Death Canyon

by David Riley Bertsch

  Outside, the cop was yelling and motioning to the man and woman in the car as they opened their doors. He was telling them to stay in the car.

  Who are they?

  Seemingly insistent on being a part of the action, the woman was trying to get out of the car. The officer jogged toward her to stop her. Sam took this opportunity to make his move. He slipped through the side door of the cabin and sprinted across the road, through the waterside hummock, and to the creek.

  At the creek’s side, Sam grabbed the gunwales of the camp’s canoe and heaved it into the water. It splashed into the rushing snow runoff and started moving downstream. He searched the sandy bank for a paddle, but to no avail—someone must have made off with it. Without any means of propulsion besides the current, he crashed into the canoe, upper body first, causing sloshing waves to course across the width of the brook. Fortunately the high, fast water would move him quickly downstream.

  * * *

  Jake watched as the chief wrestled through the willows in pursuit. Game trails, likely broken by deer, followed the course of the river, providing a meager path, but the ceiling of the canopy was low and dense.

  He’ll never catch up.

  Jake looked to his side for Noelle.

  “Noelle, stop!” It was too late. She was running along the streamside trees, peeking through breaks in the cover.

  Jake took off, too. “Stay back! He might be armed!”

  Noelle eventually slowed to a stop, but not on account of Jake’s warning. The chief had given up pursuit.

  When Terrell emerged from the tree tunnel in an opening, he looked downstream for a few moments. Nothing. No sign of the canoe or the perpetrator. Huffing, he shot a glance upstream. Again nothing.

  “Shit!”

  Jake and Noelle heard the shout from eighty yards.

  The man had escaped.

  “I’m guessing that car back there”—Jake took a deep breath—“is the one registered in my name?” The chief was jogging back to get to his car’s radio.

  “That car”—Terrell exhaled—“almost killed a pedestrian. Hell, the guy might be dead by now, and it might’ve been intentional.”

  Terrell and Jake walked back toward the encampment exchanging quiet words while Noelle followed closely behind them. They were both shaking their heads. Jake was thinking about why someone would register a car in his name and hit someone. It didn’t make sense.

  “What’s going on? Jake?” Noelle felt like a younger sister left out by her older brothers. “Jake?” They ignored her.

  “We’ll talk about it on the ride home. Get in.” Jake opened the passenger door for Noelle. “That’s assuming I’m free to go?” He smiled, intending this as a joke, but Terrell only nodded. Jake held his gaze on the chief’s face for a second longer, hoping to discern what the stoic nod had meant. There was no indication.

  15

  ROUTE 89, JACKSON HOLE. THE SAME EVENING.

  Jake did his best to fill Noelle in about the car’s registration. He knew it all sounded absurd, but the chase, the vehicle’s registration, the hit and run, and all the other pieces that fell into place in the last several hours did mean only one thing: Jake was one of the targets in whatever was going on, not that he knew what that was.

  Noelle looked him over as he remained focused on the road. When he looked back at her, she spoke: “Well, we have to find that out . . .” She paused long enough that Jake gave her a puzzled look from the driver’s seat. “Err, who is framing you and why, I mean.”

  “Thank you for your help, Ms. Klimpton.”

  Did I just mean to sound flirty?

  They retreated to their own thoughts for the remainder of the ride home. Elk and mule deer crossed precariously in front of them from time to time and Jake deftly avoided them. He paused for a moment after each animal.

  They always say where there’s one there’s usually more.

  * * *

  The moon shone brightly on the Cathedral Group by the time they got back to Noelle’s cabin. It was 9:45 p.m. Jake killed the engine. They were both tired, but there were too many thoughts swirling in their heads to call it a night. Noelle asked Jake in for some coffee, though she wasn’t sure she had any.

  He questioned her intention in his own head. Jake hadn’t been alone with a woman for some time now.

  In for coffee? This sounds like a proposition. What the hell do I do?

  Again he held the door for her, the rickety spring-loaded screen door that kept the bugs out on warm summer evenings. This was not such a night; the sun had abandoned the day and left the valley cold and dark. There were no clouds to insulate the earth from the unthinkable expanse of the universe. It was too cold for bugs.

