Only the Dead by Vidar Sundstøl Page B

more than was necessary. He just hoped Andy also wanted to get this whole expedition over with as soon as possible. That he wasn’t trying to pull something behind his back. But it was obvious Andy was feeling uneasy. He could tell his brother knew something.
    Lance pictured the body of Georg Lofthus the way it had looked when he found the dead man on that morning nearly four months ago. He couldn’t even imagine what emotions must have provoked such a brutal attack. For a moment he thought about the cat hissing in the dark. How he’d struck blow after blow, and kept at it long after the cat had fallen silent. But good Lord, it was a cat! And one that was seriously injured. He hadn’t had the heart to just drive away and leave the poor animal like that.
    Andy would never hurt me, he thought. Not even if I turned him in. And yet Lance wasn’t so sure about that. Because if he did turn Andy in, his brother would spend the rest of his life behind bars, cut off from his family, locked up with hardened criminals. Lance assumed he’d go to great lengths to avoid ending up like that. But how far would he go?
    Lance was keeping an eye on the clearing the whole time. This took some effort since nothing was happening out there, but a good hunter had to master the art of constant vigilance, or else he wouldn’t have a chance when something finally did happen. That was something he fully understood. Now it occurred to him that this might also be the right way to deal with his brother. Stay alert the whole time, even now, when nothing seemed to be happening. Especially now. If he didn’t, all of a sudden it might be too late.
    I’m not taking any chances, he thought.
    It had started to drizzle. The same dismal cold rain. He raised his hands to his lips to blow on his fingers. He never wore mittens or gloves while out hunting. And it wasn’t just because he needed to pull the trigger. He could have done like so many other hunters did, cutting off the index finger on their right glove or wearing fingerless mitts. For Lance it was a matter of his grip on the rifle and having complete contact between the palms of his hands and the stock of the gun, whether it was made of wood or, as in his case, fiberglass. He rubbed his hands hard against each other until they turned a fiery red. Then he picked up his rifle and resumed the same motionless position.
    What if Andy had lost control, just like that time in the school yard long ago? If it comes down to him or me, thought Lance, how far am I willing to go?
    ANDY WAS WALKING ALONG A CREEK , holding his rifle in his hands. All around him grew tall maple trees. They were spaced relatively far apart, which gave the woods a more open, almost park-like feel—something that was quite unusual for the area. When he reached a place where the creek made a ninety-degree turn, he stopped and looked around. A couple of rocks were sticking up out of the foaming white water. All the rain over the past few weeks had made for a forceful current. Even so, he leaped from the bank and crossed the creek with a couple of light, quick steps, almost as if he were dancing across the rocks, holding his gun in his right hand, his left arm outstretched to keep his balance. He disappeared among some bushes on the opposite bank, but soon reemerged.
    Suddenly Andy spun around and stared straight ahead. Lance swiftly pulled back behind the small spruce tree. But when he ventured another look, he saw that his brother was continuing along the creek at the same slow pace. It didn’t look like he’d noticed anything, but if he had, it would have been nothing more than a split second of movement. It was probably coincidence that he had spun around to look in his brother’s direction.
    Now Lance left his hiding place and walked along the ridge, making sure the whole time that he couldn’t be seen from the creek bed below. As long as he stayed up here, it shouldn’t be a problem to reach the post before Andy did. The