Raintree didn’t move.
“Get going or I’ll blow a hole right through you and into your squaw.”
“You’d better listen to him,” Castle heard himself saying. “He’s got a half-dozen notches in his gun, and a couple more won’t matter. He’ll face a death sentence anyway.”
“Wrong, G-man,” Goodall said. “I don’t face death. I face eternal life in the bosom of the Lord.”
Raintree gave Dove a look, then collected the four backpacks and dropped them in the swollen raft, along with three of the doubled-headed paddles. Dove helped him pull the raft to the water’s edge.
Castle watched Goodall’s eyes. The bomber was distracted, watching the churning river as if expecting it to calm down, or maybe for the waters to part. The Rook had made a big deal about Goodall’s religious mania, a textbook case of schizophrenia. Except Goodall had shown a rational cunning in planning his bomb attacks and eluding pursuit. This wasn’t the work of a guy who had scrambled eggs in place of brains.
So maybe God is on his side, The Rook chimed in. And the angels really are angels.
“And they carried you off to heaven?” Castle said aloud.
Goodall brought the pistol to bear on Castle. “What did you say, Haircut?”
Castle folded his arms. Maybe he was the textbook case. Voices in his head, the childhood memories of claws tracking the bed frame, an inability to act despite the best law enforcement training on the planet. He was little more than a bag of blood, waiting to be tapped by Ace’s angels. “Nothing.”
“A lot of words to say nothing,” Goodall said. “Come on, babe, it’s bon voyage time. You-what’s your name? Bowie? — get it in the water and hold in place till we’re in. You up front. I’ll be riding shotgun in the back.”
“Have either of you ever done any white-water rafting?” Bowie asked them.
“No, but we took a canoe ride,” Goodall said. “I’d guess the canoe is two miles downstream by now.”
“I need a second paddler, then.”
“No can do, Chief.”
“I need a PFD.”
“A life jacket? No, I don’t want you to get any ideas about jumping ship.”
“It’s suicide to set out on this water. I know this gorge. Lots of tributaries and gullies. A flash food could come tearing down on us like a tidal wave.”
“It won’t be suicide,” Goodall said. “‘Mercy killing’ is more like it. You ought to have a little faith.”
“Faith was great for Noah and his family,” Castle said. “But it sucked for the rest of the world.”
Goodall ignored him. “Get on, big man,” he said to Bowie.
Bowie scooted the raft in the water, holding it by the grab loop. It caught the current immediately and bounced against the rocks along the shore. Bowie, knee-deep in the water, strained against the obvious force of the fast-moving Unegama. The girl, Clara, rolled up her pants legs, though they were already soaked, before she waded to the raft and boarded, nearly tipping it over.
Goodall took a last look around, as if counting again. “Shit fire,” he said. “I lost count of you folks, but I know you had two rafts at the top of the falls. Where’s the other one?”
Raintree, shielding Dove again, said, “We busted it.”
“Thing looks pretty sturdy to me.”
“You want to know the truth?” Castle said. “I shot two holes in it. I didn’t want these people slowing me down.”
“Hey, G-man, don’t be filling me full of bull. We both know it’s not that easy to walk out of here. Take two or three days if you’re lucky, and that’s not counting the rain and my little flying friends. You’d have to be crazy to do something like that.”
“He is crazy,” Raintree said. “He’s been talking to himself.”
Goodall looked around, then checked the sky. The precipitation had eased, but the sky was still a writhing mass of oily rags. Castle figured full dark was a half hour away. He wondered if the creatures, like the monsters that had lived under his bed, would become more active at night.
“What do you think, Clara?” Goodall asked.
“I don’t want to wait around. I’m scared.”
“Jesus, babe. You’re as bad as the rest. I told you the Lord would deliver, and He brought this raft right to us, gave us a bunch of food and other goodies, probably some nice tents in those backpacks. This group is outfitted to beat the band. And He gave us a guide.” Goodall grinned, showing stained and chipped enamel. “The Lord wandered in the wilderness himself, but it was all just a test. Did Jesus give in to the devil even if it would have made His life easier?”