  Noelle smiled as she brushed by. A curious, furtive smile, Jake thought. Although Jake was still muscular in a wiry sort of way, he wished he’d kept up the fitness program he used in law enforcement.

  Did I shower this morning? He looked down at his worn flannel shirt, then brushed it off with his hand.

  Below an old four-paned window, the cabin’s dining area consisted of a roll-a-table made for camping. There was seating only for one. Noelle went back outside and returned with a weathered green plastic patio chair for herself. She motioned for Jake to sit on the slightly more comfortable spindle-back and went to hunt for the coffee.

  Noelle sorted through the almost-empty bags in her cabinet. There wasn’t enough to make a pot, even in combination. Instead, she found some instant and lumped a couple of spoonfuls into two colorful, mismatched mugs. Then she filled the teakettle and turned on the burner.

  “I like your place . . .” Jake trailed off when Noelle turned quickly and showed a skeptical face.

  She walked toward the table and sat down, maintaining eye contact and wondering whether or not to translate his comment as sarcasm. She decided not to. Jake seemed too polite to make fun immediately upon invitation to her home.

  “It’s a nice life, I mean. Isn’t it?” Jake continued, motioning toward the window and the pine forest standing behind it.

  “It doesn’t get any better.” She stood and checked the water. It wasn’t boiling yet. It’s getting old having it all to myself, she thought. Checking to make sure Jake wasn’t watching, she glanced at herself in the mirror and fixed her hair. He was busy fiddling with his cell phone.

  “It’s instant . . .” she shouted over her shoulder, probably too loud for the meager distance between them. “Uh, I hope that’s okay.”

  “Fine with me,” he replied, still looking down at his phone. The call he had just declined came through again: 307 area code. A local number. Moreover, it looked familiar. He thumbed the decline button once more. The caller didn’t leave a message.

  “Here’s some sugar. I’m out of milk.” In reality, Noelle never had any milk. She kept very little food in the cabin. It all went bad before she could get to it.

  “I know very little about you, Jake, but our situation here requires a lot of trust. Why don’t you tell me something?” She flashed a smile that nearly transformed into a surreptitious giggle.

  “How do you mean?” Jake was feeling slightly uncomfortable. Noelle looked incredible, the cabin was romantic in a subtle, rustic way, but the timing wasn’t quite right. Plus, he was curious about the phone calls.

  “I mean, why get involved in all this? Why not let the police handle it? Go away for a week and let it settle out?”

  His phone was ringing for the third time. He looked down. Same number. “There is something I don’t quite trust about the police—the chief especially. It’s not like him to assault a suspect and then let him go. Besides, I have a bit of a history in this sort of thing. I think the better question might be why you have such a keen interest in these events.” He smiled at her, playing lawyer now, happy to deflect the questioning since his phone was ringing for a fourth time.

  Noelle was trying to formulate a reasonable response, but Jake interrupted her thoughts as he stood up.

  “I’m gonna
take this,” he said, holding the mobile phone up for her to see. “Whoever it is really wants to get ahold of me.” Jake pushed open the ratty screen door and stepped into the cool night air.

  “Hello?” Jake heard heavy breathing through the earpiece. “Hello? Who is this?”

  “Hey . . .” The man coughed. “Jake, I need you, buddy. Where the hell have you been?” It was J.P., but he didn’t sound like himself. He sounded sick, or hurt.

  “What’s wrong—where are you?” Jake’s heart rate quickened.

  “I’m fine. I mean, sort of fine, man. I got nailed by a car, dude, believe that? I was lucky, though, they say. Instant karma for cleaning up trash would be my guess. The doc agreed. Anyway, I need a ride from the hospital.”

  J.P. was the victim of the hit and run? Questions filled his head. How does it fit? Why would they target him? He’s got nothing to do with the development.

  “Are you hurt?”

  “Oh, right, no. Yeah, I’m good. I was in shock or whatever, they told me. But unscathed, you could say, is that a word? Anyway, bruises, cuts, and a little concussion.”

  “Good. Now you’re smoking again?” A smile washed over Jake’s face. He chuckled at the comparative luck of his friend.

