Deadfall

  PRAISE FOR

  ROBERT LIPARULO’S NOVELS

  “Deadfall is a brilliantly crafted thriller with a terrifying premise and flawless execution. I loved it.”

  —Michael Palmer, author of The Fifth Vial

  “Another brilliantly conceived and terrifying thriller from Robert Liparulo. Deadfall will leave you looking over your shoulder and begging for more.”

  —David H. Dun, author of The Black Silent

  “In Deadfall, Robert Liparulo gives us a fresh, fast-paced novel that instills a well-founded fear of the villains and an admiration for the people who refuse to be victims. It deserves the name ‘thriller.’”

  —Thomas Perry, author of Silence

  “What if Mad Max, Rambo, and The Wild Bunch showed up—-all packing Star Wars-like weapons—in a small Canadian town? You’d have the thrilling adventure novel Deadfall. Robert Liparulo reminds us that small town life is still the scariest, and man’s inhumanity to man is still The Most Dangerous Game.”

  —Katherine Neville, New York Times best-selling author of The Eight

  “High-octane thrills are Robert Liparulo’s specialty, and boy does he deliver in this ultimate tale of survival.”

  —Tess Gerritsen, author of The Bone Garden

  “Inventive, suspenseful, and highly entertaining. An engrossing and imaginative tale that sticks in your brain and makes you wonder about its real possibilities. Robert Liparulo is a storyteller, pure and simple.”

  —Steve Berry, New York Times best-selling author of The Alexandria Link

  “Very rarely does a writer come along who can entertain at the highest level while exploring human character so effectively.”

  —Bookshelf Reviews

  “Robert Liparulo has written an edge of the seat thriller—complete with characters you truly care about. Deadfall will keep you turning pages long into the night.”

  —Joan Johnston, New York Times best-selling author

  of The Price and The Rivals

  “Liparulo’s dialogue is smooth and competent, and he throws in just enough twists to keep the pages turning.”

  —Publishers Weekly review of Germ

  “Great characters and literate writing, a compulsive read. I loved it! Truly.”

  —Douglas Preston, New York Times best-selling author

  of Relic, Tyrannosaur Canyon, and The Book of the Dead

  “Exceptional writing . . . Brilliant plot . . .Terror at its best.”

  —inthelibraryreviews.net review of Germ

  “…comes a well-crafted page turner mindful of The Da Vinci Code.”

  —Tampa Bay Tribune review of Comes a Horseman

  “Prophecy and murder run roughshod through Comes a Horseman. From the mountain peaks of Colorado down to a labyrinth beneath Jerusalem, mystery and adventure abound in a read that will keep you up to the wee hours of the morning. Not to be missed!”

  —James Rollins, New York Times best-selling author

  of Sandstorm and Map of Bones

  “Frightening and fiendishly smart, Comes a Horseman is a must-read! Robert Liparulo’s intense thrill ride will keep your nerves frayed and your lights on.”

  —David Morrell, author of Creepers and The Brotherhood of the Rose

  “Comes a Horseman is an ambitious and original debut thriller by a fine new writer. Robert Liparulo deserves an audience, because he has something meaningful to say.”

  —C.J. Box, Anthony Award-winning author of Out of Range

  OTHER BOOKS BY ROBERT LIPARULO

  Comes a Horseman

  Germ

  © 2007 by Robert Liparulo

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Published in Nashville,Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a trademark of Thomas Nelson, Inc.

  Thomas Nelson books may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail [email protected].

  Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Liparulo, Robert.

  Deadfall / by Robert Liparulo.

  p. cm.

  ISBN: 978-0-7852-6

  179-7 (HC)

  ISBN: 978-978-1-59554-476-6 (IE)

  1. Businessmen—Fiction. 2.Terrorists–Fiction.

  3. Saskatchewan—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3612.I63D43 2007

  813'.6--dc22

  2007032736

  Printed in the United States of America

  07 08 09 10 QW 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For Jodi

  This is as much your story as mine.

  Thank you.

  Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  56

  57

  58

  59

  60

  61

  62

  63

  64

  65

  66

  67

  68

  69

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  An Excerpt from

  If you are going through hell, keep on going.

  —WINSTON CHURCHILL

  A lifetime is a flash of lightning in the sky.

  —BUDDHA

  The most dangerous of enemies are the ones who hide in plain sight.

  —PROVERB

  When you are unsure of a man’s character, look at his friends.

  —DAVID RYDER

  1

  FIDDLER FALLS, SASKATCHEWAN, CANADA

  On the north shore of the Fond du Lac River, thirty miles from

  the Northwest Territories

  Population: 242

  The people trying to kill Roland Emery quickly closed the distance behind him.

  “Back off!” Roland yelled at his rearview mirror, where the big front grille of their truck loomed.

