“You can buy tracking devices for less than $500,” Diego said. “Some are as small as a matchbook, and some of the newer models are fitted with anti-detection devices.”
“Great,” Cutbirth muttered.
“What makes you the expert?” Henry said, looking at Diego.
“One of my ad agency clients is Good Earth Tracking,” Diego said. “I should say one my former ad agency clients.”
Cutbirth nodded. “Since I don’t believe it was blind luck and I am satisfied there are no moles, it has to be a tracking device with an anti-detection feature.”
“How can you be so sure we don’t have a mole in our midst?” Henry questioned.
“I would expect a question like that from you, Henry,” Cutbirth said. “We don’t have a mole because I personally know and trust everyone who vouched for each you.” He made eye contact with everyone.
“Who vouched for Diego and me?” Adriana asked. “Was it Dr. Chiapas?”
“Yes,” Cutbirth replied. “The good doctor and I belong to the same spelunkers club.” Cutbirth said California had its share of caves, some of the most challenging in the Mojave Desert.
“Who vouched for me?” Sissy asked.
Cutbirth proceeded to identify the person or persons who had vouched for each of them.
“Someone probably fitted the Winnebago with the tracking device before you left Frisco,” Diego speculated. “Was the Winnebago parked in a garage?”
“On the street,” Cutbirth confessed.
“There you go,” Diego said.
“Regardless, when Uno and Mr. Mustache realize they've lost us, they'll paddle even faster and put that much more distance between us,” Cutbirth said. “They’ll be all the way to Ginger Blue Resort before they figure out they’ve been had.”
“How far is Ginger Blue Resort?” Diego asked.
“A couple of miles past where we’ll camp for the night,” Cutbirth said. “Ginger Blue was once a jewel of the Ozarks…before they laid the border. The lodge now sits less than a mile from the Demarcation Zone. Not too many guests these days. The DZ makes everyone nervous.”
“The bounty hunters aren’t very smart are they, Mr. Cutbirth?” Emily asked uneasily from her place in the canoe. She was blinking like a nervous lizard.
“No, kid, they’re not.”
“We should have weapons,” Yong said. “We should have some way to protect ourselves. The bounty hunters have guns. We don’t have anything except our good looks.”
Someone gave a nervous snort. Diego guessed it was Sam.
“If there’s any shooting to be done,” Cutbirth said, patting the bulge beneath his shirt, “I’ll be the one shooting.”
“What good is a pistol at…mmmm…let’s say a hundred yards?” Yong asked.
“I’m competitive with the woman named Uno. She packs a sawed-off shotgun—Big Bertha. The range for a sawed-off shotgun is about 50 feet,” Cutbirth said. “I’ll match my 10 millimeter Glock against Big Bertha any day. Madame Glock has served me well in the past.”
“I hope you don’t have to,” Sissy said. “Match your gun against hers, I mean.”
“Mr. Mustache must have a rifle,” Diego speculated. “He probably killed the cop last night.”
“And used vest-penetrating bullets to do it,” Yong said.
“Every time Uno makes a big kill or capture, she appears on that bounty-hunter reality show,” Cutbirth said.
“It’s called My Life as a Fugitive Recovery Agent,” Rosie said.
“Yeah, that’s the one,” Cutbirth confirmed.
“Fugitive Recovery Agent,” Yong ridiculed. “A ten-dollar word for a ten-cent thug.”
“It’s disgusting,” Sissy said, contempt in her voice.
“What is?” Sam asked.
“Those bounty hunters. It’s a disgusting way to make a living.” The contempt in her voice turned to anger. “Killing people for money. Killing people who simply wanted a”—she paused to think—“a better life.”
In a tiny voice that was almost lost to the sounds of the forest, Emily said, “Are they going to kill us, Mom?”
Sissy’s head snapped around with such vigor that Diego knew Sissy had forgotten that her daughter was seated in the canoe five feet away. “Oh, no, baby. I was just, uh, telling a silly story. They’re not going to…to do anything to us.” Sissy presented such an artificial smile that Diego was certain Emily could see through it.
“Promise?” Emily said.
Sissy nodded. “Promise.”
Diego looked at Cutbirth. “By the way, what’s Moon Milk?”
“What?” The question had caught Cutbirth off-guard.
“You mentioned something about Moon Milk that night on Fisherman’s Wharf.”
“It’s the calcite coating on some cave formations. It looks like milk. Cave walls resemble the moon’s surface. Moon milk.”