  “Ha. You’re good, man. Nothing gets past you.” He took a long drag. “I figured I deserved it after the day I had. What’s weird is that it seems like every one of these nurses smokes ciggies. They have to deal with all the shit that comes through the sick bin from lifelong smokers, but they still suck down those darts . . .”

  Jake sensed his friend diverging on a tangent, so he spoke up. “Whose phone are you on?”

  “Some foxy nurse’s.”

  Jake heard a giggle in the background.

  “Just kidding. It’s Annette, my nurse. But she is rather foxy.”

  “Are you ready to go now?”

  “Yeah. Hell yeah. Why do you think I’ve been calling you over and over? They say I shouldn’t walk home.” Jake’s home was about sixteen miles away from the hospital, and it was now almost 10 p.m. and below freezing. The idea of walking was silly even for a healthy person.

  “I’ll be there in a half hour. Stay put.”

  “Jake.” J.P. butted in before Jake could hang up. “Where you been? I was worried.”

  Jake fell silent for a moment.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be there soon and explain everything.” Jake hung up the phone and put it back in his jeans pocket.

  When he opened the door, he sensed that Noelle had been listening in. “My friend, he was the one who was hit by the car, but he’s okay. I have to go pick him up at the hospital.”

  “What? What does that mean? Why him? I can come if . . . ?” Noelle said hopefully.

  Jake waved off her questions. “There’s no need, get some rest.”

  With that, he got into his vehicle and headed toward town.

  * * *

  Noelle sighed and got up, bussing the still full cups of coffee to the sink. She dumped them both and rinsed them. Then she slipped into bed, not bothering to strip. Her mind was still buzzing. She was both disappointed and anxious; the nervous energy from a thwarted intimacy mingled with confusion about the day’s events. Her brain argued with itself.

  Did I do something wrong? Is that why he left so abruptly?

  His friend was nearly killed, silly. What does this mean to us? Does it clarify or complicate what is going on in Jackson?

  You move too fast. Let it develop. He is a nice, attractive, solid guy. Don’t ruin this.

  A third voice started to ask whether she should even be involved in any of this.

  Deep down, Noelle was pleased that something was keeping her up at night.

  * * *

  When Jake arrived at the hospital, J.P. was leaning on the wall outside an employee entrance smoking and surrounded by a gaggle of young, giggling nurses. When he gestured with his hands or laughed too hard, he would clasp his midsection and grimace.

  Jake contemplated waiting in the car for their jovial meeting to adjourn. He knew J.P. was in his element. Instead, he parked and walked toward the group. With the arrival of an outsider, the women stubbed out their cigarettes and quickly dispersed.

  “Don’t look too bad to me, brother,” Jake said in a good-humored tone. He gave J.P. a gentle embrace, careful not to aggravate his injuries. “I’m glad you’re all right. Let’s get out of here.”

  “Hell yeah, man, I hate hospitals. All those sick people circling the drain.”

  That’s a rather cold way to put it, Jake thought, laughing to himself. He helped his friend into the car.

  As they headed toward the West Bank, before Jake could get in a word, J.P. rushed into an elaborate description of the hit and run. What it felt like to be hit by a car: “Kind of satisfying in a weird way . . .”; what he saw when he was convinced he was going to die: “Like, my family all dressed up as old-time English judges at the gates of heaven . . .”; and how the experience had caused him to reevaluate.

  When the torrent of words finally ended, Jake surprised J.P. with his own story about the day.

  “No shit! Did you catch the bastard?”

  “We have the car, but that’s all. The guy escaped on foot. Actually, on foot, then into a canoe, believe it or not.” Jake shook his head. “I would expect the police would want to talk to you. Whether you recognize the guy, stuff like that . . .”

  “Stop here! Whoa!” J.P.’s cry startled Jake.

  “What’s wrong?” Jake asked, alarmed.

  Without answering, the wounded ski bum jumped out of the still slowly moving vehicle and jogged gingerly into the small liquor store alongside the road. He emerged after a few minutes with a cheap bottle of tequila, which he opened even before buckling his seat belt. The smell wafted to Jake’s nostrils and he shook his head when J.P. held the bottle in his direction.

