Nowhere to Run

by C. J. Box

  But there was a unique sound to a dry branch snapping under the foot of a man. It was a deep and muffled crack, like a silenced gunshot. It was a different sound from that of a twig breaking under the hard cloven hoof of an ungulate—an elk or moose—that produced a sharp snap like a pretzel stick being halved. At the sound, Joe rolled to his right and he sensed Nate roll to his left. Joe had no doubt Nate was on his knees with the .454 Casull drawn by now. For his own part, he had the shotgun ready. He slowly jacked a shell into the chamber to keep the metal-on-metal action as quiet as possible, and when the live shell was loaded into the chamber he fed another double-ought round into the receiver. He held his shotgun at the ready and felt his senses straining to determine if whoever had made the sound was closer, farther, or standing still.

  Joe turned to his left to ask Nate if he could hear any more sounds, but Nate was gone. Joe squinted into the darkness, trying to find his friend.

  When he couldn’t, Joe settled back on his haunches behind the downed log, his shotgun muzzle pointed vaguely uphill.

  There was another muffled snap, this one closer than the first. He estimated the sound coming from fifty feet away.

  He raised the shotgun and lay the doused Maglite along the forward stock. His heart pounded in his chest, and he thought if it beat any harder, everybody would be able to hear it.

  As he stared into the shadowed darkness of the trees, he saw a single small red dot for a moment six feet off the ground. It blinked out. Then he saw it again. Joe was sure that he was close enough that if he fired he’d probably hit the source of the light. He remembered Nate’s admonition to shoot first, but he couldn’t simply pull the trigger. Not without knowing who it was.

  The roaring of blood in his ears nearly drowned out the voice of the man who said, “Joe, is that you?”

  Then, “For Christ sake, Joe, don’t fucking shoot me!”

  Joe said, “Farkus?” And he heard the hollow sound of the heavy steel barrel of Nate’s .454 smack hard into the side of Farkus’s head, toppling him over.

  “Don’t kill him, Nate,” Joe said, sighing and getting to his feet. “I know this guy. He’s the local who owned one of the burned-up trucks back in the campground. The one who didn’t seem to fit into all of this.”

  “NIGHT VISION GOGGLES,” Nate said with contempt, nudging Farkus with the toe of his boot, “and unless I’m wrong, he’s wearing body armor, too. I’m thinking this Farkus guy isn’t quite what you and Baird thought he was.”

  Farkus moaned and reached up to put his hand over the new gash and bump on the side of his head.

  Joe stepped over the downed log and fixed his Maglite on Farkus. The bright light through the lenses of the goggles must have burned his retinas as if he were looking into the sun itself, the way Farkus winced and pulled the goggles off. He threw the equipment away from him, saying, “It’s like you blinded me.”

  “You didn’t shoot,” Joe said to Nate, ignoring Farkus.

  “No reason to,” Nate said. “I watched him come down through the trees focused totally on you. He was watching you every second. I was behind a trunk and he never even turned my way.”

  Farkus croaked, “Why’d you smack me?”

  Nate squatted down next to Farkus. “Because we’ve nearly been killed twice tonight by people who more than likely had night vision gear. And because you were lurking around in the dark, you idiot. You’re lucky I didn’t blow your head off. Where did you get those goggles?”

  Joe kept his flashlight on Farkus’s face, trying to read it. Farkus said, “I stole them. The vest, too.”

  “Who’d you steal them from?” Nate asked.

  “I took them off a dead guy,” Farkus said, sitting up. “He didn’t need them anymore. Being he was dead and all.”

  Said Nate, “Who was the dead guy?”

  “His name was Capellen. He was with the other guys from Michigan up here to find the Cline Brothers. Capellen was killed first, and I took his stuff.”

  Joe said, “Start from the beginning, Dave. How did you get from the other side of the mountain to here?”

  “They kidnapped me,” Farkus said. “The men from Michigan, I mean. I drove up on them at my elk camp, and they took me along with them because I know the mountains. They were tracking those damned brothers, but everything went bad for them. The brothers ambushed us and I was the only one left alive. Them brothers, they ain’t human, I tell you. They ain’t. You guys should turn around and get the hell out of here while you have the chance.”

