“I’ve heard, but usually it’s just talk. Never actually happens. They’ve been saying that for weeks.”
I glanced out at the sky to our north, the air beginning to bruise around us. “Yeah, I know, but this time, you might need to take it seriously. Make sure you pay attention to the news in case an evacuation is ordered. Being prepared is never a bad thing.”
“I’m prepared,” she said, holding her pointy chin high. “Don’t worry about me. I’m always prepared.”
“All right then,” I said.
We hopped in the SUV and quickly headed up the dusty gravel road to Red Meadows, the sky darkening over our right shoulders while Ken bit into a big fat cinnamon roll.
• • •
On the way to Moose Lake, my radio went off. It was Joe Smith asking me about our location and letting me know that the fires on the east side had indeed grown. Strong easterly winds were picking up. There was talk within IC that they might advise the sheriff to call more evacuations, and this time they’d be more extensive: from the entire North Fork, which is the area we were in, to Columbia Falls, and the canyon, from West Glacier to Columbia Falls. That included Hungry Horse, where the church was located, as well as headquarters. “Shit,” I said. “That close?”
“We’re waiting to see what the wind does. It’s supposed to pick up even more as the day goes on, but we’ll see. We’re no longer letting visitors into the park, and residents have been ordered to pack their kits and be on standby. I don’t want you and Ken in that area long. Trail Creek might blow up. You’ll need to keep your radio tuned into IC. I know you need to find this Minsky guy, but you don’t want to be caught out there if the fire hits Demers Ridge.”
I was glad I mentioned something to the lady in the store. “We won’t be long and we’ll make sure to clear out any campgrounds we see on the way to the lake.”
Joe signed off, reminding me to keep him posted. Ken and I continued up the Forest Service’s gravel road toward Moose Lake, wondering what the chances were that we’d find Minsky set up there with his yurt somewhere in the campsite or around the area and, if we did find him, what the chances were that he’d have the boy. I was skeptical, and yet the fact that Minsky had attended the community feeds at Combs’s church had to mean something.
Ken looked out the window and chewed his jerky while I watched the road ahead. It stretched and bent into a vast area pinned in by miles of larch trees, lodgepole pines, and rock outcroppings in the distance. In 2001, at Red Meadow Lake, not all that far from where we were going, a young man had been murdered by a couple simply so they could steal his wallet and his truck. They tried to burn his body in the campfire to get rid of him and were picked up the next day in another state, only because they were caught speeding. Luck and coincidence—it sometimes played a bigger role than you can imagine in law enforcement. Was coincidence—Wendy’s son finding the Nintendo in a church that Minsky attended—going to help us find Jeremy? I hoped so. The graying sky and the memory of the Red Meadow man tainted the entire area. Ragged, beetle-infested trees, generous fuel for a fire, blurred by as we drove.
I felt a surge of anxiety that we were driving into an ambush, and I wondered if Minsky could somehow be expecting us, beyond the usual paranoia the lady at the store had described. I was glad to have Ken with me for backup with us driving somewhere so remote. If we ended up needing immediate assistance, it would have to come by helicopter. Minsky had chosen a good place to hide from society, perhaps second only to the Yaak. But I’d heard that even parts of the Yaak were being taken over by rich folks from California and Texas buying huge plots of land and building massive second homes.
We pulled into the campsite at Moose Lake. Because of the fire warnings over the past weeks, the place was empty. We drove through without seeing a single tent or camper in the camping area, then hopped out to stretch our legs and have a look around. This kind of vacancy in the middle of August was eerie, but I was relieved that there wouldn’t be a lot of people to evacuate if it came to that.
“What do you think?” Ken asked.
“I think we’ve checked it out—that’s all we can do, short of continuing on up the main road or checking out that logging road.” I pointed to an unkempt road laced with timothy grass, yarrow, knapweed, and some broad-leafed thimbleberry bushes. It led up the ridge and had a rusted iron gate across it, but I noticed it could easily be opened since it was tied to its post with only a faded red and black bungee cord. We walked toward it, and I circled around the gate and went a short way up the road leading away from the campsite while Ken stayed back, leaning on the gate.
