Gail yanked frantically at her restraining rope, drawing blood of her own. She looked over at Tom, tears in her eyes: “Tom, please … be okay,” she said softly.
Deke walked over and stood over Tom. “Still want a piece of me?”
“Stay down, Tom!” Gail screamed.
Roarke stared at his father’s prostrate figure. Tears filled his eyes. Seeing his father get pummeled was a boy’s nightmare. Terry, a few feet away, poked at his teeth, bored. Deke bent closer to Tom, taunting him. He cupped a hand to an ear. “I can’t hear you. Still want a piece of me?”
Tom shot out an arm and grabbed Deke’s leg.
Roarke erupted, “All right!”
Tom pushed himself onto his knees, pulling Deke’s legs out from under him. He crawled on top of Deke and landed a blind punch. Deke jabbed his fingers into Tom’s eyes, momentarily blinding him. Deke pulled away from Tom and jumped to his feet as Tom regained his feet. Blood flowed faster from Tom’s cuts. He wiped a hand over his eyes, trying to soothe them.
There was a new look in Deke’s eye—the twinkle of mischief given way to a killer’s stare. The entertainment portion of the program was over. Tom raised his arms to protect himself. Deke stepped in and crashed a right to Tom’s face. Tom staggered backward, trying to keep his balance. Deke stepped forward with more devastating blows, a left then a right, each unblocked, each punch piercing Tom’s feeble defenses. Tom’s bad eye closed entirely. He pulled his fists closer together in front of his face and peered through his remaining good eye. Deke was a blur. The blows landed with gruesome ease. Whunk. Whunk. Whunk. With each fist to the face, Tom’s head snapped back and his face seemed to swell even more. Deke rested for a moment, shaking his fists out at his sides.
Gail rose up in her raft, pried the oar out of the oarlock and threw it like a spear at Deke. It landed in the sand and stuck for a moment, before keeling over. “Leave him alone!” Gail screamed, her horrifying wail bouncing off the canyon walls and repeating itself.
Tom stood like a drunk, disoriented and defenseless. He staggered one way, then the other, barely regaining his balance with each staggered step, refusing to go down. Deke took a deep breath, shook out his right fist a second time and stepped up to Tom. He peered at him, sadistically turning his head one way, then the other. The final blow came from down under, an uppercut that caught Tom on the chin with a sickening crunch. His head snapped back a final time. His eyes went haywire. His knees quivered and buckled. He crumpled in a heap, unconscious.
Tears flowed down Gail’s cheeks. “You fucker-loser-psycho!” she howled. She waited for her own echo to bounce off the canyon walls. She shot out an arm and pointed at Deke. Her next words were more deliberate, her defiant survival mode kicked in. “You touch him again, and I’ll never take you down this fucking river. You hear me?! You will never get down this river!”
Deke raised his arms overhead in mock surrender. Roarke’s head rose into view above the gunwales—up off the floor of the raft where he had thrown himself to avoid the spectacle his father’s final demise. He peered at Tom, blinking through tears. His father lay as still as driftwood, his face mushed into the white sand, discolored in places by blood. “Dad … you okay?”
Deke stepped over Tom and marched back to the rafts. “Okay. Let’s try this goddamn departure one more time. Sorry for any delay, folks.”
19
Viewed from the drop-off and pool below, at water level, the roaring rapids Gail was about to navigate looked like a mogul run on a ski slope. They had to be run in a similar way, a course selected, trouble spots avoided, safety zones identified. Patches of white water and whitecaps were punctuated with deeper, green tongues of water. The acoustic roar was constant. More than on any other stretch, the river’s incessant power was felt in its rapids.
Tom and Gail’s heads appeared at the top of the rapids, a hundred yards upriver, seeming to hover above the field of white froth. Then they were gone, swallowed into a trough, only to shoot up once more, preceded by the black nose of the Avon raft. Tom, at Gail’s direction, had sunk down into the bottom of the raft. He clutched the canvas handles to either side. His face looked like a puffy platter of hamburger. One eye was swollen shut, underlain by a black-and-blue shiner. Dried blood stuck to his lower lip. Gail manned the oars with strength and precision, riding the rower’s seat like a rider on a bucking bronco, using the oars for balance and guidance, making a continual series of small course corrections to pick the safest route through. Her raft did one more trough plunge and upward thrust before bumping into the quiet pool below.