  Joe said, “What are they if they aren’t human?”

  “Wendigos. Monsters. They can move through the trees like phantoms or something, and they can just appear wherever they want. I told you back at the trailhead, remember?”

  “I remember,” Joe said.

  “So how did you get away from them?” Nate asked with a smirk. “Did you hold a cross up and just walk away?”

  “I waited until they were gone,” Farkus said, “and I managed to get untied. They’ve completely left the mountains for somewhere else. They ain’t around no more. They had me tied up in a cave, I mean a cabin.”

  Nate drew his arm back as if he were going to backhand Farkus, and the man flinched and grimaced, raising his arms to cover his face, ready for a blow.

  “Nate,” Joe said.

  When Farkus lowered his arms, Nate slapped him hard across his face.

  “Why’d you do that?” Farkus protested. “I haven’t done nothing.”

  Nate said, “You scared us, that’s what. And now you’re speaking gibberish. I hate gibberish. Nobody confuses a cabin with a cave. So you’d better start telling us the truth about what’s really going on up here, or you won’t see morning come.”

  Joe nodded. “Your story doesn’t jibe, Dave. Like maybe you’re making it up as you go along.” He kept his flashlight on Farkus’s face and noted how the man averted his eyes and blinked rapidly as he spoke—two signs of a lying witness. “Somebody set a trap that could have killed either one of us and later rolled a boulder down the mountain that could have taken us out. The brothers were seen clearly this afternoon by a sheriff at the trailhead where they were in the process of burning your truck. No one else would match that description.

  “Plus,” Joe said, lowering the beam of the flashlight to Farkus’s hands in his lap, “I don’t see any marks on your wrists from rope or wire. Which says to me you weren’t tied up at all. Now, I’m going to ask you some questions and you’re going to answer them. If I think you’re lying again, I’m going to get up and walk away and leave you with Mr. Romanowski.”

  He nodded toward Nate. “And whatever happens, happens. Got that?”

  Farkus said, “Yes.”

  “Good. Let’s start with the men from Michigan. We found three of them back on the trail. Who were they?”

  “I told you. They were here to find the brothers and kill them.”

  “Why?”

  “They wouldn’t explain it all to me outright,” Farkus said. “Every time I asked what they were doing up here, they basically told me to shut up. But from what I could get from what they said to each other, it had to do with something that happened back in Michigan, where all of them were from. They were taking orders from this guy named McCue. He was at my elk camp with them, but he didn’t come along with us—”

  “McCue?” Joe broke in. “Did I hear you right? Bobby McCue? Skinny guy? Older, kind of weary-looking?”

  “That’s him,” Farkus said.

  Joe took a deep breath.

  Farkus continued, “The guys I was with knew the brothers, or knew enough about them, anyway. I got the feeling they might have clashed at one time or other.”

  “It was personal, then?” Nate said.

  “Not really. I think they knew of the brothers, like I said. But I’m sure it wasn’t personal. They were hired and outfitted by someone with plenty of money.”

  “Did you hear any names besides McCue?”

  “None that meant an
ything.”

  “Try to remember,” Joe said, his head spinning.

  Farkus scrunched up his eyes and mouth. He said, “McGinty. I think that was it. And Sugar.”

  Joe felt a jolt. He said, “Senator McKinty and Brent Shober?”

  “Could be right,” Farkus said.

  Nate’s upper lip curled into a snarl.

  Joe said to Nate: “What’s going on?”

  Nate said, “It’s worse than we thought.”

  Then Joe said to Farkus, “And all of you rode into a trap of some kind?”

  “At the last cirque,” Farkus said, nodding. “We rode down the trail to the water and the lead guy, Parnell, rode through some rocks. He tripped a wire and a spike mounted on a green tree took him out.”

  “We’re familiar with the trap,” Joe said. “Go on.”