Textbook, The Rook whispered.
“We can’t do anything about the other raft,” Clara said.
“Reckon you’re right for a change.”
Castle waited until Goodall took a precarious step onto a mossy stone. The killer’s gun was held out at shoulder level as he established his balance on the raft. He was swinging his other leg forward when Castle took a running leap. Three quick steps and then he was airborne, he was flying, flying like a goddamned vampire angel, soaring toward his target and The left side of his body burned as if splashed with a bucket of hellfire and he crashed down on the sand, a dead, soggy leaf sticking to his cheek as he sucked in a lungful of broken glass and rusty nails.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Holy fuck, he shot the son of a bitch.
Not that Farrengalli gave a damn about the Fed, or any cop for that matter. He’d never learned respect for law and order, ever since he’d been pinched for stealing a Nirvana CD in the fourth grade. In high school, he’d pulled thirty days for breaking and entering, which led him to flunk out and graduate to serious small-time crime: boosting cars, peddling hot TVs and computers, and turning over the occasional kilo of Mexican grass. For most of his life, cops of any kind were the Enemy. And Special Agent Jim Castle had come on two doughnuts shy of a sackful, closer to Hannibal Lector than Clarice Starling.
But as he watched from the woods while the Fed took a bullet from the scrawny Charles Manson wannabe, Farrengalli’s gut was a block of ice. He’d felt no desire to interfere, and he figured the guy with the gun was the Bama Bomber, which would make his story worth even more money once he got out of this bad horror movie of a river trip. All he had to do was dodge the vampires, survive the river, avoid getting shot, and collect his money from ProVentures. The survival of the rest of the group, or the ever-expanding list of extras and bit players, was not his concern.
He wouldn’t mind bringing Dove along with him, though. After all, she had the camera and the publishing contacts, plus she was hot enough to scorch an Eskimo’s dick. He could probably work her for a tumble if he could get her away from the redskin. At least that prick Bowie was apparently getting kidnapped, which was just fine with him.
Dove went straight to the Fed, playing nurse like she had the whole trip. The Bama Bomber looked ready to take down Dove and the redskin, too. Hell, if the nut shot Raintree, then Farrengalli could bring the raft out of the woods and play “Moonlight River” with Dove. Except it didn’t look like the night would offer up a moon, and he wasn’t sure he’d be able to handle the raft without some help.
The Bama Bomber climbed into the raft with Bowie and the girl and shoved off. Bowie shouted something that was drowned out by the river’s rush. The raft spun, undulated like a fat larva, and entered the heart of the current. It slipped downstream and was quickly lost in the mist. class=Section4›
Farrengalli shouldered the second raft and headed out from the relative shelter of the high evergreen trees. By the time he reached the group, Castle was propped against a boulder, his shirt open, rain carrying rivulets of blood down his belly. The agent was conscious, but his eyelids fluttered as if he were focusing on something beyond the wall of mist.
“Man, oh, man,” Farrengalli said. “Guess we need a new trail boss.”
“Where the hell were you?” Dove said.
“Never mind that now,” Raintree sa
id. “We’ve got to patch him up.”
“The first-aid kit was in my backpack,” Dove said.
Raintree unzipped his SealSkinz and peeled it down his torso. Underneath was a white T-shirt that advertised his fitness gyms. He yanked the shirt up and over his head, showing a muscular chest. Farrengalli figured him for a show-off, but Dove was too busy tending Castle to get an eyeful. Raintree ripped the T-shirt into several large swathes of cotton and handed them to Dove. She used one to wipe at the wound, then wrapped two around Castle’s upper abdomen and tied them tightly. Castle winced and moaned. Some tough guy, Farrengalli thought.
“The bullet didn’t seem to pierce any major organs,” Dove said. “It may have broken a rib, but I think it went below the lung and above his liver and kidney. Looks like it just hit meat.”
“Thank God for all those doughnuts,” Farrengalli said.