  This rutted half-road was as familiar to him as the ever-increasing contours of his face. He knew every bump, every bend, every place where the trees stepped in closer to slash at your paint or, if you really were not paying attention, kick a dent in a side panel or door. Still, the newcomers stayed on him, falling back on the turns, then roaring forward when only rough terrain stood between them. Their truck was one of those big fancy jobs, those pseudo-military monsters
that ate ruts and boulders like granola.

  A jolting bump gave him a glimpse of his own face in the mirror: red-rimmed eyes, bulging in fear. One of his shaking hands came off the wheel, fluttered to his face, and wiped at the oily sweat on his brow.

  What do they want? he thought. No, no, no . . . That wasn’t the question. The question was why? Why did they want to kill him?

  Steering around each tight curve, he tried to get hold of his frenzied mind. What appeared to him, calming him, was his wife’s face. Lizzie.What would happen to her if he died? Fine lady, tough as the wolverines they trapped together; but she always said what kept her going through the cold mornings checking traps and the long days guiding hunters into the hills was knowing Roland would be there at night to stoke the fire and fix a cup of Nahapi “sit down” tea just the way she liked it.

  He pushed his lips together and cranked the wheel, taking the car down through a shallow stream and out the other side. He felt his panic pulling at him, trying to make him do something stupid. He squinted and forced Lizzie to fill that place in his mind instead of the terror.

  He wished they had put some money aside so the old gal wouldn’t have to work so hard by herself if these guys after him got their way. Thank heaven she wasn’t with him now.

  Oh yes, at least there was that.

  She’d risen with him at five, as usual, but moving a little more slowly, with a little less spunk.

  “Just a little tired’s all,” she’d said. “Ain’t nothin’.”

  But he knew her. “Just a little tired” for Lizzie was “I’d better go see the doc” for most people. So he had insisted on checking the traps alone.

  Which is what he had been doing when the big truck appeared, as bright yellow as a birthday balloon. He soon realized that the color had nothing to do with the owner’s fun-loving disposition. Rather, it was ironic or sarcastic or one of those words that meant “you can’t judge a fellow by the color of his car.”

  Roland had been coming back from checking yet another empty trap when he’d spotted the truck. He’d left his old Subaru right on the rutted trail since travelers in these hilly woods were nearly unheard of this time of year. The big yellow truck had been farther up, as though returning from camping. But he had seen it parked in front of Ben Mear’s B&B on his way out of town. Fiddler Falls was too small for visitors to go unnoticed, let alone a group with a fancy machine like that.

  Sure enough, he’d seen where the vehicle’s wheels had pushed down the grass and some saplings on its way around the Subaru.The driver must have realized there was nothing to see but more trees along that route and turned around. He had stopped fifty yards away, as though waiting for Roland.

  A man and a girl had appeared to be standing in the bed of the truck, but straps crossed over their shoulders and chests, so they must have been sitting in chairs. The chairs positioned them high enough to see over the cab’s roof. And that was just weird.

  He had waved, but the strangers had not waved back. Instead, the man seated in the bed had pointed at a tree between them.

  The tree had exploded.

  There had been the sound of thunder, a blinding flash, a wave of hot air, and the tree had disappeared. It hadn’t been blown out of the ground or knocked off its trunk. It hadn’t fallen into the woods or across the path. It had just . . . disintegrated. Needles and splinters and dirt had shot straight up, then rained down. The branches closest to the destroyed tree had ignited, burning like a thousand tiny torches.

  Roland had fallen back into the brush, then staggered to his feet. The man’s finger had swung slowly toward Roland. Roland had run around the car, hopped in, and reversed off the trail. He had turned the Subie toward town and punched the accelerator. The station wagon had coughed and sputtered, and he’d slapped his palm against the steering wheel and cursed himself for not giving it the tune-up it had wheezed for since summer.

  Now it was moving pretty good, bouncing over rocks and ruts, but it was no match for the newer, bigger truck on its tail. Every now and again he’d catch a glimpse of the two heads bobbing furiously over the cab’s roof. They would duck under branches hanging over the trail, and Roland thought the trees must have batted them a few good times. Still, they appeared to be laughing.When he squinted for a better look, he almost went off the road.

  Finally he came out of the heavy woods and onto the dirt road that became Shatu’ T’ine Way a quarter mile up: town, people, Constable Fuller. No way his pursuers would follow him there, not into the heart of Fiddler Falls. Small as it may be, witnesses were witnesses.

  Weaving from side to side, too many thoughts crowding his driving etiquette, he saw the truck plow out of the trees and grow larger in the mirror.

  “Not here!” he yelled out loud. “Not in town!”

  He flew past the B&B, where he’d seen the truck earlier. Approaching the town’s main street, he braked.The car’s rear tires tried to slide out from under him. He gave it more gas, bumping up onto Provincial Street’s blacktop. The avenue was barren. Most of the town was only now waking up.The autumn sun was still burning off the gray haze of morning twilight.

  “Be there, be there,” he said, speeding past the community center on his left.

