by Henry, Sue
And I thought the recoil was bad. I’ll have a bruise the size of Alaska on my behind.
Ten yards…eight…five, and a downed log in the way.
She sailed over it and heard the second shot fired behind her as she was airborne. The frigid water-filled hole, some three feet wide, beyond the log was a shock as she went into it up to her knees, but it saved Chelle’s skull from the bullet that gently lifted the wide-brimmed, gray hat from her head and deposited it in front of her, next to the beaver-chewed stump of the log she had hurdled. She caught herself with her hands as she fell against it and swung to look back for the first time since she had left the shelter of the trees. She had to stretch to peer cautiously over the top of the log, and found that the lone man with the camouflage jacket and baseball cap was heading her way along the far end of the thin line of grass at a walk, gun in hand, a satisfied smile on his face.
So…the fat one had elected to stay to help his blinded friend. There was only one, and, from his expression, he was convinced he had hit her.
He can’t see this hole, or the water I’m in, any more than I could, she thought. When I fell and disappeared, he assumed he’d got me.
But—only a few moments and he would be able to see that she was anything but dead.
Quickly, she glanced around, while snatching her hat from the water and replacing it, dripping, on her head. Leading away from the hole, but parallel to the trees, the water of a stream that fed the swamp meandered away, surrounding several almost round, grassy hummocks that were just a little lower than the log. If she kept down, she could be hidden behind them. First, the Weatherby had to come off, since its barrel stuck up above the pack, and would be seen. She would feel better with it in her hands, anyway, where she could use it if necessary.
Lifting it off the pack, she stooped over and, with as little splashing as she could manage, half waded, half crawled around the closest hummock, following the deepest part of the channel that ran between them, trying to keep low and still hold as much of her body as possible out of the ice-cold water. Around two more, fifteen feet from the log, she crouched behind a fourth, facing the way she had come, and waited.
“Goddammit,” she heard Camouflage swear. “What the hell?”
What then followed was an odd kind of splashing, and she risked a look around the hummock, through a thin screen of dried grass, to catch sight of him bending over, poking to find the water depth with a long stick he had picked up somewhere. Finding the water too shallow for her to have sunk under the weight of the pack and be hidden beneath it, he began to lift grasses that hung down over the edge of the bank, attempting to see if she had rolled or crawled under them.
Eventually, all possibilities exhausted, he stopped, straightened, and standing still, seemed to look directly at her hiding place, a calculating expression on his face.
“Hey,” he called. “Sister. There’s only one place you can be hiding, and we both know where it is, don’t we? I know you’re out there somewhere, and you know I know.”
Chelle pulled back behind the hummock and kept perfectly still and silent, the Weatherby held close, ready for action. Did he know she had the rifle? He might have seen it bouncing on her pack before she jumped the log. If he had, it didn’t seem to intimidate him. She waited.
“You might as well come on out. Gonna get awful cold real soon. You stay in there, hyperthermia’s gonna get cha.”
He was right. Her teeth had already begun to chatter and she was shivering. Hyp-o-thermia was a sooner-than-later fact if she had stayed in the cold water. She was wet to the hips, her legs and feet in the hiking boots, submerged under her. If only she’d had time to put on her waders it would still have been cold, but dry and less critical. If onlys were a dime a dozen, she thought in disgust. If granny had wheels, she’d be a bicycle. She wiped at her nose, which had begun to run, with the back of a sleeve, gritted her teeth to keep them still, and did not answer.
“Hey. I’m not goin’ any place. You know? All I gotta do is stay here. You’ll have to give it up sometime—when you’re cold enough.”
He paced back and forth, always looking in her direction. The hummocks, too far apart to jump from one to another, were the only thing that kept him from coming to hunt for her, unless he cared to get his feet wet, but the minute she moved he would be able to see or hear her, and gain a target that was too close to miss. Evidently thinking of this, he pointed the pistol and fired three careless rounds in her general direction. The second round thumped into the hummock behind which she cowered, but it was at least two feet thick and solid enough protection. Still, it was disconcerting to know that it was all that stood between her and the destruction of his gun.