“Does it look to you like it’s been driven on recently?” Ken called to me.
“I think so,” I said. “Looks like some of the grass has been flattened down.”
“You think we should head all the way up there to check it out?”
I glanced up the road to its first bend, where it switched back through an area that had been clear-cut, probably one or two summers before. Shoulder-high saplings and other bushes sprouted up the hillside.
“Not sure. What’s your gut telling you?”
“Mine?” Ken seemed surprised that I asked him.
“Yeah, what’s your intuition say?”
“I don’t know. . . . It sort of feels like we’re barking up the wrong tree, but I’d really like to find this guy to confirm that.”
I looked up the logging road again. The wind ruffled the tops of the pines and the sky appeared even darker than when we left the store. “Yeah,” I agreed. “Me too. I feel like this is wrong, all wrong, but we’re all the way up here, so we might as well.” I tossed him the keys. “You go grab the truck. I’m gonna take a piss and then I’ll come back and open that gate for you.”
Ken headed back to the truck, and I started up the road for a moment, whispering to myself, “Are you up here, Minsky?” When I went to the edge of the road, a deafening crack rang through the canyon and echoed off the ridges. Immediately, I ducked, my heart rate skyrocketing. I quickly shuffled over to a tree on the side of the narrow road. At first I wondered if it could have been lightning, but as the shot echoed off the ridges, I realized it was most definitely a gunshot. I looked back at Ken. He hadn’t made it to the car yet. I watched him quickly find cover behind one of the thicker pine trees by the side of the road. I scanned the hillside. Whoever was up the ridge had a clear sight line to me below through the clear-cut, but not to Ken, who had more cover.
I motioned for Ken to stay put, and thought about what to do. I was just about to wave Ken over so we could climb to a higher vantage point when a man’s voice boomed down from the dry creek right above me. “What do you want with us?”
“Stay right there,” I said. I had already taken my gun out and I held it in front of my chest, my elbows cocked.
“Put your weapon down,” he said.
I stood behind the tree, keeping hold of my gun. “Mr. Minsky?”
He didn’t confirm it. “What do you want? You with the feds?”
“No, I’m with Glacier Park. I’m not with the FBI. But you’re going to need to put your weapon down. I just need to ask you some questions.”
He didn’t say anything, and I tried to listen for crackling twigs or bushes in case he was making his way closer. He sounded as if he were about thirty or forty feet up the draw. I looked back down and saw Ken peeking out from behind a tree. He motioned to me that he was going to begin heading up to circle around. I gave a slight nod. “If you come down here, I can show you my badge,” I yelled back. I was braced for another shot, but instead I heard more silence, no movement through the brush. I saw that Ken had moved from his spot, but couldn’t hear him, which was a good thing. “I’m just up here to evacuate the place,” I added.
“ ’Cause of them fires?”
“That’s right.”
“Don’t know nothin’ about an evacuation
,” he said, his voice hard and edgy.
“It hasn’t been announced yet. I’m just checking the more remote areas where people aren’t seeing the news. I need to make sure the area’s clear. You don’t want to get caught up here when that wind gets stronger. The fire up Trail Creek is blowing up.”
“All right then,” he said. “You’ve said your piece. You can leave now.”
“You said ‘us.’ Who else is with you?”
He didn’t say anything.
“Mr. Minsky,” I called. “You just fired your gun at me. Why did you do that?”
“Not at you. I fired it to warn ya.”
“Warn me of what?”
“To stay away.”
You don’t own these woods, I wanted to say, but I knew better than to provoke. “Why?” I asked simply.
Silence.
“Look. I need to know how many folks are out this way. I realize nobody is doing anything wrong by being out here,” I said, cringing at my sappy, placating tone when the man had just fired a damn bullet over my head. “We just need to make sure everyone is safe. How many of you are out here?”
“None of your business,” he yelled.
