HYBRID: A Thriller

by James Marshall Smith

  With arms looped through his backpack, he turned to find the way back to the hiking path and search for the others. Then he remembered what Mr. Farmington warned at the troop meeting.

  If you ever get lost, stay put. Never wander away.

  The middle of the trail seemed the best place to squat. When he pursed his lips to whistle, nothing but a stream of spit blew out from his gum-packed jaws.

  A song came into his head, the one he’d learned in Mr. Struther’s car on the way to the campground. He made believe he was in the backseat again and he sang out. “Do your ears hang low . . .”

  He tossed out each word as if he might be embarrassed for someone to hear. “Do they wobble to and fro . . .”

  He paused. Something was moving far down the trail. But he couldn’t be sure.

  “Can you tie them in a knot . . .”

  He stopped chewing for a moment to listen. Afraid to move or breathe, he carefully turned his head about and scanned the trees.

  “Can you tie . . . them in a bow?”

  Something was moving his way. He jumped up and ducked into the weeds.

  First, a loud hissing and then flapping wings shattered the cool air. A fat grouse flopped on the ground in a blaring fuss, guarding her nest. He pedaled backward and gave the bird all the space it demanded until he suddenly tripped and fell into the wet weeds.

  “Michael!” a voice called out. “Is that you, Michael?”

  A rain-drenched Amy was running toward him. He lowered his head to his chest so she couldn’t see him cry.

  ***

  Dieter lay still, studying the scene. He crawled back to Josh’s side. “How you doing, partner?”

  Under the shelter of thick pine Josh was dry but pale. He took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. “Let’s get the hell out of here,” Josh said. He struggled to sit up.

  “Hold on.” Dieter grabbed him and lowered him back to the ground. He had to go for help, but he was at least two hours away from the truck. How could he leave Josh alone? On the other hand, how long could he wait it out?

  A throng of ravens fluttered in overhead. The antenna and meter that he’d pitched to the ground caught his eye. The red light was slowly blinking.

  Rocko jolted up. Dieter threw a hand over the llama’s back. “Get down, boy,” he whispered. Rocko cuddled beside Josh and braced, the llama’s ears swiveling and pointing. The red light on the meter flashed faster.

  Dieter crawled back to the underbrush and reached inside his jacket for the .44 Magnum.

  A colossal wolf with a coat of burnished black and traces of silver on its mane loped along the opposite bank. It held its head high as if onto a scent. A leather collar surrounded its neck and a patch of blood mysteriously stained its hindquarters. The wolf hobbled in their direction and waded through the shallow water where it perched on a rock to survey the area. It picked up its hind leg to lick the wound.

  Dieter lay flat and squeezed the revolver with both quivering hands. He rammed the butt of the gun into the mud and as he remembered Cory’s warning: If a ranger of mine catches anyone even looking like he’s hunting wolves . . . the full force of the law . . . slamming down like a sledge hammer?

  Not that Corey’s threats mattered. Why the hell should they?

  Never had Dieter imagined that he would find himself in this position: about to shoot a defenseless animal. Death had to be quick and painless. That was only right.

  The wolf leaped onto another rock, but quickly slipped into the rushing water. Kicking with all fours, it found a smaller rock to climb on and then took a final leap onto the graveled shoreline. Once more it stretched its muzzle around to lick at blood before turning in Dieter’s direction.

  Holding tight to the revolver, he slowly rose to his feet and began to creep toward the wolf, which retreated toward the steep embankment. Dieter lifted the revolver with extended arms and took aim at its head as a drizzly rain returned.

  The wolf cowered—its tail and ears drooping—and flaunted a paw in the air.

  Dieter focused on its eyes. He pictured the vacant image in Rusty’s eyes that horrible night, then dropped the revolver to his side.

  The wolf moved to the water and lowered its head to leap. The river ran swift and deep at the top of the falls.

  “No! Stop!”

  Dieter sprinted for the bank and heaved the revolver at the wolf. The weapon flew over the animal’s head and splashed into the river as Dieter yelled again.