Safely through, she back-oared for the beach side of the run, away from the canyon wall. She steered the raft into a back eddy, which held it in a constant, slow-moving holding pattern. “I’m going to hold here, honey, in case they get in trouble. We’ll be in a better position to help Roarke.”
Tom lifted himself off the raft’s floor and onto the stern seat. He was drenched. He shivered in the shade. “You’re really good at this,” he mumbled to Gail. His speech was a little bruised.
Gail smiled. She was embarrassed by the compliment. “It’s only rowing.”
“Somewhere along the way I stopped admiring you for what you do well, and started competing with you.” He reached over and brushed her damp hair. “I’m really sorry about that.”
“Not always right, but never in doubt,” she mimicked. “I can be pretty bossy.” She took Tom’s hand in hers. “You don’t look too good.” Gail peeled off her t-shirt, dunked it in the river and wrung it out. She pressed it gently to Tom’s face.
Tom started to laugh, but it hurt too much. “I was doing my best rope-a-dope … ‘cept I think I was the dope for letting him goad me into fighting.” Tom brightened. “Think I hurt his hands?”
Gail smiled lovingly, “You killed his hands. I know that for a fact.” She couldn’t stop a giggle. She clamped a hand to her mouth, but it was too late.
Tom giggled back, involuntarily. “Ow … ”
Gail touched his hair. “Sorry.”
They looked into each other’s eyes for the longest time. Gail’s thoughts went to a darker place. “They’re going to kill us before we get to the takeout.”
“They’d like to,” Tom said.
“Tonight’s the last night. We need to do something while they still need me.”
“Like what?”
“If it really gets down to it … I’d rather dump us and take our chances in the water.”
The specter of a kamikaze mission sent them into a quiet funk.
“Where? Indian Rapids?” Tom asked.
Gail nodded. “I know just the rock.”
“What about Roarke? We made him together.”
Gail fought off tears. “I know,” she sobbed. “And it makes me so … mad … but I don’t know what else to do.”
Tom engulfed her in a hug. “You know we’re going to get out of this, right? You know that,” Tom said.
“I like your never in doubt, part,” Gail replied.
“Except right, too!” Tom told her.
“Yeah,” Gail said, softly. She savored the incongruity of confidence rising Phoenix-like out of a face that belonged in an emergency room. For the first time in a long time, Gail surrendered to Tom’s strength. She hugged him with all her might and tried to believe him. “I can’t believe Jim and Peter are dead,” she said. “Their families don’t know, Tom. Right now, they don’t know. They’re doing whatever they’re doing, and they don’t know.” She started sobbing again. “They think they’re safe with me.”
“You can’t look at it that way. You know what I always told you: when your time’s up, there’s no negotiating. That’s what happened, Gail. You weren’t even on the river.” A sadness overcame Tom. His own survival and the well-being of his family had preoccupied his thoughts. He blinked away tears. “They were so happy to go on this fishing trip.”
“I know,” Gail said, “that was the last time we saw them alive … at our home, the nig
ht we fought. If you had talked me into not going, they wouldn’t have gone either. They’d be disappointed, but alive.”
Tom found strength from somewhere. “We owe it to them to get out alive, Gail. To make sure their killers never kill again. To put them away for good. It’s not just our lives we’re saving, but others. We owe that to Jim and Peter. Okay?”
“Okay,” Gail said softly.
** ** **
Terry’s terrified yelp punctured their relative quiet. He was at the oars, but he wasn’t in control. They were staring at the final stretch of the rapids, and the raft was broadside to the current. Deke hung on behind Terry, eyes wide. Roarke was on his knees in the bow, holding onto the bowline where it was knotted to the bow D ring. His eyes peered over the front of the raft; his face was ashen. He saw a boulder rushing at them. He threw himself to the upriver side of the raft to unweight the downriver side and facilitate the raft’s ability to roll over the rock. It slid up and over and splashed down.
