker with a summer home in this valley. It was in the materials we were given to review. Whoever we're chasing didn't want to kill," Doyle said.
Tillman could not help but be impressed, but he said nothing. He needed to create the hard edge of hatred in his troops. He needed to define the enemy. Talking wouldn't do it. Old tracks in the snow wouldn't do it. What he was thinking would be a hard thing, but it was rational.
"Gentlemen," he told Diggs and Doyle, "I want to show you something. I need you to put these on."
As nonchalantly as a drunk fondles a whiskey glass, he tossed them each a pair of handcuffs. He studied Doyle's clean-shaven face. There was professionalism even in the way he stood.
"Just on the right wrist please."
Diggs looked at Doyle nervously. Doyle betrayed no emotion. Neither moved, each holding his silver-gray manacle like spoiled food.
"Gentlemen?"
Diggs shuffled his feet, casting his eyes downward. Neither man dropped his M-16. Tillman hated what he was about to do with Doyle.
"Indulge me, gentlemen." Tillman spoke in good-natured tones, but with condescension, as if to schoolchildren.
Diggs put on his cuff.
"Now we're going to test your athletic prowess," Tillman said, nodding to Diggs. "I guess Captain Doyle no longer works in our little army."
"Wait a minute," Doyle said, moving to snap on his handcuff. The loyalty caused Tillman a stab of pain.
"Step over here."
Doyle did as he was told and placed his back against a fir maybe eight inches in diameter. Tillman cuffed his hands over his head so that they were locked behind the tree.
''Well, do you want your job, or not?'' Tillman said to Diggs, who, pursuant to Tillman's nod, stood against the same tree with his back to Doyle. Both were soon secured, with their guns on the ground and their hands over their heads.
Tillman popped open a stiletto with a slender blade.
Doyle cocked his head, eying the knife, but said nothing.
"We did the best we could." Diggs looked as though he might cry. "Please don't."
Doyle remained silent.
"Don't what?" Tillman asked. "Don't what?"
"Don't hurt me." Diggs struggled against the cuffs.
"Oh, this won't hurt." Tillman allowed the contempt he felt for Diggs to rise inside him like a screaming demon.
"Open your mouth. I want to see your tonsils."
"What?"
"Just do it."
Like a careful dentist Tillman positioned Diggs's open mouth, then took the knife from behind his back and, quick as a mantis tongue, punctured the side of the man's throat. Blood welled up in the mouth. He had hit the carotid artery. Tillman pushed up on the chin firmly with his left hand while Diggs choked on his own blood.
"It's a fast way to die," he said to no one in particular.
Grabbing Diggs by the forelock, Tillman let the stilletto's tip cut to the skull and describe a rough circle around the top of the head. He knew that, once started, the human scalp peels like an orange. Using his thumb and forefinger, he separated scalp from skull and held up his gory trophy.
Doyle looked sideways to see what was happening with Diggs. Tillman walked slowly around the tree and dropped the scalp at the feet of Doyle, who didn't move a muscle.
"I understand what you're doing," Doyle said. "You think it's the Indian, Kier, and you want to bloody well make the point to the men. You could never trust Diggs with what he read in that paper. Two birds, one stone. But I think you sense that you can trust me."
"I'm impressed."
"I'm the man to help you catch the Indian."
Tillman removed the cuff from Doyle's wrist.
They hiked back to the burned-out jet, where Tillman let
Rage came to Tillman as naturally as tides to the sea. Now these men knew something of the cloning and DNA work. And that something was too much.
"I recall reading of an Indian tracker with a summer home in this valley. It was in the materials we were given to review. Whoever we're chasing didn't want to kill," Doyle said.
Tillman could not help but be impressed, but he said nothing. He needed to create the hard edge of hatred in his troops. He needed to define the enemy. Talking wouldn't do it. Old tracks in the snow wouldn't do it. What he was thinking would be a hard thing, but it was rational.
"Gentlemen," he told Diggs and Doyle, "I want to show you something. I need you to put these on."
As nonchalantly as a drunk fondles a whiskey glass, he tossed them each a pair of handcuffs. He studied Doyle's clean-shaven face. There was professionalism even in the way he stood.
"Just on the right wrist please."
Diggs looked at Doyle nervously. Doyle betrayed no emotion. Neither moved, each holding his silver-gray manacle like spoiled food.
"Gentlemen?"
Diggs shuffled his feet, casting his eyes downward. Neither man dropped his M-16. Tillman hated what he was about to do with Doyle.
"Indulge me, gentlemen." Tillman spoke in good-natured tones, but with condescension, as if to schoolchildren.
Diggs put on his cuff.
"Now we're going to test your athletic prowess," Tillman said, nodding to Diggs. "I guess Captain Doyle no longer works in our little army."
"Wait a minute," Doyle said, moving to snap on his handcuff. The loyalty caused Tillman a stab of pain.
"Step over here."
Doyle did as he was told and placed his back against a fir maybe eight inches in diameter. Tillman cuffed his hands over his head so that they were locked behind the tree.
''Well, do you want your job, or not?'' Tillman said to Diggs, who, pursuant to Tillman's nod, stood against the same tree with his back to Doyle. Both were soon secured, with their guns on the ground and their hands over their heads.
Tillman popped open a stiletto with a slender blade.
Doyle cocked his head, eying the knife, but said nothing.
"We did the best we could." Diggs looked as though he might cry. "Please don't."
Doyle remained silent.
"Don't what?" Tillman asked. "Don't what?"
"Don't hurt me." Diggs struggled against the cuffs.
"Oh, this won't hurt." Tillman allowed the contempt he felt for Diggs to rise inside him like a screaming demon.
"Open your mouth. I want to see your tonsils."
"What?"
"Just do it."
Like a careful dentist Tillman positioned Diggs's open mouth, then took the knife from behind his back and, quick as a mantis tongue, punctured the side of the man's throat. Blood welled up in the mouth. He had hit the carotid artery. Tillman pushed up on the chin firmly with his left hand while Diggs choked on his own blood.
"It's a fast way to die," he said to no one in particular.
Grabbing Diggs by the forelock, Tillman let the stilletto's tip cut to the skull and describe a rough circle around the top of the head. He knew that, once started, the human scalp peels like an orange. Using his thumb and forefinger, he separated scalp from skull and held up his gory trophy.
Doyle looked sideways to see what was happening with Diggs. Tillman walked slowly around the tree and dropped the scalp at the feet of Doyle, who didn't move a muscle.
"I understand what you're doing," Doyle said. "You think it's the Indian, Kier, and you want to bloody well make the point to the men. You could never trust Diggs with what he read in that paper. Two birds, one stone. But I think you sense that you can trust me."
"I'm impressed."
"I'm the man to help you catch the Indian."
Tillman removed the cuff from Doyle's wrist.
They hiked back to the burned-out jet, where Tillman let
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