Back of Beyond ch-1

by C. J. Box

  “Yes.”

  He nodded. “Our wives always say be careful on these trips. They say don’t do anything stupid. We tell them we don’t. This kind of stuff never happened before. That’s not why we go on these adventures, to screw around. Now my friends aren’t here and I get this sick feeling,” he said as he gestured toward his heart. “I get this sick feeling…”

  Then it was as if he woke up. He looked at her, shook his head, and flashed his smile again. “Why am I telling you this?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What I’m trying to say, I guess, is friends are important. You’ve got to stick by them, even when they screw up.”

  As he left the copse he reached out and patted her on the shoulder.

  30

  After a half hour of lone riding, Cody pulled up at a clean small stream that crossed the trail and painfully climbed down to let his horses drink. He hated depending on two animals he neither knew nor trusted, but he had no choice and his thought was to treat them well and maybe they’d reciprocate.

  As both horses lowered their heads to suck up the cold water, he went a few feet upstream to fill his own bottle. He’d purchased a water filter kit, but it, like his cigarettes, had been in the duffel that burned up. Giardia contamination was the least of his worries. He thought if he got it, it would at least take his mind off no cigarettes or alcohol. To drive the point home, he drained a quarter of the icy unfiltered water and topped his Nalgene bottle and sealed it.

  While the horses rested-oh, how he admired their dumb animal ability to grab a nap whenever they could-he sidled up to Gipper and withdrew the satellite phone again.

  The first of Larry’s messages was blunt:

  “Cody, where the hell are you? You said you’d turn your phone on. Call me back on this number as soon as you get this, partner.”

  “Partner” was said with heavy sarcasm.

  Cody said, “You’d like me to do that, wouldn’t you, partner.”

  Then the second message:

  “Hey, I don’t know what’s going on. I tried your cell and they said it wasn’t a working number. Which means you turned it off-stupid move-or your phone fucked up. Either way, you need to call me as soon as you can. Things are happening here. I’m on it. I’m starting to connect the dots and it’s getting real fucking interesting. Call me.”

  His voice was urgent and elevated. Cody fought his instincts to return the call. Larry sounded excited. Cody said, “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  But he retrieved the third message:

  “Cody, goddamn you. I know about the fire. I had a hunch and called the Gallatin Gateway when I heard about it and found out you registered there. And I talked to the Bozeman PD and Gallatin County Sheriff’s Department and found out you couldn’t be located but the fire started in your room. By the way, there’s an APB out for you. They want you for questioning and they suspect you of arson.

  “What, are you on the bottle again? Are you flushing your life down the toilet and taking me with you? I can’t believe I lied. I hope you understand what I’m saying. I lied for you-again. Why am I doing this? What kind of dumb shit am I, anyway? I lie for you and you won’t even call me back.

  “Then I start thinking: I know you. I know how you think. You’re a conspiracy-minded bastard and you probably suspect somebody fingered you. Assuming you didn’t set the fire yourself by getting hammered and passing out in bed with a cig hanging out of your mouth, of course. But only you know if that’s the case. And if it wasn’t, you’re wondering who fingered you and sent the arsonist. Right? Am I right, you jerk? Did you think it was me, the guy who is covering for you every step of the way and keeping you in the loop? You son of a bitch, I know how you think. And I’m disappointed in you to the point where I’m done with you. I’m over you. I heard you were never any good to begin with but I didn’t listen. You’re a half-breed white-trash asshole who doesn’t know enough to trust the only friend he’s got-”

  Cody felt his ears go hot as the message timed out with Larry yelling at him. He staggered back until his shoulder blades thumped a tree trunk. He lowered the phone and thought about it. Usually, when someone attacked him personally-like Jenny-he agreed with them, he deserved it. But this was … confounding. Either Larry was the most evil manipulator he’d ever run across-and so many of the scumbags he encountered were able to justify anything they’d done with a straight face-or he’d misread completely what had happened and why.