Deke got knocked sideways in the stern. He re-secured the .22 in the back of his jeans and fumbled for the canvas straps. Terry managed to maneuver the bow downriver in time to face the last obstacle: a trough and ledge. “Aw, fuck … hold on,” he yelled. He pulled on the oars but got only air because he was angled too far backward. The bow of the raft dipped suddenly; they seemed to be falling into a hole in the river. Seen from below, Roarke’s head bounced into sight first, then Terry’s, then Deke’s as the raft snaked its way over the ledge and shot straight up. Terry tried to steady the landing, but his oars hit the water at different times, to different depths, jerking it sideways once more. They careened off a rock and were slammed against the side of the cliff. The force of the current held them against the cliff wall, on a straight course, banging, banging, banging the granite. Terry tried to ship the oar so it wouldn’t keep hand-braking against the cliff, but the power of the current sucked it out of his hand, and he tumbled backward. There was one final plunge, then the raft shot through a wall of spray and landed into the safety of quiet water.
Gail had begun moving downriver when she saw them in the last section of the rapids. It only took her a few strokes to angle downstream and into the main current. She expertly stoked her raft alongside Deke and Terry. Roarke grabbed the canvas bow strap on Gail’s raft. Gail back-oared the two rafts out of the faster current and into the slack water opposite the cliff. She beached both rafts at the tail end of the pool. The gear was removed, the rafts were tipped on edge to drain the river water.
Deke looked a little nervous. “How does that compare to the final rapids?”
“It doesn’t.” Gail said, walking away.
“Guess who’s driving?” Deke shouted after her.
Fifty yards above them—at the tail end of the rapids—a green canoe expertly navigated the last ledge and chute, and shot into the deep water start of the run. The rower’s khaki-and-green uniform indicated that he was a Fish and Game ranger. Deke ran up and corralled Tom and Gail. “Not one fuckin’ word,” he told them. He brandished the .22 for them to see. “Terry,” he barked, “get the kid.”
Terry clamped an arm around Roarke’s neck and pulled him slightly apart from the group. He clicked open his knife with his other hand for Tom and Gail to see. Then he cupped the blade.
The ranger beached his canoe and hopped out. He was in his late twenties, sinewy, dark skinned, part Indian. “Afternoon, folks.”
“Howdy,” Tom said.
The ranger wiped his face with a bandana and stuffed it back in his pocket. He gestured behind him. “That chute’s trickier than it looks, even when you’ve been down it a dozen times. How’s the fishing?”
Gail held her silence until Deke gave her a look. “Catching a few.”
“Glad to hear it,” the ranger said. “Water only cleared up last week. Hell of a snowpack this winter. Runoff hit seven thousand CFS two months ago.”
The ranger sensed an awkwardness. Folks on the river—particularly after some long stretches of solitude—tended to enjoy a little “country store” chitchat. He looked from face to face, took in the unusual positioning of bodies and the stiff postures. His gaze settled on Tom’s face. “What happened to you?”
“Got tossed out of the boat in one of the rapids. I moved, the rocks didn’t.”
“Done that myself a time or two.”
Gail was practically bursting. She looked at Deke, then Terry, and smiled at Roarke. Tom eyed Deke’s gun that was tucked in his belt. He spotted Terry tightening his grip on Roarke. He debated his options. He lifted one toe ever so slowly and began to carve an SOS in the sand.
“The river doesn’t get any easier below here,” the ranger said. “You folks have the proper life jackets for everyone?”
“We’re covered,” Gail said. She stepped forward and put out her hand. “I’m Gail MacDonald … used to be Gail Anderson before your time. I must have guided this river fifty times about a million years ago.”
They shook. “Nice to meet you, Gail,” the ranger said.
“That’s my husband, Tom, and son Roarke over there. I could run Indian Gorge in my sleep, but thanks for the heads-up. Most folks that float the river for the first time tend to underestimate it.”
The ranger ran both hands through his hair, then glanced up at the sun. “Been on the river for a week. I better get going if I’m going to get off by nightfall. Have a safe rest of your trip.” He started for his canoe.
Tom blurted, “Officer!”