“How about a Bachman Knot?” Adriana said, cupping her palm and scooping up a handful of the Meramec River. She splashed the cold water onto the shine of sweat on her face.
“It’s a knot used to ascend a cave wall or pit, Little Mother. A special climbing knot.”
“How does water run uphill?” Yong asked. “Is there some new law of physics I’m not familiar with?”
“It can happen, Yong,” Cutbirth said. “When a tremendous gush of water is pushed through a small opening during a flood, the force of the water can be stronger than gravity. It can run uphill. Seen it a dozen times in a dozen different caves. I remember once in—”
The quiet Ozark morning was shattered by the distinctive sound of helicopter blades swishing through the air, and everyone turned their eyes skyward.
“Back!” Cutbirth ordered, paddling deeper into the thicket of river birch.
Everyone began digging furiously at the water with their paddles until the sterns of the canoes butted up against the muddy riverbank.
In the next second a sleek, twin-rotor helicopter appeared through the curtain of branches. It was flying downstream and to the north. It was so low that the backwash from the twin blades ruffled the surface of the water. NATIONAL POLICE was stenciled on the side of the four-seat chopper. The concussion of sound created by the powerful engine resonated in their chests. In the next instant the helicopter vanished and the whirling noise grew faint.
“Whoa, that was too close,” Cutbirth said quietly.
“If we’d been on the river...” Diego said. A gruesome thought appeared in his mind. Adriana and he were standing together on the gallows, black hoods over their heads, nooses around their necks.
“We’d be tomorrow’s news,” Yong said.
“We’d be the stars of that execution show,” Sam said.
Rosie made the sign of the cross and mouthed a short, silent prayer.
The remaining seconds of the hideous scene played out in Diego’s head. The executioner—it was a woman because in his daydream the hands were small and delicate, and the nails were polished—pulled the long-handled lever and Diego and Adriana dropped to their deaths.
***
Before resuming their trip down the Meramec River, the group ate a quick lunch of Uncle Clay’s Dried Fruit. They sank their plastic chests—Cutbirth said they had no further need for them—and ten minutes later they paddled out from beneath the tangle of limbs and continued down the river.
Staying close to the riverbank, they used the overhanging tree branches as best they could as cover in the event the helicopter returned. They were paddling past an old abandoned mill a half-hour later when Sam leaned over the side of his canoe and regurgitated a slithery rope of dried fruit. It was followed by dry heaves, which were followed moments later by an embarrassed apology to the group. “And sorry to you, too, Uncle Clay,” Sam added.
“Sam’s nerves are about shot,” Yong said, making eye contact with as many of his traveling companions as his gaze would reach.
“No shit,” Henry said.
They were paddling down a long open stretch o
f river minutes later when Diego thought he heard the helicopter again.
Cutbirth said it was the sound of a chainsaw. “Wood poachers, most likely.”
“Why don’t we beach our canoes and hike?” Diego asked, casting a wary glance at the sky. “It might be safer.”
“We’d have to ford this river at least twice, maybe three times,” Cutbirth said. “She’s too deep to ford.”
15
The Meramec River conformed gracefully to the curve of the towering buttes—geological formations that had been uplifted by forces eons ago—and Cutbirth and his group beached their canoes as the muddled shadows of night slipped over the forest. Everyone took a small measure of comfort in the shield of darkness, which concealed their presence from the National Police, the bounty hunters, and anyone else seeking a hefty reward. The story had been broadcast nationwide over PNN, as Cutbirth explained, and God only knew what species of scum was crawling out of the gutter to affect the safe return of Emily Frost and claim the half-million-dollar reward.
Cutbirth was camouflaging the canoes with small limbs from a nearby sycamore tree when he cried out, “Lookie here!” He trained his flashlight on the ground.
Everyone came over to where he knelt at the edge of the forest.
“What is it?” Diego asked.
“Bear tracks,” Cutbirth said.
“You’re kidding,” Adriana said. “You are kidding, right?”
“Take a look for yourself,” Cutbirth said. “They lead off in that direction.” He motioned toward the mountain with his flashlight beam. “These hills are filled with black bears.”
Diego touched the indentation with the toe of his hiking boot. The track was whiskered with the unmistakable imprint of claws.
Emily’s eyes were fixed in a bewildering stare at the strange impression, and Sissy wrapped an arm around her daughter. In the soothing voice only a mother could summon, she said, “It’s okay, Emily. It’s just a silly old track.” Sissy had chewed the fingernails on one hand down to the quick and was starting on the other hand.
