Ray didn’t care what the reason was. The result was the same: he was alive, out of harm’s way, on solid ground. A five-minute hike and he would be back at the kayak.
The hike turned out to be closer to twenty minutes. Ray’s shaky legs, liquid-cooled body, in early-stage hypothermia, he guessed, and the absence of anything resembling a trail made the going slow. When he finally emerged from the brush, he was in view of the overturned boat. Across the river Billy Bob was sitting on the mudflat, head between his legs, shoulders slumped.
“Hey!” Ray called.
Billy Bob’s bandanna-clad head jerked up. Even from sixty yards away, Ray could see the expressions wash over his face: gloom, curiosity, shock, finally elation.
“Ray!” He jumped to his feet and began whooping. “Ray! You okay?”
“Pretty much,” Ray yelled back. It was an accurate assessment. He had been better. But all things considered … He was thankful to be standing rather than doing the dead man’s float in the Colville.
“What now?” Billy Bob wanted to know.
Ray offered an exaggerated, full-body shrug, before starting for the kayak. He silently hoped that the boat would be empty.
He took a deep breath, then twisted the pointed bow. He could tell right away that the craft was empty.
From the far bank, Billy Bob called, “Where is he?”
“Beats me.” Relief was quickly overshadowed by concern. Lewis wouldn’t leave his kayak overturned. He would beach it. Unless Ray’s original hypothesis had been correct.
He had come full circle, from the dread of discovering Lewis’s waterlogged corpse, to the momentary satisfaction of finding the kayak unoccupied, to the growing sense that something terrible had happened, when he noticed the tracks: waffle patterns in the mud twenty feet up the bank. Ray climbed over a boulder and knelt to examine them. Vibram soles. A pair of hiking boots had exited the water just south of the kayak, plodded across the gravel, and departed into the woods.
Ray tried to visualize the event. Lewis had apparently stopped here, probably to wait for him and Billy Bob, climbed out of the kayak, and moved inland. The boat had drifted downstream a few feet, anchoring itself in the eddy. It fit the evidence on hand. What didn’t make sense, however, was why Lewis hadn’t secured his kayak.
Maybe he had been in a hurry. Maybe Headcase had been chasing him. Or a bear. No. Headcase had been busy elsewhere. And a bear … Lewis wouldn’t have fled from any type of wildlife, especially not on the river. A bear couldn’t catch him. Although … What if he saw a bear or a moose or a caribou and was so excited about bagging it that he neglected to take care of his kayak? Now that made sense.
Ray followed the boot prints to a screen of brush. If Lewis was out there stalking game, it wasn’t a good idea to wander in after him. Not unless he wanted to get shot.
Waving at the cloud of mosquitoes that had descended upon him, Ray stood peering into the first band of alders. The foliage was dense. “Lewis!”
“Do ya see him?” Billy Bob yodeled.
Ray turned and put a finger to his lips. “Lewis!”
Nothing. Brittle leaves trembling in the breeze. Bugs buzzing their wings. The river humming in baritone. Were it not for Headcase’s flamboyant, unscheduled entrance, Ray would have been tempted to believe that they were alone, just he, Billy Bob, and Nature occupying the seven-hundred-mile-long mountain range.
Against his better judgment—the motto of this misguided hunting trip—Ray pushed his way into the bushes. What if they didn’t find him? he wondered. What if no one ever did? This morbid thought was followed by a more practical, immediate worry. What would they do now? Ray was soaked, shivering. It was three in the afternoon. The sun would sink behind the western peak in a few hours.When it did, the temperature would drop twenty-five degrees, from a relatively pleasant sixty to an uncomfortable thirty-five. They had no dry clothes. No dry matches, unless the ones in Billy Bob’s pack had miraculously survived the dunking. No shelter. Not much food. A good twenty miles from the nearest village. Two men, hopefully three, with a single kayak for transportation. An armed dopehead stalking them from the other side of the river …
Bleak. That was the word that Ray’s mind submitted to describe the circumstances.
Ray was chewing this over, when he saw them: a pair of leather Nike backcountry boots. They were one atop the other, at the end of two crossed legs.