She ventured another look, carefully, for only an instant. He was sitting on the log, still watching in her direction, reloading the pistol. She could shoot him—kill him instantly. The powerful Weatherby would blow a great hole through the center of his body, or take his head off. If she waited much longer, she would be shaking so badly with cold that it might be impossible to aim accurately.
Slowly, she lifted the rifle and, with infinite care, parted some of the dry grass and braced the barrel on the hummock, pointed directly at him. His face sprang into detail in the magnification of the scope, his expression sly and confident. As she stared at him through it, she noticed that he was chewing his lower lip and frowning slightly.
So…not quite as confident as he’d like her to think. It made him suddenly human, somehow, and she knew she couldn’t put a bullet into him like a tin can on a fence…couldn’t just dead cool shoot him as he sat, though she probably should, and might eventually wish she had. Unless he gave her no other alternative, she didn’t think she could kill him. But what could she do? It was imperative to get out of the freezing water—soon—or she’d be too cold to be able to build a fire, thaw herself out, and get back to her plane.
Scare him. If he thought she would shoot him, maybe he would retreat back along the grass causeway, at least to the edge of the trees he had come from, and give her a chance to get away into those on this side. She could drive him away from her cover, she decided, as long as he had none, and there was none to be had.
“If you don’t go back—get away from me—I’ll shoot you where you sit,” she called to him. “I’ve got a Weatherby three seventy-five here, and if you’re a hunter, or familiar with guns, you know what it can do.”
“Yeah right.” He stood up again, feet wide apart, and grinned. “Sure you do. If you had it, you’d of used it. Think I’m fuckin’ stupid, sister? You got a can of pepper spray. Go ahead. Do your damnedest with it.”
So…somehow he had missed the rifle—thought she was bluffing. Okay, she’d have to show him. Leaning into the weapon to absorb as much of the recoil as she could, Chelle aimed carefully and placed one shot precisely between his legs, hoping the scope had not been jarred loose in her desperate run. A ruined kneecap could be the result if it had.
His uncoordinated leap into the air and shout of surprise was totally satisfying.
“Shee-it. You goddamn fuckin’ bitch.” He shook a fist in her direction. “Whata you think you’re doing?”
Without another thought, Chelle fired the Weatherby again. This time just to the right of him. The bullet tore through his jacket sleeve and she thought she had hit or grazed him. Evidently, he thought so too, for he howled, clutched at his upper arm and turned to run like a scared rabbit. Unfortunately for Chelle, he didn’t move back the way he had come, but leapt from the log across the water hole she had fallen into, and ran into the trees in the opposite direction before she could fire again.
She watched, openmouthed in dismay, as he vanished, slipped out of sight and range. Suddenly she was vulnerable again. Should she move, he could locate her, and he had the advantage of cover he could walk behind to stalk her, to set up a clear shot before taking it.
Damn. What could she do? Wounded or not, he was every bit as much threat as he had been, if not more, and on
top of that, he had to be furious, and more determined than ever. And she must move—if she could. Chelle realized with a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach and tightening of her throat that she could no longer feel her feet.
Jensen and Tobias heard the first five unevenly spaced shots from half a mile away, as they came through a stand of trees near the rock where Rochelle had eaten lunch. Without a word, they both began to run toward the sounds, Jensen in the lead.
“Handgun,” Tobias panted, after a few minutes.
“Yeah,” Jensen agreed, saving his breath, as he slowed to climb over an outcropping of rock, shrugged off the larger pack, which he was once again carrying, and dropped it to the ground. Tobias started to do the same, but Alex stopped him.
“You’ve got the food and first aid. We may need it.” He ran on ducking to fight his way through a thicket of brush and alder, heading downhill.
When he could see that the trees were beginning to thin out ahead, two more shots were fired, with a short few seconds between them, as if they were being carefully aimed.