Ignoring him, Raintree rummaged in the little leather pouch that was tied to his belt. He pulled out an orange vial, rolled a couple of pills into his palm, and held them to Castle’s mouth. “Here,” Raintree said. “This will help the pain.”
“What are those?” Dove asked.
“Oxycodone.”
“Oxy.” Farrengalli said. “Where did you get those?”
“From my medicine bag,” Raintree said. class=Section5›
Fucking smart-ass redskin. If Dove wasn’t here, I’d mash those government-subsidized teeth straight down your throat.
Castle swallowed the pills with effort. Dove removed her helmet, carried it to the river, and scooped up some water. “Guess a little diarrhea is the least of his worries,” she said as he sipped the water. “With the rain, it’s probably cleaner than usual.”
“Well, Chief,” Farrengalli said to Raintree. “What’s the plan?” Maybe he should have asked Dove, too, but the way she was making horny-squaw eyes at the Cherokee, she would go along with whatever he decided.
Castle cleared his throat. “Guess this is the part where I tell you to go on without me. I’m dead weight and I’ll just slow you down.”
“The painkillers will kick in soon,” Raintree said. “Hang on.”
“He’s right,” Farrengalli said, as if Castle weren’t there. “He’s vampire bait. Let’s get on down the river.”
“No way,” Dove said.
Castle sat up a little. The makeshift bandages were stained with a crimson blossom, but the bleeding appeared to have slowed. He reached inside his shirt. “There’s one other option.”
“Shit, he’s got another gun tucked in there,” Farrengalli said. “I knew it. Like something out of Wild, Wild West.”
Instead, Castle brought out a small silver object the size of his palm. He flipped it open. “No bars.”
“You can’t get a cell phone signal down in the gorge,” Dove said. “Surely you tried it before.”
“Not down here by the river,” Castle said. “I mean up there.”
He pointed above the tree line, to the stack of stone that rose like an edifice out of the mist.
“Babel Tower,” Dove said.
“Attacoa,” Raintree said.
“High ground,” Farrengalli said.
Castle coughed, a gurgling in his throat as he spoke. His words were slurring, and Farrengalli figured the redskin’s happy pills must be doing the job. “Our plan-me and my partner’s-was to climb the peak and see if we could pick up a tower. Though this area’s remote, you might get a line-of-sight connection even if the transmitter’s fifty miles away.”
“It would take a half day to reach the top,” Dove said. “I’ve seen the trail maps. There are stretches where you’d have to climb instead of hike. Hard climbing, with fingertips and toeholds. No can do in weather like this, when the rocks are slick, even if darkness wasn’t falling.”
Farrengalli thought about it. Babel Tower looked like something out of The Lord of the Rings, a precarious and treacherous natural turret. Except it wouldn’t be orcs and trolls that would crawl out of the shadows to attack them; it would be bloodsucking bat-beasts.
But if they made it to the top and put in a successful call, then a helicopter would swoop down, pluck them-well, those that survived the climb, anyway- off the stony, flat peak, and carry them off to a date with CBS Evening News. He didn’t know shit about cell phones, he’d always been too broke to buy one and the calling plans were confusing as hell, but Castle’s idea sounded fine to him. Especially because both Dove and Raintree were frowning.
“I like it,” Farrengalli said.
“We don’t have much climbing gear,” Dove said.
Farrengalli shook his backpack. “Ropes, pitons, and a couple them funny hammers.”
“Which of us would make the climb?”
“Well, I figure you and me,” Farrengalli said to her. “You got the experience and I got the stubborness. But Raintree’s the one in charge now, so I guess it’s up to him.”
Farrengalli gave his best shit-eating grin, hoping his gleaming, television-ready teeth were visible in the fading light.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
“Grab my hand!” Raintree released the safety line and reached down from the narrow cleft of rock where he lay on his belly.
Dove dangled fifty feet above the river, which was nearly lost in the gathering mist and darkness below. She swung suspended on the primary belaying line.