Extricating himself from a blueberry bush, Ray stepped to the middle of a level tundra clearing and glared down at the supine figure. Lewis … The goofball was stretched out on his back, using his pack for a pillow, arms folded across his chest, eyes shut, a peaceful look on his face … taking a nap! An empty candy bar wrapper and a water bottle protruded from the pockets of his parka.
Ray kicked one of the boots. “Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty!”
The lids fluttered and Lewis flinched. He looked up at Ray, dazed. A smile slowly materialized. It was weak, nothing like the self-assured expression he usually wore.
“Eh … You make it.”
“Barely.” Ray was poised to let Lewis have it with both barrels when he realized that something was wrong. Not only was the little twerp lacking his usual arrogance, his breathing was shallow and uneven. “What’s the matter?”
Lewis made an effort to get up. His head tilted forward, he bent at the waist, but something stopped him. He groaned, features contorting in a wicked grimace, before he fell back against the ground.
“What is it?” Ray could see no blood, no wound.
“I go one-on-one with da boulder. First time, I dunk. Second … I get stuffed.”
FIFTEEN
“WHAT HAPPENED?”
Lewis closed his eyes, as if retelling the experience required great concentration. “I go down. No problem. Real great rapids. Real great. Ho-lotta rocks. Then I sit and wait for you. When you don’t show, I go do rapids again.”
“What did you do? Portage back up?”
“Nah. Dere’s a chute on da west side. Quiet. Big enough for kayak. Maybe raft.” He shook his head in disgust. “Dis time I make mistake. Miss turn. Big rock … Real great big … It jump up and stuff me.” He clutched his right shoulder. I think it broke.”
Ray examined it gingerly. Even through the parka, he could tell that it was swollen. He pressed gently on various bones and muscles, as if he were a doctor and could determine the problem by touch. When he tried moving the joint, Lewis winced.
“Ahh!” Panting at the pain, he said, “Broke, uh? I be out for season?”
“Hunting season’s almost over.”
“No. B-ball season. Fall league.” He rubbed his shoulder, frowning.
Ray frowned with him. Here they were stranded in the middle of nowhere, and all Lewis could think about was how this affected his basketball game. “Can you paddle?”
He shook his head. “Beside, I lose paddle in wreck.”
“Great …” Ray tried to imagine a more pitiful situation. “Can you walk?”
“Sure. Legs okay.”
“I guess we could hike to Kanayut. It’s about what … twenty-five miles? If we follow the river, we’ll hit it sooner or later.”
Lewis sneered at the plan.
“What do you suggest we do, Mr. Expert Guide? Wait for a helicopter?”
This drew an Inupiaq curse. “Upriver ways, we seen Zodiacs.”
“Oh, yeah. Rafts and crates.”
“Not dat far back. Couple two or four miles or so. We be there before dark. They help us. Maybe owe us a boat.”
“You mean loan us a boat.”
“Right. Everything go good, we be meeting Jack. Maybe bag us bull or three.”
Ray blinked down at Lewis. It wasn’t a bad idea, the part about going back to the camp they had spotted. If the camp had Zodiacs, surely they had a radio. Maybe they could arrange an airlift back to Barrow and …
“Where da cowboy?”
Ray aimed a thumb over his shoulder. “On the other side of the river.�
�
“How you get cross? You swim? Dat why you wet?”
“Sort of.”
“How cowboy gonna get cross?”
“Good question.” He helped Lewis to a sitting position, then assisted him to his feet. Ray took up Lewis’s pack and followed him back toward the river.
Trudging out of the undergrowth, they saw Billy Bob wading toward them. Or at least, making an attempt. He was wet to the knees, the expression on his face was something between panic and despair. He crept upstream a few paces, then back down, trying to work up the nerve to follow Ray’s precarious lead.
Ray waved him back toward shore. “Get back on the bank!”
The cowboy lifted his arms in a gesture of frustration. “What’re we gonna do?”
“Remember the rafts upriver?” Ray called.
“What about ‘em?”
“We’re going to head back up there and see if those people have a radio.”
Billy Bob nodded. “Okay. But what about this?” He flailed his hands at the river.
“We’ll work up the bank and look for a place you can cross.”