  The wolf leapt into the river. The freezing water seemed to energize the animal and it paddled to keep its head above water—drifting swiftly downstream all the while.

  Dieter raced along the bank, keeping pace with the wolf while the rain picked up force and hammered at his face. As he watched, the animal was caught in the eddy downstream from a boulder.

  The wolf struggled against the roiling undertow, but it was clear in an instant that the current was too strong.

  Dieter stooped to grab a dead tree limb and dragged it with him as he waded into the river. A voice behind him shouted, but he couldn’t make out the words.

  The frigid water hit him like a fist in the stomach, the violent flow tugging at his legs. He tried to reach the drowning creature with the tree limb, but he was too far away.

  He took a step toward the flailing wolf, and then another. Each movement brought a new battle to keep his footing against the relentless current. His legs and feet were becoming numb from the cold, but he inched forward and tried to stretch his overextended muscles enough to reach the floundering animal with the limb.

  A stone must have rolled under his boot heel. His right foot slid to the side and he tried to recover his balance. Both feet gave way and he went down.

  The river snatched him like a piece of litter caught in a storm drain. He thrashed about with his arms and legs and tried his damnedest to imitate what others did whenever he watched them swim.

  The Gallatin hauled him hopelessly downstream. Again shouting erupted from the shore, but he couldn’t make out who was calling to him. He tumbled in somersaults and swallowed the river in gulps before slamming his ribcage into a log wedged between two boulders.

  Blindly grabbing onto the log with both hands, he sputtered and coughed while he jerked himself above the surface.

  The wolf had somehow gotten free of the eddy, but it was still at the mercy of the rushing water. It paddled feebly against the power of the river.

  Dieter could only watch in agony as the majestic animal vanished over the rim of the falls.

  Both arms clutching desperately to the log, Dieter was only seconds from the same fate. The frigid water turned the muscles of his neck and shoulders to stone. The shoreline appeared only as a haze, far removed from reality.

  The shivering stopped. A surprising calm overtook him as he realized he was rapidly losing the strength to hold on. A preposterous way to die, really.

  His thoughts turned to Michael and Megan, the many plans he’d made for them as he grew older and they grew up. I’m sorry, Fran. I’m sorry I let you down. And what would Josh think of his stupid blundering?

  Would Fran be there to greet him?

  It had been a lousy day for hunting.

  A strange object flew directly at his head and splashed water into his face when it hit the surface. He flailed at it and attempted to push it away.

  ***

  His wounded leg throbbing with each step, Josh led Rocko along the shore through the blowing rain, yelling at Dieter. His foolish partner couldn’t get out of the rapid current on his own. He stopped and pulled out the rope from beneath Rocko’s panniers. Creating several long loops with the rope, he could only hope it would be long enough to reach. He tied the end into a lasso, raised it over his head, and twirled. When he tossed the loop across the river, pain shot through his thigh like the stab of a dull knife.

  The lasso splattered into the water nowhere close to the log. He dragged the rope back across the surface and cussed between heavy breaths. He made up more loo
ps—larger ones this time. When he heaved the lasso into the air, he yelled out through the damned excruciating pain like a cowboy on a bronco.

  FIFTY-TWO

  How in God’s name could the youngest Scout be left behind?

  The thought kept bombarding Amy’s brain while she trampled in the rain alongside Michael. How was she going to explain all this to Dieter? She and Michael hurried to catch up with the Scouts. She held her thin jacket collar tightly around her neck, but it wasn’t the rain creeping down between her shoulder blades that bothered her. She was fuming about the stupid strategic mistake the scoutmaster had made.

  When they met up with the Scouts backtracking on the trail and nearby woods, they were calling out Michael’s name. Scoutmaster Farmington was shocked to see Amy although more than thrilled at the sight of Michael. As if the boy was Jesus returning, she thought.

  She felt like announcing to him the First Principle of Hiking—don’t lose anybody!

  The scoutmaster’s apologies were weak but abundant. The Scouts, drenched from the rain, trudged back toward the camping area at the waterfalls.

