Impasse

  * * *

  It took Stu three days to hike back to the grizzly research site. He immediately saw that the camp had been cleared. Someone had come and recovered Thomas’s belongings. A grieving colleague blaming him- or herself and probably wondering if the bear ate the camera, too. The only thing left was the bloodstained Kubota. The tractor had been pushed upright, but it still sat at the river’s edge like a huge red gravestone. Whoever had found Thomas hadn’t had the means to airlift it away, or hadn’t wanted to. The river gurgled like a baby, the sun was warm on his skin, and it was hard to imagine the sudden violence that had erupted there.

  Stu swore he hadn’t lingered, but he might have. Time got away from him sometimes in the wilderness now; he no longer felt the need to check his phone for the time every few minutes—nor could he, because it was long dead. And he found himself just standing beside the water, listening, seeing, feeling. He felt uneasy, then he saw the bear appear at the tree line about one hundred yards away. It stood and sniffed, then dropped to all fours and started in his direction.

  Shit!

  There was no mistaking its intention. It didn’t hesitate or amble his way like a curious woodland creature, but came straight at him, low and steady like the massive predator it was. It had a large hump on its back—a grizzly.

  Thomas’s grizzly.

  Stu actually felt his balls tighten and crawl up into his lower belly.

  It’s just doing what bears do, he thought ridiculously. Nothing personal.

  But it wasn’t just doing what bears did. It had decided to expand its palate and consider Thomas food. It had decided to respect Stu no more than a fish. Fuck you humans, it was saying.

  The nearest trees in the opposite direction were hundreds of yards away, and Edwin’s had been quite clear that trying to outrun a bear was like trying to outrun an NFL lineman—they looked big and slow, but they were faster than any normal human being. Stu groaned. There was only one place to hide. He edged back and stepped into the Kubota. It hadn’t saved Thomas, but it could save him. The thick Plexiglas would hold if he could just secure the door. He was able to wrestle it into place, and jamming the wedge-shaped hatchet into the crack near the broken hinge seemed a promising idea. But if the bear got through, there would be little time to shoot, and if it didn’t die instantly, it might not matter. Besides, the son of a bitch was challenging him.

  I’m not going to be dragged out of this cage.

  Stu kicked the door back open and stepped out. He shed his pack and walked into the river, setting his feet shoulder-width apart and snugging the .30-06 to his shoulder. The bear was galloping toward him now, like a horse. Fifty yards, then forty. Stu cocked the rifle and flipped off the safety. The scope was of no use against the charging animal. He aimed down the barrel. The gun’s report echoed across the field. The bear kept coming. It was in the river, plowing water. Stu stood his ground and fired again. The bear stood midstream and uttered a low growl. They stared at each other.

  “Come on!” Stu shouted.

  He fired once more, ten yards away, a clear shot at the middle of the bear’s chest. The bullet hit with a meaty slap, and the huge animal went to all fours, injured but still coming.

  Stu decided he was dead. Another short charge through the water, and the grizzly would tear him limb from limb.

  Like Thomas.

  But the spring runoff was heavy, and when the bear reached midstream, the water crept above its legs into its torso. It faltered, and on its first misstep the strong current took ahold of it. The weakening grizzly tumbled and was swept downstream. Shot three times and dying, the bear surrendered to the river.

  Stu watched it float away. I won! He felt a surge of adrenaline unlike any he’d ever felt before. It was a simple sensation—the primordial thrill of continuing to live. He stood victorious at the river’s edge, and his balls resumed their customary position outside of his body.

  CHAPTER 32

  The bush pilot at Fur Lake was a pro with a four-seat Maule and a flight plan. Unlike that idiot Ivan, who’s about to get one hell of a suing. He took Stu on in exchange for the furs Blake had given him, asked him to unload his weapon per company policy, stowed his gear, and welcomed him aboard his clean, well-maintained aircraft. It even had a professional logo painted on the side: BEST BUSH.

  Stu curled up in his seat. He was tired from his five-day hike, but it was a good tired, the sort a guy might feel after a healthy workout, and a cushioned upright seat felt luxurious. He smiled big and relaxed as the buzzing engine lifted them up out of Fur Lake; it was the most comfortable place he’d slept in months.

  He woke up over Fairbanks.

  The landing lake used by Best Bush was the same lake used by Yukon Air Tours, and the pilot agreed to taxi over to the Yukon dock and drop Stu off.

  He would confront Ivan, Stu had decided. It was best to catch witnesses unaware, before they knew a lawsuit was brewing. They were more likely to apologize and admit fault. Stu considered several theories of liability as they made their landing, and he quickly scribbled a list of questions designed to pin down Ivan’s explanation. If he were lucky, he would be able to plug in his cell phone and record the conversation.

  Stu climbed out onto the dock with his pack and Ivan’s .30-06, and he gave his competent pilot a teary-eyed thank-you, which puzzled the man greatly because Stu had hardly spoken a word to him the entire trip.

  Then he was walking up the hill into the forest of creepy Old Man Winter faces. Ivan must have heard the plane taxi to the dock, because the wood-carving pot pilot was out of the house and walking down the hill toward him. Stu waved and Ivan waved back, obviously not recognizing him. Stu realized he looked different—thirty pounds lighter with long hair and a beard. He smirked.

  I look like one of his carvings in a stupid fur cap.

  “Hey, dude, can I help you?” Ivan called out.

  “Hello, Ivan. We need to talk.”