“Okay … I guess,” he lamented. “Lewis, you all right?”
“Kinda all right,” Lewis replied. “Not real all right.” He pointed to his shoulder.
Ray started up the bank, mud sucking at his boots. What a day, he thought. None of them would have trouble sleeping tonight. He was exhausted, mostly from the stress of nearly drowning, twice, and dodging bullets. Having to portage and wander through the woods had taken its toll on his legs. They were sore, burning. Tomorrow they would ache. Why had he agreed to this trip?
The west side of the river was flatter, bordering a series of thin meadows that rose to greet the limestone peaks. The tundra was soggy, but manageable. There was less foliage, almost no berry bushes. The mosquitoes were thick, but a generous application of Cutter’s ameliorated the problem. After two granóla bars, Ray decided that he would live. He was still dog-tired, still convinced that the expedition was one humongous mistake, but the sugar and carbs buoyed him to a level approaching tolerance. He had regained his composure and was no longer bent on beating Lewis senseless. In fact, he almost felt sorry for the little guy. He was clearly in quite a bit of pain.
He did feel sorry for Billy Bob. The poor guy was slogging through thick brush, up and over sandbars and tributaries, batting at the bugs that were about to carry him away. He had no repellent, no food, no extra clothing, nothing. Worse, he was on Headcase’s side of the river. Poor kid. It was his first venture into the Bush. And judging from his haggard face and wilted posture, it might well be his last.
It took over an hour to hike past the rapids. Above the white water they were greeted by the deceivingly tranquil “calm before the storm” section of river: serene, aquamarine water dotted with yellowish gray boulders.
Ray studied the miniature atolls, his mind playing connect the dots. When a pattern presented itself, he shouted to Billy Bob, “Think you can rock hop across?”
The cowboy glared at the stepping-stones. Most were large enough to accommodate two boots, but even those closest to one another would require an agile, athletic leap. The water between islands, though smooth, looked deep and unforgiving. This river was serious. Though calmer than Ray’s crossing point, a misstep here would carry Billy Bob into the rapids below, dumping him into the boulder field like a rag doll.
“Wall … I spose I could,” he drawled back, hesitantly. “If I have ta.”
“You still have that rope?” Ray asked Lewis.
The guide nodded, his brow sunken. He looked tired, worn, ready to admit defeat.
Ray set both packs down. After digging out the rope, he fastened one end to a smooth, round stone the size of a grapefruit. “Incoming!” he yelled, heaving the rock at Billy Bob. It landed with a hollow kathunk, disappearing into an eddy. Reeling it in, he checked the knot and made another attempt. This time he hit the far bank. The stone thudded onto the steep, muddy incline, teetered, and began to roll back toward the water. Billy Bob stumbled after it, drew in the slack, and attached the rope to a clump of willows. Ray did the same with his end, tying it off on a birch with a sturdy, eight-inch trunk. The finished line was taut, running at shoulder height. It wouldn’t keep Billy Bob from missing his appointments with the stepping-stones, but it might keep him from drowning.
Grasping the line with his right hand, the cowboy stood at the edge of the bank.
“Don’t think about it too much,” Ray advised. “Take it slow. One rock at a time.”
“Okay …” He sighed. “Here goes.” Instead of going, he merely leaned, his feet seemingly unwilling to relinquish their hold on dry, solid ground.
Ray was about to offer further words of encouragement and seek out a soft place to sit down, since this had the look of a long-term project, when he saw a white-hot flash up on the ridge. A fraction of a second later a boom echoed through the canyon and on the far bank, a dollar-sized clump of gravel exploded just inches from Billy Bob’s boot. The cowboy hollered something and leapt into the river.
Ray flattened himself on the tundra as another shot whizzed down, this time toward him. The bullet struck a poplar a foot away. A third boom made the water just to the left of Billy Bob erupt in a miniature geyser.
“What da …?” Lewis hurried behind a tree.
Billy Bob was still coming, urged forward by the spray of gunfire. He reached for the safety line, jumped from one rock to the next, before the rope was cut by a single shot.
Rolling, Ray retrieved the rifle and a box of ammo from Lewis’s pack. Headcase was apparently exacting his revenge. Anytime now, he would grow weary of toying with them and start aiming to kill. Unless Ray could change his mind.