The ranger stopped. Terry hoisted Roarke against him so that only the tips of the boy’s sneakers touched the ground. Deke swung a hand around and gripped the pistol handle.
Tom’s eyes shined hopelessly from his poor-excuse-for-a-face. “I was wondering …”
He deliberately stared down at the SOS he had carved in the sand—trying to direct the ranger’s attention. Tom’s gaze settled on a trout fly stuck to his fishing vest. He plucked the fly from the sheepskin patch, improvised, “… if you knew what the hell this is? Seems to me the only fly the fish are interested in. It’s my last one.”
“Let’s take a look,” the ranger said, marching over.
Tom looked down again at his SOS, praying to himself, Dear Lord … give this ranger the wherewithal to look down …
“Looks like some sort of caddis,” the ranger said, examining the fly.
Tom desperately tried to position the ranger to look down. It was a silent, awkward tango. Deke stepped beside Tom. His boots covered the SOS, and with a slight shuffle the message was gone. Tom glanced down and saw Deke’s sabotage. Deke clapped him on the shoulder, feigning interest in the fly discussion, mocking Tom with the gesture and a subsequent grin.
“Might try a humpe or a stimulator,” the ranger told Tom. “These aren’t the finickiest trout in the world, but they are trout. Whatever works, works. As a fishing guide explained it to me: ‘No matter what anybody tells you about where to fish, or when to fish, or what to fish with, the singular truth about fishing is you won’t catch anything if your bait’s not on the water.’ Tight lines.”
He retreated to his canoe, slid it into the river, pushed off, and jumped in. Gail viewed him like a shipwrecked refugee watching a ship passing by her deserted island. Her face fell. Something snapped. Her feet started to move. “Come back,” she said softly. Her walk turned into a trot. The ranger was still in view, paddling hard in a swift current to push himself ever faster downriver.
“Gail?” Tom said.
Deke glared at Tom. “Where’s she going?”
Gail was running faster and faster, driven by a mother’s desperation.
“Get her,” Deke yelled at Tom, “or the boy’s dead!”
Gail stopped running to scream: “Come back!”
Tom took off after her. Terry, downriver, pushed Roarke to the ground and started at an angle to cut off Gail. Deke also gave chase.
In his canoe, the ranger paused to slide his headphones over his ears. “Route 66” filled his head, proper fuel
for the last stages of a journey. Gail watched the ranger steer his canoe into the tailwater of the pool.
“Stop her!” Deke yelled.
“Come back!” Gail yelled, hoarsely.
“Get her, Terry!” Deke shouted.
Gail splashed into the shallows, then onto a rock shelf below which the river dropped into a cauldron of churning water.
Terry bounded after her, closing in. As he reached to grab her, Gail dove into the pool. Tom and Deke rushed up beside Terry. The three men peered into the deep, churning water that looked like green Guinness. The water moved in a kind of vertical eddy, rising up close to their feet at the edge of the ledge, surging upward against the rock face.
Tom swept his eyes downriver, looking here and there “Gail!” he called out, but his voice was swallowed up by the roar of the river.
“Where is she?” Deke asked, anxious. He pointed an angry finger at Tom. “You gotta find her.”
On the beach, Roarke was chugging toward the three men as fast as his legs would carry him. He was huffing and puffing with the exertion. Tears squirted out of his eyes. “Mom!” he wailed. “Mom!”
Tom looked downstream from the ledge. No sign of Gail. His bruised face began to shatter. “Gail!?… Gail?! ”
Deke was livid. “Come back, goddamn it. Come back!” Then he screamed like a kid having a tantrum, “We need you, you hear me? We need you!”
Tom started to lose it. “Gail?” he warbled, weakly. Nothing. He threw himself into the pool. Beneath the surface, all he could see was the white churn of bubbles wirled by currents. It was like being suspended in the middle of a blizzard. Above him, on the rock ledge, Deke and Terry stared anxiously here and there. Losing your driver on the River Wild was not a good thing. Losing control stung even more. Tom’s head popped up. He treaded water for ten or fifteen seconds, sucking in air. Then he took a deep breath and dived under once more.
The River Wild Page 11