Rosie smiled at Emily. “Not to worry, child. Bears eat berries and things, not people.”
“Au contraire,” Cutbirth said. “If a bear’s hungry enough, he’ll eat just about anything.”
“Even kids?” Emily asked, her eyes wide.
“In all my years as a hunter and trapper,” Cutbirth said, “I have never heard of a bear eating a kid, kid.”
“That’s good,” Emily said. She leaned down and snapped a picture of the paw print.
Diego said, “Cutbirth, do you think it’s safe to build a fire?”
Cutbirth snickered. “Great idea! Let’s build a great big bonfire, one that can be seen for miles, one that will lead the National—”
“Okay, okay,” Diego said. “No fire.”
They were famished after a long day on the river, and after everyone helped Cutbirth camouflage the remaining two canoes—if seen from the air the next day the canoes would reveal their passing—they sat on the ground in a circle, eating dried fruit. Asymphony of insects and frogs serenaded them.
Diego watched his wife. Chewing was becoming more and more difficult, and each tender swallow brought the pain to her eyes. It broke his heart to watch her eat.
It won’t be long now, Adriana, a voice in Diego’s head noted.
I hope you’re right, replied another.
A first-quarter moon climbed into the sky, hanging in the cosmos like half a polished pearl. Next to the moon, millions of miles beyond, was the evening star. Diego wondered aloud if it was Venus. Adriana confirmed that it was. The words “Make a wish” were on Diego’s tongue, but he did not speak them. Such drivel would be like pouring a very large amount of salt into a very inflamed wound.
Diego reached over and laid his hand on her arm. In a quiet voice he said, “Have I told you today how much I love—”
“So where’s this cave, Cutbirth?” Henry asked loudly and abruptly.
Adriana looked at Diego with a faint smile. “Save that thought.”
Cutbirth said, “Why don’t you try raising your voice, Henry? These hills are inhabited by a sub-species of humans call hillbillies. They infest these woods like lice, and you can bet your sweet ass they heard the news on PNN that we were headed their way.”
“Hillbillies,” Henry muttered. “What a crock.”
“You can spot a hillbilly from a distance,” Cutbirth said. “They wear straw hats, plaid shirts, and bib overalls. When they’re not fishing or hunting, their making moonshine. If you believe that to be a stereotype, you believe right. These good ole Missouri boys could have come from central casting.”
Diego didn’t know whether to believe Cutbirth or not.
Cutbirth wasn’t finished and gave Henry a sly grin. “A crock, you say? I hope we meet one, Henry. It will be my pleasure to introduce you. You think I’m scary?”
“So how did you manage to break the hillbilly cycle?” Yong asked.
Cutbirth said, “Went west with the border construction crews when they came through here back in ’22. I was two days short of my 30th birthday. Got citified in Frisco.”
Lowering his voice, Henry said, “I’m just saying the sooner we go underground, literally, the better off we’ll be. It will be cooler and safer.” Henry was seated atop his orange backpack. It had become an appendage to his anatomy.
“You must have taken your smart pill today, Henry,” Cutbirth said. “But I’m afraid I can’t make this cave appear magically. We still have some hiking to do.” The faint outline of the adjacent mountain carved an uneven line across the night sky. Cutbirth said they would hike up and over the mountain the next day. “We should arrive at the cave by midday.”
There was a sudden crackling of leaves nearby in the forest and everyone’s head twisted toward the sound.
“What was that?” Henry asked in a frightened whisper, peering into the mottled darkness.
“It’s the forest at night, Henry,” Cutbirth said. “Relax.”
Yong said, “So, Mr. Ozark Mountain Man, you worked as a guide around here. Where did you live?”
“Not far away,” Cutbirth said. “A little town called Beaver Creek. A mile or so east of the mill we passed on the river today. Lived there before I went west. Worked this entire area as a hunting and fishing guide. Like I said, when the border construction crews moved in, I hired on. Stayed with the project until it reached California two years later.”
“Beaver Creek,” Henry mocked. “How utterly…quaint.” He absently touched the homemade bandage on his forehead—it was spotted with blood. “A perfect environment, no doubt, for brothers and sisters to marry and spawn six-toed babies.”
“Have you looked in the mirror lately, Henry?” Cutbirth retorted. “I’m guessing your mother mated with a baldheaded ferret.”
That drew a giggle from Emily.
Sam said, “I’m assuming then, since you are the incarnation of all things feral, Mr. Cutbirth, that you know all about caves?”
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