Shots were ringing out in four-fourths time, bracketing Billy Bob, causing him to perform a jerky jig across the stones. Ray fed shells into the 300 Magnum and pointed the barrel at the ridge. Headcase might have been crazy, but he wasn’t stupid. He was being careful not to give them a viable target. There was no movement, nothing to track.
A bullet found the sole of Billy Bob’s right boot and sent his leg kicking into the air. The cowboy flailed his arms wildly. Wobbling on one foot, he came ominously close to tumbling from his perch on a boulder at midstream.
Ray crouched behind a poplar and peppered the greenery below the ridge with a flurry of shots. The response to his statement was encouraging: silence. Headcase was either shocked, having assumed that they were still unarmed, or fleeing, or … wounded? Ray doubted the latter were possibilities. Headcase wasn’t the sort to back down from a fight. And the chances of hitting a man Ray couldn’t even see from this distance by firing blindly were nonexistent. More likely, the wacko was reloading.
Stuffing in more shells, Ray watched as Billy Bob bounded gracelessly across the rocks. He was three-quarters of the way home and coming hard.
Ray picked spots at random and fired, hoping to keep Headcase honest, even at bay for the remainder of the cowboy’s journey. “Get into the woods,” he told Lewis.
Injured and still reeling from the surprise attack, Lewis complied without comment. He stumbled past Ray with wide eyes, his face pale, his right arm cradled against his chest.
Billy Bob was two modest hops from shore when Headcase replied. The first bullet caught the cowboy in the left calf, the second grazing his left shoulder. He sagged as if his entire side had been deflated.
Ray showered the brush with lead and urged Billy Bob forward. “Come on!”
The cowboy seemed confused. The sudden intrusion of pain had a paralyzing effect, freezing him in place.
Ray knew that if he didn’t move, Headcase would finish the job. “Jump!!”
A bullet came at Ray, splintering the bark of his tree shield. Another dug a hole in the tundra a foot to his right. Ray retaliated by firing aimlessly.
On the last rock, Billy Bob stood, mouth hanging open as he gawked at his pant leg. It was dark red. Almost black. So was the sleeve of h
is parka.
“Jump!!” Ray begged. He yanked the trigger until the chamber was empty.
There was a brief calm. Ray reloaded, wondering where the next attack would come from.
Billy Bob looked to Ray in desperation, his head cocked back, as if he were about to faint. He staggered to the edge of his stone platform and gauged the effort necessary to reach the bank like a drunk about to cross a busy boulevard. His body compressed slightly, knees bending, head falling into his shoulders. He pushed off in slow motion.
There was a deafening crash. A tiny missile found the cowboy, and his long jump was aborted. He twitched and slumped forward, executing a picture-perfect belly flop before disappearing into the current.
SIXTEEN
RAY STAGGERED FROM behind the birch, incensed, appalled, horrified by what he had just witnessed. He ran wildly down the bank, into the river. With icy water lapping around his knees, he pointed Lewis’s 300 at the veil of greenery, issued a war whoop, and opened fire. He pulled the trigger, pulled it again, and again, and again, venting his hatred, silently willing each bullet to pierce the heart of the hidden assailant.
When the chamber was empty, he clicked off another half dozen shots, the rage slow to dissipate. Instead of reloading, he just stood there, panting, sweating, cursing softly, daring Headcase to show himself. Ten seconds passed. Twenty. A half minute. Nothing. No retort. No movement. Maybe he had gotten lucky and nailed him.
Ray was trying to calculate the chances of a blind hit when he heard something behind him: a sickly gurgle. Turning, he saw Billy Bob half-swimming, half-floating toward shore. Ray high-stepped over and dragged him unceremoniously onto the bank as if he were a punctured raft. The cowboy was heavy, limp, his breathing shallow. After spreading him out on the gravel, Ray peeled the parka back and examined the shoulder wound. The flesh had been grazed, the bullet plowing a shallow furrow just above the collarbone. It was superficial, no muscle, ligament or bone exposed, but he was bleeding. Ray applied pressure with his hand.
Season of Death Page 10