"Shitty, last I heard. Probably won't make it through the night. Now, speaking of that video, I have some news you'll like." He smiled, his partner's impending death already forgotten. "Wanna guess what it is?"
"I couldn't begin to imagine."
"Tonight I'm sending your fellow combatant to his final reward. The great doggie bone in the sky--or the other direction. We're gonna have ourselves a hunt."
"A ... hunt?"
He jumped off the table. "A hunt. A big ol' wolfie hunt. Tonight. Larry's done with your 'mutt' and we're gonna give him a proper send-off." Winsloe snapped his fingers at the two guards, whose presence at this debacle I'd been trying hard to ignore. "Chop-chop, boys. Get on the horn and tell your buddies to prepare the guest of honor. We'll meet them at the lookout."
I'd spent most of the last half-hour gaping at Winsloe. Now my disbelief was mingled with something else. Dawning horror. Did he mean what I thought he meant? He was going to hunt Patrick Lake? Release him and hunt him down like the prize quarry at some big-game reserve? No, I must be mistaken. I had to be mistaken.
"Well?" he said, turning to me. "Grab that jacket from the table. It's getting cold out there. Wouldn't want you to catch pneumonia."
"I'm going outside?" I said slowly.
Winsloe laughed. "We sure as hell can't hunt him in here."
He threw back his head, barking a laugh, slapped me on the rear, and waltzed from the cell.
CHAPTER 23
GAME
The night was cold for late summer. It was still August, wasn't it? I calculated back. Yes, still August. It only seemed like I'd been gone longer.
If I'd hoped to pick up any clues to our location by going outside, I was disappointed. We took an elevator two flights up to ground level, exited through a secured door, and emerged a dozen feet from a forest that could have existed anywhere from Cape Breton to northern California. Maybe if I'd known my regional fauna better, I could have narrowed the possibilities, but examining trees was the furthest thing from my mind.
My wrists were manacled. Winsloe walked in front of me. The two guards, guns now drawn, followed behind. A path wove through thick forest to a clearing where a lookout stand towered a hundred feet in the air. Patrick Lake stood at the base of a wooden pillar, stamping his feet against the cold, both hands cupped around a lit cigarette.
"Hey," he said as we neared. "What's going on? It's fucking cold out here."
"Finish your smoke," Winsloe said. "You'll be plenty warm soon enough."
"I asked--"
One of Lake's guards jabbed him with a rifle butt.
Lake snarled, lifted a hand to swat the guard, then stopped himself. "I was only asking--"
"It's a surprise," Winsloe said, grabbing the ladder railing. "Finish your smoke."
"What's she doing here?" Lake waved his cigarette at me.
Winsloe was five steps up. He leaned over the railing.
"It's a surprise," he repeated. "We'll start as soon as you're ready."
Lake pitched his cigarette to the ground and stomped it. "I'm ready now."
"Then we begin."
"Release point two?" a guard asked.
"As planned," Winsloe said. "Everything as planned."
Winsloe continued his ascent. I followed, with our two guards close behind. By the time we reached the top, Winsloe was puffing. I surveyed the forest below. Lake and his guard duo had disappeared into the darkness.
"Over there," Winsloe panted, waving to the east. "Release point two. Release point one just below. Release point three by the river."