  “The brothers were on us like ugly on an ape,” Farkus said. “The horses blew up and started rearing and everybody got bucked off. The brothers finished off the wounded except for me.”

  “Why’d they spare you?”

  Farkus shook his head. “I don’t know, Joe. I just don’t know.”

  “So they took you to their cabin. Or was it a cave?”

  “It was a cabin.”

  “Why did you say cave earlier?”

  “You might have noticed there’s a big guy with a big gun right next to me. I was nervous and probably misspoke.”

  “Ah,” Joe said, as if he was happy with the explanation. “And then the brothers just left?”

  “Yes. They packed up and left me to die. They are completely out of this county by now. Maybe even out of the state.”

  “Interesting you’re sticking with that,” Joe said. “So the rock that was rolled at us a while back was just a natural occurrence?”

  “I don’t know anything about a rock,” Farkus said, his eyes blinking as if he he’d got dust blown into them. “All I know is there’s no point in you guys going after them anymore. They’re gone.”

  “Were the brothers alone?”

  “What do you mean?” When he asked, Farkus looked away and blinked his eyes.

  “Was there a woman with them?” Joe asked softly.

  “A woman?” Farkus said. “Up here?”

  “Terri Wade or Diane Shober. I’m sure you’ve heard of at least one of them.”

  Farkus shook his head.

  Joe said to Nate, “We’re done here,” and stood up. “Should we dig a hole for the body, or let the wolves scatter his bones?”

  Nate said, “I say we put his head on a pike. That kind of thing spooks Wendigos, I believe. Sends ’em running back to Canada, where they belong.”

  Farkus looked from Nate to Joe, his eyes huge and his mouth hanging open.

  “I’ve got no use for liars,” Nate said.

  Joe turned to say something to Nate, but his friend was gone. He was about to call after him, but didn’t. Nate’s stride as he walked away contained purpose. And when Joe listened, he realized how utterly silent it had become in the forest surrounding them. No sounds of night insects or squirrels or wildlife.

  He quickly closed the gap with Farkus and shoved the muzzle of his shotgun into the man’s chest. He whispered, “They’re here, aren’t they?”

  Farkus gave an unwitting tell by shooting a glance into the trees to his left.

  Joe said, “They sent you down here to distract us and pin us to one place while they moved in,” Joe said, his voice as low as he could make it.

  Farkus didn’t deny the accusation, but looked at the shotgun barrel just below his chin.

  “Hold it,” Farkus stammered, his voice cracking. “Hold it. You’re law enforcement. You can’t do this.”

  Joe eased the safety off with a solid click.

  “Really, please, oh, Jesus,” Farkus whispered. Then he raised his voice, “Don’t do this to me, please. You can’t do this. . . .”

  “Keep your voice down,” Joe hissed, shoving the muzzle hard into Farkus’s neck.

  From the shadows of the forest, Camish said, “I’m real surprised you came back, game warden.”

  And fifty feet to the right of Camish, Nate said, “Guess what? I’ve got your brother.”

  30

  THE STANDOFF THAT OCCURRED AT 4:35 A.M. ON THE WESTERN slope of the Sierra Madre transpired so quickly and with such epic and final weight, and such a simple but lethal potential conclusion, that Joe Pickett found himself surprisingly calm. So calm, he calculated his odds. They weren’t good. He knew the likelihood of his sudden death was high and he wished like hell he had called his wife on the satellite phone and said good-bye to her and his precious girls. He also knew he would have apologized for dying for such a cause, and at the hands of the dispossessed. As if a man could choose his killer.

  In this moment of clarity, Joe thought, sharp points elbowed their way to the fore:• His shotgun was on Farkus and it would take one or two seconds to wheel and aim it at Camish;

  • Camish had Joe’s heart in the sights of his rifle; knew Joe and Nate could cut him in half, so he must have a trump card, likely. . . .

  • Caleb had a .454 muzzle pressed against his temple and was unable to speak anyway;

  • Farkus was clueless—he’d obviously been coerced by the brothers but hadn’t firmed up his storyline and he’d therefore stumbled into lies that piqued Joe’s interest;

  • If one man pulled a trigger, a cacophony of exploding shots would throw lead through the void like a buzz saw and cut down all of them for eternity, and;

  • Nobody wanted that.