“I can’t reach you,” she shouted. Her eyes were wide in the faint light, but not from fright. Or maybe that was wishful thinking. Raintree had endured too much wishful thinking about her.
Raintree cursed under his breath because he hadn’t taken the time to properly set the anchor for the safety line. Instead of driving it into the granite with the blunt end of the lightweight climber’s pick (the ProVentures ProPik, patent pending), he had jammed the anchor into a crevice, figuring the tension would be plenty good enough for backup.
Dove reached toward him, dangling like a clock’s pendulum on eight feet of rope. Raintree hooked the tip of one boot around a stub of rock, then eased out another six inches. He wrapped the primary belay around his wrist, another no-no, but this was a night for no-nos.
“Hold on,” he yelled, though she had little choice, since a carabiner linked her belt to the belay.
He waited for her to bump into the sheer rock face below, and then steadied the rope until she was still. “Okay,” he said, gathering his breath. “On the count of three, pretend you’re Spiderman and grab everything you can while I pull you up.”
The rope girding his wrist bore most of her weight. Though she was barely over a hundred pounds, his fingers were tingling, their first stop on the way to numbness. And numb fingers to a lead climber were like broken wings on a bird.
Raintree shifted from his belly to his left side, allowing room to swing his right arm. His left hand gripped the safety line, the one with the weak anchor. If that line gave way, and he slid over the ledge, he wasn’t sure the primary line would hold their combined weight.
Even if the line held, they’d have to rappel down to the last secure anchor and start from there, losing precious time in the race against full dark.
“One… ”
Their ascent had been to the left of the tower, up a series of natural steppes. They’d free-climbed that stretch, but then the handholds had given way to tiny chinks, where strong fingers were required. Their hiking boots hadn’t helped, because they were steel-toed and not designed for climbing. They were on the third pitch of the climb, Raintree taking lead and setting the anchors, when Dove lost her position and swung free on the primary line.
“Two… ”
Though Babel Tower had been climbed before, no permanent safety bolts had been drilled into the granite, and no mapped routes existed. Because the Unegama Gorge was a designated wilderness area, such damage to natural resources was a federal crime. Climbers were already considered undesirable by the U.S. Park Service because of alleged destruction of rare lichen and other plant species at popular climbing destinations.
Raintree didn’t give a damn about federal regulations at the moment. All he cared about was pulling Dove within reach of the ledge.
“ Three! ”
He tugged with all his strength, his biceps screaming and his wrist burning, feeling the give in the safety line and knowing it wouldn’t hold if he really needed it.
But then her fingers were sliding up the length of the belay where it encircled his wrist, then her hand slid up the slick, sweating length of his forearm, and finally, her face appeared over the crag.
Her eyes were still wide, not in fear, not in excitement, but in search of information. A photographer’s eyes, clicking at a high shutter speed, capturing the most important visual clues.
Like where to grab.
That tiny ridge of rock, one that only an experienced climber would appreciate. She had it, her fingers hooked like an eagle’s beak.
He could smell her breath, the faint smell of chamomile shampoo beneath the sweat, the salamander odor of the miles-long muddy river.
She wedged her torso over, the shoulders of her damp khaki blouse covered with sand and tiny rocks. Using the rope, she gained another few inches, repositioned, and launched her elbow against the rock. With a little leverage at last, she worked until her trunk was on the ledge, as Raintree murmured encouragement while blocking out the fiery agony in his wrist.
He could deal with the pain later. He had plenty of cures for pain.
Medicine bag speak with forked tongue.
Then Dove had both the primary rope and the safety rope, distributing part of her weight between them, working a knee over the ledge and onto solid rock. Wriggling forward, she fell onto Raintree, and despite his relief over her safety and the release of the constriction of his wrist, he couldn’t ignore the press of her soft breasts against his body as she moved across him to the rear of the rock shelf.
“Close one,” he said. Too damned close. Not the fall. Her.
“You saved my ass that time. I owe you.”
“Hey, good climbers use the buddy system.” Raintree sat up and carefully unraveled the rope from his forearm, then shook blood back into his fingers.
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