“Rifle,” puffed Tobias. “Different gun.”
“Yeah.” Jensen slowed to a walk and moved forward more slowly, lifting his .45 from its holster, warning Tobias to spread out to his right.
As they crept down, watching carefully ahead, there was the sound of running feet and a crashing from the brush in front of them. Between the trees, against the light of the clearing, Alex saw the silhouetted figure of a man in a baseball cap moving with his back to them, a gun in his hand, peering in the direction he had come. The figure hesitated, moved another step, and stopped.
“Got you now, sister,” he yelled at someone beyond the edge of the trees and raised the handgun. “I can see you behind that bunch of weeds. Come on out.”
“Hold it right there,” Jensen shouted, stepping forward.
The man in the cap swung around, startled, gun still raised, looking for the source of the unexpected voice.
“Who the hell…” he started to say, when, from Jensen’s right, came the sound of a shot and he crumpled.
Jensen turned to see Tobias step from between two trees, a gun in his hand that still pointed toward the now still form on the ground. The federal agent continued on down the hill until he was standing over the man he had shot, where Alex came to join him. The man was clearly dead. Tobias’s bullet had struck him in the chest, killing him where he stood. He lay in a crooked heap at the foot of a spruce, one foot bent under him.
Jensen glanced at the federal agent and was startled by his frozen expression. Cold anger narrowed his eyes and tightened his jaw. After a long minute, seeming to suddenly become aware of Jensen’s scrutiny, he took a deep breath and turned away.
“Didn’t mean to kill him,” he said, shaking his head. “But he was getting ready to have a try at one of us, probably you, and wouldn’t have hesitated a second. A real mean bastard.”
“You know him?”
“Part of Stoffel’s Brooks Range operation. We couldn’t make an arrest because he got out before we picked up the others and the DA thought we didn’t have enough for a conviction. Not one of the big guns—a nasty little errand boy—worthless shit.”
Jensen nodded, frowning. There was something more that Tobias wasn’t saying, but he ignored it for the moment and moved on quickly to the edge of the trees.
“Rochelle,” he yelled. “Chelle, are you out there? Are you okay? It’s Jensen.”
“Thank God,” he heard her call back, in a strangely weak voice. “Help me, Alex. Please. I can’t get up.”
18
BACK AT THE SMALL, NAMELESS LAKE, CASWELL had built another fire and put another pot of coffee on to boil. When it was done, he added a little cold water to settle the grounds, sat on one of the logs, and poured himself a cup to wash down a late lunch of summer sausage, cheese, and crackers. Occupied in cutting another round from the sausage with his knife, he heard the faraway sound of an engine and, glancing up, saw a small plane heading east, high overhead.
In less than a minute, he had the door to the Maule open and its radio microphone in his hand, as he stood outside to keep an eye on the passing plane.
“Any aircraft on one two two nine, this is Maule nine eight six four mike. Do you copy?”
A crackle of static, then a female voice answered. “Maule nine eight six four mike, this is Piper Cub one oh four niner papa. I hear you. Go ahead.”
“Four niner papa, you a white and red Super Cub eastbound on the east side of Lower Beluga Lake?”
“That’s affirmative.”
“Four niner papa, I have you in sight. I’m on the north bank at the west end of a small, narrow lake, at your three o’clock position, approximately a mile south. A blue and white Maule on floats—dragged out on the bank. Do you see me? Over.”
“Roger, sixty-four mike. I have you in sight next to a red Cessna. Go ahead.”
The small plane overhead began to circle over Caswell’s location, keeping him in sight and in range of radio transmission.
“Four niner papa, I have a damage problem. Can you relay a message to the Kenai Flight Service Station for me? Over.”
“Sixty-four mike, yes, I’d be glad to. Go ahead.”
“Four niner papa, I have a punctured right float. Submerged log punched a hole in the aft three compartments that’s too large to limp home with. I need assistance. Please request that they send someone out with the materials and expertise to get me back in the air. Over.”