  “Wooo-eeeeee! That feels better, man! Shit!” he said, shaking his head wildly. J.P. reached into his pocket, chose some music from his iPod, and plugged it into Jake’s stereo. He turned up the volume, lit a cigarette, and opened the window. Jake cracked a smile and put his foot on the gas.

  J.P., crazy as he was, had some big parts of life dialed right in. He was not self-conscious, overly guilt ridden, or judgmental of others. He enjoyed his time on this planet as much as anyone Jake knew—a quality Jake envied.

  Gravel murmured under the SUV’s tires as Jake came to a gentle stop outside his house. It was colder yet, but J.P. insisted on sitting outside the house and sipping the tequila. He lit another cigarette and offered Jake one. He accepted. It had been a long while since his last smoke, so Jake could outrationalize the guilt. It tasted good and harsh at the same time. Calming.

  They passed the bottle back and forth for nearly an hour, barely talking. The porch furniture had not yet been moved back outside for the summer, so they sat on the floor and rested their backs on the wooden beams of the structure, legs outstretched in front of them.

  The air was cold, twenty-five degrees now, but there was a distinct feeling of springtime floating about. Smoke from campfires and wood-burning stoves came and went. Occasionally an owl would hoot or a coyote would yelp and the domestic dogs would bark in response. Jake wondered which one was Chayote. He assumed the loudest, and therefore the closest.

  The moment broke when J.P. spoke up.

  “Someone’s after you, eh?” He handed the bottle to Jake, who took a short pull.

  “Looks that way. I just don’t know why or what they’re after.” He lifted the cigarette pack from the porch floor and opened it before deciding otherwise.

  “I’ll take ’em.” J.P. grabbed the pack. “You’re kidding, though, right? I know why. You’re pretty dense for a PhD, man.”

  “JD—juris doctor.”

  “What? Anyway, I can help.”

  J.P. did sometimes have a knack for finding the obvious answer to complicated problems.

  “I don’t know his or her name obviously.”


  Jake rolled his eyes to tease J.P. “Obviously,” he said.

  “But I can narrow it down. You, like, pissed off a lot of dangerous people, right?”

  Jake nodded. “I guess you could put it that way, sure.” In reality, J.P. had no idea how true his statement was.

  Dangerous. Evil. Maniacal. All of the above.

  “You came out here and for a while it was like witness protection almost, you know? Nobody knew where you were and they couldn’t even find out if they wanted.”

  Jake doubted that. Some of the men he had dealt with were savvy enough to find him, if they had the right resources. Some of them did.

  “But somehow, someway, man, word got back to these thugs back East or whatever and one of them thought, ‘Well, maybe it’s revenge time.’ You are in trouble, my friend. These guys want you to suffer.”

  “Not bad, Sherlock. One problem: I have a hard time believing that anyone would go to such effort to kill me. Seems like a trivial undertaking. The criminals I dealt with—the ones I pissed off as you so eloquently put it—were smarter and more calculating than you might think. They were thieves and murderers and drug dealers, but smart folks. Plus, anyone with the resources to try to kill me while two thousand miles away would be sophisticated enough to know it was a waste of time. I’m out of their hair, they would know the right move is to move on and forget I ever existed.”

  “That’s your problem, man. You’re too smart! You think just because you’re logical or whatever, that other people are too. You’re overestimating people, Jake. People are maniacs.”

  “Didn’t know I had a problem. Want to tell me more about it?” Jake smiled, still kidding around. “Maybe you’re right, but it just doesn’t add up to me. There’s too much risk in chasing me around for revenge. There’s gotta be something else.”

  “Well, I hope you’re around so I can say ‘told ya so.’ ” J.P. coughed a bit as he took another big swig of the tequila, then pushed the bottle toward Jake.

  “No thanks. If I’m gonna survive the night, let alone the next couple days, I need to go to bed. No más.” J.P. held out an open hand as Jake stepped past him to get to the door. Jake took it and shook heartily. “Glad to have you back, buddy. Sleep in the house tonight, would you? In case you need anything.”