  Larry was good, Cody thought. He’d rattled him. As intended, he thought. Because nobody but another cop would think as many moves ahead.

  Cody raised the satellite phone and retrieved message number four.

  “Okay, you ingrate. That’s the best word I can think of for you. Either that, or you forgot the sat phone and your cell and in that case you’re just a fucking idiot, which seems more and more possible. I wouldn’t be surprised anymore if we found you in some drunk tank in Livingston or Ennis or maybe back where you belong in Denver. I’ve pretty much given up on you, I want you to know that.

  “But if you ever get this and actually listen to it, I want you to know something. You need to find them-the pack trip your son is on-and call in the location. I’ve got the Park Service and the Feds alerted. They know what I know, and that this thing is bigger and worse than either of us thought. I’ve almost got it dialed in. And man, you’re not going to believe it. You’re in the middle of a shitstorm neither one of us anticipated. It goes back to the dead alcoholics, and I’m honing in on the explanation. But I’m sure as hell not going to leave it on your fucking message mailbox. So call me. I can’t say all is forgiven, but you don’t know what you’re getting into. It’s worse than-”

  The message time ran out. Cody felt the hairs stand up on the back of his scalp. He took in a long quivering breath and punched the buttons on the phone for the last message. Larry whispered.

  “I don’t know where you are or even if you’re getting this, Cody. But the shit has hit the fan. They know you’re gone and where you are. You’re fucked, and so am I. I never thought it would come to this. Call me.”

  There were no more messages from Larry on his satellite phone.

  Cody withdrew the last cigarette from his pack and lit it and inhaled it as if it were angel’s breath. Either Larry was the best actor in the world, or his messages were genuine. He leaned slightly toward the latter.

  31

  It had been thirty minutes since Cody thought he’d heard gunshots. Two of them, two distant heavy booms, far up ahead of him. If the wind had not died to a whisper a few minutes before, he thought, he might not have heard them at all.

  They’d come just seconds apart. He’d reined in his gelding and cocked his head and listened further but there was silence. And slowly, with the sound of water pouring over smooth river rocks, the breeze picked back up in the treetops and returned with a whispery white noise just loud enough to swallow up any more distant sounds.

  Since then, he’d questioned himself as to what he’d actually heard. The forest was full of creatures and sounds. Having grown up around hunting and guiding with his father and uncle in Montana, he’d never put any stock into the old saw, “If a tree falls in the forest and there’s no one to hear it…” Because in his experience, nature could be raucous, sloppy, and loud. Especially in a place like Yellowstone that teemed with large-bodied ungulates and bizarre natural phenomena. Although gunshots were the most likely, the faraway sounds could have been trees falling, branches snapping, rocks being dislodged, or thunderclaps. He’d heard that big grizzlies searching for grubs to eat were known to knock over big rotten trees and uproot small ones, and moose sometimes scratched themselves so vigorously on trunks and outcroppings that they knocked them over. Plus there was the internal pounding coming from his own body.

  He wished his head was clear and his guts and muscles weren’t screaming for nicotine to bring them back to level. Blood that seemed thin and panicked and needy coursed through his ear
s and whumped at his temples, trying to burst out of his veins as if they were a ruptured hydraulic hose. His vision had constricted and he saw black curtains closing and cutting down his peripheral vision. He knew he was capable, right then, of doing just about anything for a cigarette or a shot of bourbon or both. He cursed his dependency and his weakness while at the same time justifying it to himself because of the situation he was in.

  At the time that he’d heard the sounds he’d withdrawn the AR-15 from his saddle scabbard and jacked in a.223 cartridge and laid it over his pommel. He kept riding while the churned-up trail of hoofprints turned deliberately off the main trail toward a copse of trees to his right.

  That’s where he saw the red bandana tied to a branch and wondered why Jed McCarthy had left the trail and where he was taking his clients. And why someone had left a marker.