  ***

  “We’re almost there,” Farmington barked for the third time. They had hiked in the frigging rain for an hour and the scoutmaster no longer had credibility on the topic of how far they had left to go. Amy walked in the center of a single file of exhausted Scouts while Farmington hung back at the rear. Paul Struthers—introduced to her as a volunteer father—was in the lead when they came on an open field by the river that ran wide and deep. Farmington announced that the patrol cabin was just ahead.

  Something was wrong.

  It was hard to make out the image through the downpour. When she got closer, the figure of a man emerged, crouching on the bank. He was gripping a rope that coiled around his arms and chest like a python and was leaning back, straining, as if playing tug-of-war with someone in the river.

  Josh Pendleton?

  She jogged toward him, but began to run as soon as she spotted his blood-soaked trousers and the panic in his strawberry face. An agitated llama stood by his side. In the middle of the river a man was half-submerged with a loop of rope around his chest. He was about to lose hold of a log stuck between large boulders jutting above the surface. Through the sheets of rain she couldn’t see the face of the drowning victim but knew who it had to be. Glancing at Michael and then back to the river, she gazed in fright at how close the brim of a gargantuan waterfall was to Dieter, who struggled on the other end of the rope.

  Josh was planted like a Ponderosa pine on the bank. A llama—poised to attack anyone who approached—stood guard.

  Farmington made the first move toward Josh. The llama snorted and lowered its head, its nostrils flared and ears pinned back. When he took another step, the excited animal charged and rammed him in the groin, sending him on the run back through the mud.

  Michael slipped between the Scouts to the front and moved toward the llama. “Hello, guy! Hey, boy!” He spoke softly, holding out his hand. The llama arched its head and thrust out its tongue, tasting the tips of the boy’s outstretched fingers. It licked his hand and wrist and worked its way up his arm. Michael reached up and displayed a fist stuffed with Juicy Fruit gum, still in wrappers.

  “Can you take him up to the trees?” Amy shouted.

  Michael grabbed the llama’s lead and moved away, whispering to it as he patted its neck. He doesn’t recognize his dad out in the river, Amy thought. Mr. Struthers rushed to Josh’s side and covered his head and shoulders with his own plastic poncho to shelter him from the downpour. He then uncoiled the rope from around Josh then twisted it about his own waist as he dug in with the heels of his boots to anchor himself in the mud.

  The scoutmaster and four of the older boys ran down to the bank to help Struthers pull. They grabbed onto the rope and tugged in an attempt to pull in the slack in the rope that had bowed against the force of the current. Together, they tugged, backpedaled, tugged. When one fell to the ground, he tripped over another. Three more Scouts joined in to help.

  Amy watched in terror as the river swelled above Dieter’s neck and beat at his face, pinning him against the boulder. She shook her head in exasperation, realizing that the Scouts somehow had to overcome the ungodly drag of the rope against the current. Otherwise there was no chance in hell to haul him in.

  The Scouts huddled on the bank in single file, each holding tightly with rope-burned palms and fingers to the rescue line while the older ones moved into the rushing river. Those in back squatted into the mud. Farmington was in front, up to his waist in water. He turned toward Amy on shore and yelled. “We can’t keep going! It’s too dangerous.”

  Jesus, no!

  Michael ran down to the edge of the river, suddenly aware it was his dad out there, drowning.

  Amy shouted back at Farmington. “Hold on, Leonard. Give me just one more minute.” She seized Michael by his jacket before he waded out. She clamped her arms around him and carried him back to shore, flopping down with him behind the group. “I want you to help with the rope, Michael. When I tell everyone to pull, give it all the muscle you have. Do you understand?”

  He was panting, wildly staring back at her through streaks of rain. When he nodded, she rubbed his wet hair and rushed back to the river’s edge, where she waved toward Dieter with both arms high above her head. Uncertain if he could see her, she folded her arms around her chest and threw her hands out away from her body with her fingers spread open.

  She repeated her action with exaggerated gestures, grabbing her chest, tossing her hands out harder, faster. Let go, she thought, mouthing the words.