“Sixty-four mike, I copied all of that. Stay on this frequency while I switch to Kenai Radio. Hold on, I’ll be right back.”
Waiting with a dead radio, Caswell knew the pilot of the circling plane had switched to 122.2, the frequency for Kenai Radio, and was transmitting his message. In a short time, she was back.
“Maule sixty-four mike—Piper four niner papa. Are you there? Go ahead.”
“Four niner papa, I’m here. Over.”
“Sixty-four mike, relayed your message. Also gave them your Lat-long position from my Loran. They can’t get to you before noon tomorrow. Are you okay till then? Go ahead.”
“No problem, four niner papa. Got plenty of gear and food. Could hold out a week, if we had to. Over.”
“Sixty-four mike, anyone injured? I’m a doctor, if you need medical assistance. Go ahead.”
“Four niner papa, no one hurt. Appreciate the offer. Thanks for your assistance, friend,” he told the helpful pilot. “Over.”
“Okay, sixty-four mike. Anything for a smokey on the ground,” the pilot tossed back, along with a grin Cas could hear in her voice. “Listen, be on the alert for grizzly. I’ve seen three good-sized ones on these flats today, just out of hibernation and probably bad-tempered. Four niner papa’s clear.”
“Thanks, four niner, we’ll keep an eye out. Sixty-four mike’s clear.”
He watched the Piper Cub leave its circular pattern in the sky and head east toward Anchorage. Quickly it passed from view behind the ridge and all was quiet again.
So they were stuck where they were until tomorrow. It didn’t surprise or frustrate him, since he had anticipated a wait for repairs, but he hoped nothing would occur between now and then to make him feel otherwise. When Jensen and Tobias came back with Rochelle Lewis, they would have the use of her plane if anything critical came up, but he had no way of knowing how long it would take them to find her, if there would be trouble at the other lake, or when he might expect them back.
For the moment, he had nothing to do but wait, and it was crazy to be concerned about things that were only possibilities. Ben Caswell was not the sort of man to waste his time on unrealistic worrying. He went back to finish his coffee and a Snickers bar for dessert while he enjoyed the surroundings in which he found himself. The sun was warm, the location pleasant and almost ready to burst into spring green. There were many revealing sounds of birds and small animals in the brush, and fish jumped periodically in the lake, making him wish he’d brought his rod and gea
r. A man could be forced to wait in a million less appealing places.
He had grown up in the Pacific Northwest and was used to the outdoors, but nothing that could compare to this, where a man could leave town and within an hour disappear into thousands of miles of wilderness for days, weeks, months, if he chose, and never see another human being, or anything man-touched. It satisfied some deep appreciation in Cas, struck a harmonic chord in him that he knew he would never hear so clearly anywhere else. He was hooked on the far north and his addiction bothered him not in the slightest.
For ten minutes he watched a whiskey jack do touch-and-go’s for pieces of cracker he tossed on the ground for the big blue bird. He had lured it in within five feet when a second jay showed up and he ended the game.
“You guys would pick me clean of anything edible, given half a chance,” he told them, and went to put what was left of the food back in the plane, along with his trash. The coffeepot, he emptied of grounds, filled with clean water, and left near the fire, which he banked carefully inside its circle of stones and left to slowly turn one thick piece of driftwood into charcoal. Usually he extinguished fires anytime he left them, but he didn’t intend to go far and thought it might be a good idea to have this one ready for quick use. Also, there was nothing in the area dry enough to spread a fire.
For the next hour, he created a tidy camp, setting up the tent and sorting out the equipment they would need for the night, putting the rest back in the plane for the time being, locking it up where it would be protected and out of the way. From the banks of the lake and slope of the ridge, he collected a good-sized pile of firewood and placed it far enough from the smoldering fire so that a random spark would not set it ablaze. Satisfied with his efforts he looked around and mentally nodded to himself. All set.