  * * *

  At times the new trail was so narrow Cody had to brace the rifle butt on his thigh with the muzzle pointed up so it wouldn’t get caught in a tree branch or overgrown foliage on the sides of the trail that seemed to reach out to grasp at his arms and knees. Gipper walked deliberately and haltingly as Cody pushed forward, and he had to keep nudging and kicking him to keep moving. He knew sometimes horses could sense danger ahead, but he also knew horses were sometimes simply overly cautious and tentative. He found that his mouth had become dry as his heart raced.

  The lodgepole pine trees had closed in around him. They weren’t tall but they were dense and so closely packed it would be difficult for a man to walk through them without turning to the side. It had been so long since the trail had been used, long silky remnants of spiders’ webs, broken by Jed’s party ahead of him, fluttered like ghosts from boughs over his head. It was as if he were riding through a shroud.

  He heard a grunt, and he thought: Bear.

  Gipper heard it, too, and the horse planted his feet and leaned backwards with his heavy haunches. Gipper’s ears cocked forward and his nostrils opened and he snorted either a warning or a cry of alarm. Cody brought the rifle up to his shoulder one-handed, aiming it vaguely ahead of him, keeping a hold on the reins with his left hand. The packhorse, oblivious to what was going on, walked into Gipper’s hindquarters and jostled Cody’s shaky aim.

  There was another grunt, this time closer, and a heavy footfall. It was coming toward him, whatever it was.

  Cody didn’t know whether to dismount or stay in the saddle. He longed for solid footing, but knew he couldn’t slip gracefully to the ground and not risk losing control of the horses. If he was on the ground and they decided to panic and run off, he was stuck. The rifle just seemed to be in the way.

  There was a flash of color through the thin trunks ahead. Beige and red.

  A low moan, “Naugh.”

  “Who’s there?” Cody called out. His mouth was so dry his voice cracked. “Who is it? Identify yourself. I’m a cop.”

  A man on foot lurched into view, startling Gipper further and the gelding crow-hopped, fouling Cody’s aim. As he tried to gain his balance in the saddle, he dropped the reins to the ground. The only thing that stopped Gipper from turning completely around was the wall of thin trees on both sides of the trail.

  “Easy,” Cody said, as much to himself as to Gipper, “Easy…”

  The man, an African American wearing jeans, a once-beige shirt soaked almost entirely in glossy red blood, and a look of horror and anguish, cried out again and pitched forward onto his knees on the trail.

  Clumsily, with both of his horses stutter-stepping, Cody dismounted and managed to gather up Gipper’s reins. While he was tying his horse to the trunk of a thick aspen tree, the packhorse jerked back and the lead rope unraveled from Gipper’s saddle horn. Cody reached out for it as it pulled away, missed it, and he stood seething and confused for a few seconds, watching the packhorse gallop away back down the trail. He could see chunks of dirt flying from the horse’s hooves and the panniers flapping hard, spooking the horse further.

  The drumbeat of the hooves and occasional snap of dry twigs faded away. Cody spat out a string of curses and kicked at the ground.

  Then he turned toward the injured man.

  * * *

  Never in his career had Cody confronted a dying man. In nearly every case, the victim was already dead-in many cases for days-and Cody could observe with clinical detachment and dark humor. Bodies were no more than heavy wet bags of organs, muscle, tissue, fat, and bone bound together by a taut wrapping of skin. He studied those bags for likely offered evidence of what method was used to douse the flame of a soul inside.

  Cody sat on the trail. He’d never cradled a stranger’s head in his lap before while the man cried real tears and choked on pints of his own blood when he tried to speak.

  “Jesus,” Cody said, elevating the man’s head by raising his own leg, trying to find a position where the victim wouldn’t have to make the gargling sound. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  The man shook his head quickly but couldn’t form words yet. He was still lucid despite appearances. But, Cody knew, he wouldn’t be for long. The victim was bleeding out before his eyes and there wasn’t a single thing either of them could do about it. Bull Mitchell’s field first-aid kit had been in the panniers of the packhorse. But even if the horse hadn’t run away, Cody wasn’t sure he could have done anything to save this man’s life.