  Let go of the log!

  She flung out her arms, back to her chest and out again, hoping and praying he could see her through the rain.

  “Let go, Dieter,” she cried above the roar of the falls, gesturing again and again. “Let go . . . let go! For God’s sake, let go!”

  He waved back. Holding onto the rope with both hands, Dieter dived upstream against the current. The river surged into his face as he reared back his head.

  A younger boy at the front of the group fell into the water and Mr. Farmington grabbed him from behind. The other Scouts slipped in the mud, but still clung to the rope, refusing to turn loose.

  “Pull, men,” Amy yelled. “Pull like crazy. Head for the trees behind you and pull!”

  Calling encouragement to one another, they shuffled back away from the river and toward the trees, everyone in sync like one monster gear.

  Dieter was losing the battle, drifting toward the waterfall. Amy gasped and cupped her hands to her mouth. The force of the current towed the Scouts along the bank until Dieter swung on an arc out over the falls with his legs flailing in midair.

  He came hurling back. His chest smacked the water and his head narrowly missed another boulder that jutted above the surface.

  The Scouts rushed for the trees, hauling Dieter through the river. He slid into shore and slammed his face into the gravel, gradually skidding to a halt. When the Scouts braked, they rolled into a human ball, cheering and yelling.

  Dieter lay buried in the mud. A rumble roared in from above and river water sprayed into the air like a small tornado.

  ***

  The noise pierced Dieter’s skull. His wet clothes flapped in a torrent of wind. Voices. Commotion.

  Someone was shaking him, shouting. He wallowed in the warm mud, completely spent. A blurred figure of a man with a handlebar mustache checked his breathing and pulse. “He’s okay. Just scratched up a bit.”

  Amy crouched over Dieter and squeezed his face with the soft hands of a nun . . . or an angel. Michael lay with his arms around Dieter’s waist and his head glued to his dad’s belly.

  Too exhausted to move, Dieter could only watch rescuers bring out stretchers from the helicopter and rush to get both him and Josh inside the craft. After hooking up an IV to Josh onboard, the rescuers stripped away Dieter’s soaked clothes and boots and slipped him into a jump suit. They
wrapped him in a blanket and applied a heat pack under his neck before locking him in next to a window.

  He pressed his face against the glass as they lifted off. The Scouts stood back, ducking and holding hands up to shield their faces from the whirlwind. Amy and Michael waved. Dieter was too numb and too weak to wave back.

  When the chopper paused in midair, Dieter stared down on the string of jagged boulders at the base of the waterfall. A flock of ravens had gathered on the bank, feasting on a large black carcass.

  FIFTY-THREE

  “Where are we anyway?” Josh asked.

  “Bozeman Deaconess,” Dieter replied. “You just got out of surgery. The bullet smashed up your thigh pretty bad. Just plain luck the main artery wasn’t hit.”

  Josh’s left leg was wrapped in a bandage from crotch to knee and his foot rested on two stacked pillows. “Who the hell was trying to knock us off?”

  “Would you believe Jack Corey?”

  “Not only do I believe it, I would have bet on it.”

  “They found him floating in a hot spring—more or less poached.”

  Josh coughed and reached for his glass of water on a bedside tray. “Sometimes the Lord acts in mysterious ways,” he muttered. “You should’ve taken that wolf out with your revolver, you know. Would’ve saved everybody a lot of trouble.”

  Dieter moved closer and placed his head down to Josh’s ear as he whispered. “What revolver you talking about, partner?”

  Both men smiled.

  While Dieter had waited during the surgery that morning, a visitor from Yellowstone Headquarters arrived—Greta McFarland. She apologized that the superintendent couldn’t accompany her. He was called to Washington on urgent business.

  No doubt he was.

  The conversation was awkward. Of course, they were concerned about both his and Mr. Pendleton’s wellbeing. Of course, the National Park Service would cover all medical expenses. They also knew the details regarding the bravery of the Boy Scouts and intended to provide special Yellowstone Park Awards to each for their acts of heroism. Of course.