“All right, fair enough.” I looked for Ken but couldn’t see him. He should have had almost enough time to make the thirty or forty feet up. “Sir, if it would be okay with you, I’d like to step out from behind this tree so we can chat. Would that be all right with you?”
“No,” he said. “Drop your weapon and go. Don’t come back. And you can tell that to the feds too.”
“I told you, I’m not with the FBI.”
“You’re law enforcement. You work for the government. All the same.”
“Sir, I don’t intend to use my weapon, and I don’t intend to talk to the FBI anytime soon. I simply want to ask you a few more questions and to make sure everyone is safely evacuated, that’s all. That’s my job.”
“You act all innocent. All of you, all of you law enforcement, you act like you’re out to help, to protect, but you’re all just part of the machine. You’re all just wolves in sheep’s clothing, working the devil’s machinery.”
Shit, I thought. I expected crazy talk from Minsky, but not without being able to see the guy’s face, and not with a rifle pointed straight at me. Still, I sensed fear laced in his tone, in his breathy exclamations.
Right then, Ken yelled, “Hold it right there. Drop your gun now.” I heard a commotion, a gunshot, then another shot fired back. I darted out from the tree and ran up the hill. I reached the spot, breathless, to find Ken hiding behind a large rock, looking through the woods, still pointing his gun. I took cover again too, and pulled out my binoculars.
“You see him?”
“I had a line on him, but when they ran, he yelled to someone. I didn’t see who.”
I scanned the area until I saw movement up the hill. Two people ran through the taller trees along the edge of the clear-cut. I watched them run. I focused on the smaller person behind. I made out straight black hair pulled back into a ponytail. Jeremy had curly hair. But still I couldn’t be sure if it was him or not. The person was the right size, but not boyish at all. He or she ran ahead of Minsky, moving at a good clip, arms swinging. I watched as they swiped brush out of their way, stumbled on roots, pitching forward, regained their balance, and continued to edge up the ridge.
Eventually, the smaller person turned to say something to Minsky, and I could see she was not a boy. She looked Asian and in her thirties or forties. She gestured to him for a moment and then they made their way out of the clear area toward some trees so they couldn’t be seen. I dropped my binocs and looked at Ken.
“Pursue?” he asked.
“I want it to be them, but it’s not. We’re barking up the wrong tree.”
“He fired shots,” Ken said, exasperated.
“I know, but the kid we need to find is out there somewhere, and I don’t think he’s with them.”
• • •
By the time we got back to the truck, the perfectionist inside of me began to nag loudly. I could hear Ali asking for the details, wondering if the couple had the kid hidden in the yurt and if we’d checked it out. My intuition screamed that wasn’t the case, but I had to admit a chance existed that this couple was playing Raising Arizona, that maybe this woman—whoever she was—had lost a child around Jeremy’s age at some point. “I’ve changed my mind.” I said, turning to Ken. “Let’s get this gate open. We should check out the site. The flatbed and the yurt have to be somewhere close by. There won’t be many large pullouts off this type of a road.”
We unwrapped the bungee cord, swung the gate open, and headed up, the brush scratching the sides of the SUV. As I predicted, it wasn’t hard to find Minsky’s setup. The truck was pulled off onto the only opening the narrow road provided, about a mile and a half up, and the yurt was set up in a clearing near a dried-out streambed. I did about six three-point maneuvers to turn our SUV around, in case we needed a quick exit, parked, and cautiously got out. Ken stayed behind me for backup, and we walked over to the opening where they’d set up the campsite and looked around.
A circle of rocks formed a bed for a fire and, of course, even with the restrictions in place, they’d gone ahead and made one, probably to cook their food. A few tin pots were stacked beside a log they’d moved close to the fire to use as a bench. I went over to the yurt, stood to the side holding my gun, and called out to Minsky. No one answered. Ken pointed his gun at the entryway. The entire yurt was made out of canvas, and Minsky could shoot right through to either of us, but I knew they couldn’t have made it back yet and they probably weren’t dumb enough to head straight back once they saw us drive up the road. Ken nodded that he was ready, and I picked up the canvas door flap.