  He’d known the end of this story as he approached him minutes ago. There was a hole the size of a fist in the man’s back, the exit wound. It was inches deep and pulsating. Cody dropped down to the trail and turned the man over. The victim had watched, his eyes clear and sharp. The entry wound was the size of a nickel and it was framed by a hole in the fabric of his shirt. The hole in the cloth, just below the breast pocket on the left side of the victim’s chest, was burned black on the edges in an outline that resembled a blooming flower. The reason for the pattern was powder burns-meaning that the shot had been made practically point-blank. The weapon had been of large caliber. Cody saw no other bullet wounds but there didn’t have to be any.

  Cody said, “I’m not going to lie and tell you you’ll be okay.”

  The man closed and reopened his eyes. Not out of disappointment, but a means of signaling Cody that he understood.

  Cody could feel blood from the exit wound soaking into the denim of his trousers. It was warm.

  “Can you hear me?” Cody said.

  Again, the man blinked.

  “Are you with the pack trip led by Jed McCarthy?”

  Blink. Yes.

  “Is there an older boy on the trip? Named Justin? Seventeen, eighteen?”

  Yes.

  “Is he okay?”

  Yes.

  “Man, I don’t know what to do. There’s no way to stop the bleeding.”

  Yes.

  “Did you see who shot you?”

  Yes.

  “Can you try to talk? Can you please try to tell me what happened and who did it?”

  Yes.

  The man closed his eyes and swallowed painfully. Cody looked skyward for a fresh thought or a signal that would give him-and the gunshot victim-some kind of hope. Or something he could do to make this poor man more comfortable.

  He felt the man die. It wasn’t a sound or a movement, but a sudden absence of firmness in his lap. Cody looked down. “Not now,” Cody pleaded. “Not before you tell me what happened.”

  The man’s eyes were still open but there was nothing behind them. His mouth was slightly open and red inside, the color of candied cherries. Cody reached up and closed the eyes, pulling the lids and hoping they’d stay that way. They did.

  * * *

  Cody rolled the body off his legs. In death, it seemed twice as heavy as before. He stood unsteadily. His muscles ached from riding and he was covered with a man’s sacred lifeblood; his jeans were black and sticky and orange half-moon-shaped pine needles stuck to the denim. He bent over and dug through the victim’s clothing and found a wallet and flipped it open. Andre Alan Russell,
resident of Manhattan. Cody remembered the name from the file he took from Jed’s office.

  As he’d done earlier in the day, he photographed Russell’s body and wounds, knowing while he did it that the shooting had happened someplace else and this wasn’t the crime scene. He wondered how far Russell had come from where he’d been shot. He dragged Russell’s body off the trail. Before tucking it in beneath a massive fallen tree and covering it the best he could with heavy logs and branches, Cody looked skyward for a moment, then looted all of Russell’s pockets looking for a package of cigarettes that wasn’t there. Cursing, Cody then covered the body. The cover wouldn’t prevent predators from finding it-probably nothing would-but he hoped he could return with help to get the body out before it was torn up.

  He kept Russell’s New York driver’s license but cached the wallet and the contents of the man’s pockets in the crook of the aspen tree he’d used to keep Gipper around.

  Since Mitchell’s GPS was gone and he couldn’t get a reading of coordinates, Cody found a T-shirt in his saddlebag and ripped it up and tied one strip to the cover where the body was and another on a low overhanging branch at the trail to mark the location. He scribbled in his spiral notebook what he’d found and what he’d done with the body and Russell’s possessions.

  When he was through he stood and wiped sweat from his face and took off his hat to cool the top of his head. He could see no trace of Russell’s body beneath the cover he’d put on it, but he knew it was there. And the image of Russell’s last attempt to speak would be with him forever.

  * * *

  Back on Gipper, Cody contemplated turning around to try and retrieve the packhorse, but he feared the animal was still running and was miles away. He couldn’t afford to let more time elapse between him and Justin.