  His pursuers swung into view behind him. As he crossed Fife Street, he swerved to the left curb. The RCMP substation was dark. The CLOSED sign Tom used to inform folks he was out and about leaned against the big front window.Tom made it a point to tell everyone that he, as constable, never really closed; they simply needed to find him somewhere else.

  Home, he thought. I’ll go to his—

  He saw Old Man Nelson sweep a plume of dust out of the general store’s front door across the street. He cranked the wheel and shot to the opposite curb, but the old man had stepped back inside.

  Roland grabbed for the door handle, flicking his eyes to the mirror as he did.

  The truck had stopped at the intersection.

  The man in the cab was pointing at him.

  Everything happened at once, but for Roland, it seemed to take a lifetime. Metal ripped and tore. Glass shattered. Roland burst into flames. It wasn’t that part of him caught fire and quickly spread. No, he was instantly engulfed. His arm spasmed. His fingers caught on the handle, and the door opened. He rolled out and stood, thinking what he needed to do . . . thinking . . .

  His hair singed away, his flesh blistered, his blood boiled.

  He was blinded by agonizing pain . . . then by the physical destruction of his eyes. He stumbled, may have fallen; he did not know. Every nerve—head to toe, skin to marrow—cried out for relief.

  A thought, an image occurred to him. He was frying. He tried to scream.

  He flailed his arms . . . or thought he did.

  He—

  2

  Tom Fuller sat at the kitchen table, a plate of pancakes and link sausages half gone in front of him. He was listening to Dillon complain about an older boy, a sixth grader who’d been taking kids’ snacks and threatening to pound anyone who told.

  “Aren’t you afraid of getting pounded?” Laura asked, turning from the counter with a fresh pitcher of orange juice.

  The question in Tom’s mind was Who is this punk? Leave it to Laura to explore their son’s thought process instead.

  Dillon shrugged. “What’s he gonna do? My mom’s the teacher and my dad’s the law.”

  Tom laughed. “Is that what I am?”

  Dillon grinned and nodded enthusiastically. At nine, and with the encouragement of a stack of video Westerns he had received for his birthday, he was just realizing how cool it was for his dad to be the town’s only cop.

  “So what are you going to do about it?” Laura asked, eliciting a perplexed expression from Dillon: wasn’t telling his parents doing something?

  Tom stopped the arc of his fork traveling toward his mouth so he could give Dillon a smile and a wink.The kid was cute without resorting to puppy-dog expressions. In puppy mode he could soften the stoniest heart. Some
times Tom felt sorry for him. Tom and Laura shared a love of knowledge and learning; wanting their child to also appreciate erudition, they tended to turn their conversations into teaching opportunities. Couple that with an outdoorsy lifestyle in a region where the weather battled the terrain to see which would wear a man down the most, and you’d end up possessing both brains and brawn. At least that was the idea. Indeed, Dillon was philosophical beyond his years but still very much a young boy. Tom didn’t want him growing up too fast.

  Tom said, “You could always kick him in the—”

  From outside, a boom!—as loud as an exclamation point, as brief as a period—rattled the windows. Dogs began barking.

  Dillon’s face instantly reflected shock-worry-fear. Laura mirrored his expression and looked more like her son than ever.The OJ sloshed against the clear pitcher, settling from the shake she had involuntarily given it.

  “What—” she started.

  “Stay here,”Tom said. He dropped the fork and pushed back from the table. He grabbed his gun belt from a hook and yanked open the rear door.

  “Dad?”

  “Don’t worry,” Tom said, forcing a smile. “I’m sure it’s nothing.

  Just . . . just stay in the house.” His eyes locked with Laura’s. “Don’t head to school until you hear from me.”

  She nodded.

  He pulled the door shut, jogged around the house, and saw black, billowy smoke snaking into the sky from the center of town. Strapping on the gun belt, he ran up Camsel Drive. A door opened. Lars and Barb Jergins, owners of the Elder Elk Diner, stepped onto the porch. Their eyes rose up to the smoke as their mouths dropped.

  Tom raised a hand. “Lars! Barb!” he called.

  “What happened,Tom?” Lars asked.

  “Don’t know. Stay here. I’ll come tell you when I find out.”

  They went back inside.

  Tom rounded the corner onto Provincial Street. This was Fiddler Falls’s main thoroughfare, though it consisted of only four short blocks of businesses, including an Elks Lodge, a combination town hall and community center, and Dr. Jeffrey’s big Victorian housecum- office. At the street’s southern terminus was Dirty Woman Park, a half-moon swatch of grass, trees, playground equipment, and redwood picnic tables and benches.

  Tourists chuckled at the name until they learned its literal meaning. Despite living right on the river, Becca Nahanni was said never to have bathed. Never. Her stench and a patina of grime that covered her skin, caking in her wrinkles, had supported the rumor.When she had died in her nineties, she willed her small shack to the town. It had been so odorous and foul, the town had razed it and created the park in her honor.