Nothing happened. There was no movement. I peeked in to see a fifteen-foot canvas floor with two sleeping bags and pillows spread across it. A cooler sat on one side and some duffel bags stuffed with clothes on the other.
I felt sad not to see Jeremy there, but at the same time I was relieved not to find him tied up inside. “Nothing,” I called to Ken, still on watch outside the yurt. I searched the duffel bags for any signs of the kid and found nothing of interest, just dirty, smelly clothes. I backed out and shook my head to reiterate that I found nothing of interest. We went over and looked through the windows of Minsky’s truck, seeing boxes of ammo and several more rifles and shotguns inside their cases behind the front seats.
“What now?” Ken asked.
“They’re around,” I said as we headed back to our car. “I bet they’re watching us right now.” The wind had begun to sound like a surf. I looked out and into the sea of trees, brush, and young saplings, the tops waving like water. “Hey, Minsky,” I yelled as loudly as I could after Ken hopped in and I stood safely behind the cover of the vehicle. Because of the steep drop-off on the driver’s side, there was no way he could have a shot at me. “If you can hear me, listen up. We’re leaving, but you better leave too. I meant what I said about that fire,” I hollered loudly. “It’s time to clear out.”
I even wrote a note saying the same thing in case they hadn’t heard me, then told Ken to hop out for a sec and cover me while I walked over and set it inside the entry of the yurt. Finally we both got back in the car, and as we headed back down the mountain, I had a sinking feeling in my gut.
25
* * *
Gretchen
I THOUGHT I WOKE to the sound of a low murmur in the distance, but then again, for a brief second, I considered that I might be in one of my twisted dreamscapes. Brown and gray blurry images surrounded me and pain shot in every direction through my head. I tried to open my eyes, but quickly shut them when a sharp throb pierced my forehead. For a second, I thought something had hit me again, but then I realized all was still except the murmuring sound coming from somewhere—perhaps my own mind?
&
nbsp; I lay unmoving, my cheek smashed into the gritty floor. My left shoulder—the side I lay on—ached deeply, and I tried to roll onto my back to relieve the pain but found that I could barely move at all. I opened my eyes again, this time readying myself for the shooting pain. My hair fanned across the side of my face, creating a blurry veil before my eyes. I brought my hand up to sweep it away and was thankful that that arm didn’t hurt. Images began to sharpen before me. Yellow foam from a mat under a dark-colored sleeping bag, some kind of heavy machinery, a bucket . . . A bucket. A dirty orange bucket.
It came back to me suddenly, and I jolted upright to a sitting position, but the pain knocked me back down. Panic raced through me, and I realized that whoever captured Jeremy had me now too. Again, I wondered if maybe I was in one of my nightmares.
I looked over and saw the boy. He knelt in the corner and stared at me like a wounded, trapped creature. Wary, but with hope. His bony, dirty knees jutted out and his grimy elbows wrapped around his calves. I tried again to sit up, moving slowly, and he stood, came over, and grabbed my arm to help me. “Thank you,” I mouthed, then cocked my head to the side, trying to make out the murmur in the distance. It sounded like a steady stream of prayer. “Change my ways. . . . Appease you among the madness. . . . Willing to do as you ask . . . it’s what you ask of me, Dear Father. . . . I don’t question your reasons, for to question them is to question you, Dear Lord. . . . We are all innocent. . . . We are all called to your altar. . . . But we must prove, I must prove . . .”
“He does that a lot,” Jeremy whispered. His eyes were large and his round face seemed to have already thinned since the picture we’d been shown on the news. His skin looked white, almost nacreous in the pale light coming from the narrow windows above, as if he had already adjusted to his dwelling place, like a salamander that lived under rocks and burrowed into crevices between logs. When I looked at him squarely, he shuffled shyly away, back to the side of the cage next to one of the large vats. I looked down the aisle and could see there were a series of cages—each one probably set up to protect workers from getting too close to the large boilers. All the cages had sliding doors. I looked up to see that the cage was enclosed on top as well.
The Weight of Night Page 33