  At least Joe didn’t.

  Joe said, “We all know the situation we’ve got here. It can go one way or the other. Things can get western in a hurry. If they do, I’m betting on my man Nate here to tip the scales, Camish. But I think a better idea may be sitting down and starting a fire and hashing this out.”

  After a beat, Camish said, “You’re one of these folks thinks everything can be solved by talking?”

  Said Joe, “No, I don’t believe that. No one has ever accused me of excess talking. But I think something really bad will happen any second if we don’t. I’m willing to sit down and discuss the possibility of more than two of us walking away from here.”

  Camish said, “Caleb, you okay?”

  The response was a muffled groan.

  Nate said, “He’s about to lose the rest of his head.”

  Camish’s voice was high and tight: “Don’t you hurt my brother.”

  Joe realized his initial shocked calm had slipped away and he was sweating freely from fear. He struggled to keep his words even, hoping Camish would give in. It was easier to sound serious because he was.

  “Tell you what,” he said. “Let’s meet at that downed log a few feet from me. Camish can keep aiming at me. Nate can keep his gun at Caleb’s head. I’ll keep my shotgun on Farkus here. But when we get to the log we’ll sit down. How does that sound?”

  From the dark, Joe heard Farkus say, “I’m kind of wondering where I fit into this deal.”

  And Nate growl, “You don’t, idiot.”

  Camish said, “Deal.”

  CAMISH LOOKED EVEN THINNER than Joe remembered him. It had been a rough few days. The man’s eyes seemed to have sunk deeper into hollows above his cheekbones and resembled marbles on a mantel. He hadn’t shaved in weeks, and all the silver hairs in his beard made him look gaunt and wizened. Like a Wendigo, Joe thought.

  Joe and Nate sat on one log, the Grim Brothers on another. They faced each other.

  Caleb sat in utter, pained silence. If anything, he looked more skeletal than his brother. His dark eyes flicked like insects between his brother and Joe and Nate as if hoping for a place to land. A dirt-filthy bandage was taped to his lower jaw. Caleb had an AR-15 with a scope across his lap, with the muzzle loosely pointed a foot to the right of Joe. Joe was sure the weapon was locked and ready to fire, and that Caleb was capable of spraying full automatic fire at him and Nate in a heartbeat. The weapon must have come
from the Michigan boys, Joe thought.

  In between them, they’d started a small fire. Farkus sat on a stump near the fire, positioned carefully equidistant from both logs. Farkus fed the fire with pencil-sized twigs. The fire shot lizard tongues at the darkness and occasionally flared due to a particularly dry piece of wood or because of time-concentrated pitch within the stick. The effect made Camish and Caleb’s faces fade in and out of the darkness in various stages of orange.

  Nate sat silently on the log to Joe’s left. His friend didn’t even attempt to hide his proclivities, and he kept his .454 lying across the top of his thighs with his hand on the grip and his finger on the trigger. Joe knew Nate was capable of raising the weapon and firing at both of them in less than a second.

  Whether Nate could take out both brothers before Caleb could fire his weapon at Joe and Nate was the question.

  Joe said to Caleb, “I see your tactical vest now. I guess you were wearing it when I shot you with my Glock. Now I know why you didn’t go down.”

  Caleb glared back at him, his eyes dark and piercing but his expression inscrutable.

  “You know he can’t talk,” Camish said. “That shot to his lower jaw splintered his chinbone and somehow drove slivers of it into his talk box. The point-blank shot to his chest later probably didn’t help much, either. Anyways, he hasn’t spoken a word since that night.”

  He said it matter-of-factly, and Joe let it sink in. Joe said, “I fired blindly when I hit him in the face. Not that I wasn’t trying to do damage—I was.”

  Caleb almost imperceptibly nodded his head.

  Joe said to Caleb, “I would have been happy to have killed you given the circumstances.”