  Ivan stopped in his tracks. “Whoa!”

  Stu wasn’t sure what Ivan was going to do—he looked like he was going to throw up. He just stared at Stu for a time, thinking, or at least trying to. Stu looked at his list of questions and took a deep breath, willing himself to sound reasonable despite his anger.

  “Ivan, you understand that you were supposed to come and get me last fall, correct?”

  “You’re alive.”

  “Yes. I am. Thank you. But you were supposed to come back to get me, right?” Stu didn’t wait for Ivan to process what was happening. Instead he tried to lure him into admitting fault by minimizing Ivan’s negligence, a technique he’d learned working with the cops. “Maybe you just mixed up the days. Totally understandable. Is that what happened?”

  “I went back. You weren’t there. I thought you were dead.”

  “You have a flight log we can look at to see when you went, don’t you?

  “I can fix this.”

  “I’m sure you can, but we need to figure out what happened first. Do you mind if we go inside where I can plug in my phone?”

  “Uh, yeah. Sure.” But Ivan didn’t move. Instead he glanced around as if looking for someone.

  Unnerved, Stu did too, but there wasn’t anyone for miles, as far as he could tell. The distant sound of the receding Best Bush plane and the chirp of a chickadee were all he heard. It was just the two of them.

  “After you,” Stu said.

  “Okay. Can I have my gun back?”

  Stu had completely forgotten about the Browning .30-06. He’d grown accustomed to having it hang on his shoulder like an extra limb. He shrugged it off and handed it over.

  Ivan took the rifle and backed away up the hill two steps. He gave Stu a pained expression. “I’m sorry, dude,” he said.

  “It’s okay. I’m fine. We just have to get some of the details straight.” And once we do, Stu thought, I’m going to ruin you.

  Ivan raised the gun and pointed it directly at Stu’s chest. “No, I mean it. I’m really sorry about this.” />
  Stu’s heart leaped into his throat. He raised his hands defensively and tried to keep his voice calm. “Don’t panic. It’s okay. I forgive you for leaving me at that crappy cabin.”

  “Cabin?” Ivan licked his lips, confused and exasperated.

  “We don’t need to talk right now if it’s not a good time. Things worked out. I’ll just go.”

  Ivan glanced about again. He cocked the gun and flipped off the safety. “Things did not work out. Jeezus! They most certainly did not! You’re supposed to be dead.”

  “Don’t pull that trigger. You can’t take it back if you pull that trigger.”

  “Sorry, dude,” Ivan said again, and he pulled the trigger.

  The gun’s hammer made a quiet click as it fell on the empty chamber. Time stood still for a moment as they stared at each other, each of them surprised. Then Ivan turned and ran toward the house.

  Other guns! Stu remembered that Ivan had four more rifles and two pistols in the closet just inside the back door, undoubtedly as loaded as Ivan had wrongly assumed the Browning would be. Stu glanced around. There was no safe place to run on the property and no neighbor for miles. If he fled, the obviously unstable pilot could simply grab another gun and hunt him down.

  There was no time to debate it. Ivan already had a five-step lead on him. Stu yanked Blake’s bone-handled hatchet from his belt and hurled it at Ivan’s back.

  It was a good throw. Not perfect. A bit low. But good enough. Ivan took three more steps up the hill before the heavy blade turned over and sank into his left buttock with a meaty thunk. He cried out and went down.

  “Ahh, God!” Ivan groaned

  Stu ran to him, kicking the empty rifle away for no better reason than that it had just scared the shit out of him. He flipped Ivan over, his skinning knife in his hand, though he didn’t remember drawing it.

  But the pot-smoking pilot was no longer a threat. He clutched his buttocks and writhed. The hatchet had fallen into the dirt. Stu grabbed it and threw it clear.

  “Why?” Stu shook him. “Why did you just try to kill me?” Saying it aloud made it real and frightening.

  “My ass.” Ivan was moaning now.

  “Damn right, it’s your ass! Attempted murder, pal. Fifteen years in prison. Why the hell did you do that?” Stu held the knife up. His pulse raced. His breaths came hard and fast. He was so hyped up, he felt as though, if Ivan tried anything, he might lose it and stab him in his goddamned face.

  Ivan raised one shaking hand as if to ward him off. It was covered with blood—not spattered, but painted solid so that it looked like he was wearing a red glove. Stu looked down. Ivan’s jeans were stained dark around his thigh. A small pulse of blood spurted into the dirt through the gash in the denim. The hand ax had hit an artery, he realized. Ivan was bleeding out.

  “Hey! Hey, don’t die on me.…”

  But Ivan’s eyes were glazing over more than usual. Stu recognized the symptom; it was straight from Edwin’s. Shock.

  “Aww, shit!”

  He tore Ivan’s belt loose and yanked down his pants. The blood was flowing, but the wound spanned Ivan’s cheek and the thick flesh of his upper thigh. There was no way to apply pressure. Stu couldn’t tie a tourniquet around a butt cheek. He took Ivan’s face in his hands. Ivan was conscious, but fading.

  “Keep talking, Ivan. I’ll get you help. Why did you try to shoot me?”

  Ivan spoke with great effort. “I was just supposed to leave you there. No offense. I don’t even know you.”

  Stu stood, horrified, and backed against a carved tree. “You left me out there on purpose?”

  Ivan’s breathing grew shallow and rapid. He clutched at Stu’s pant leg, but Stu kicked his hand away in disgust, and it fell to the ground, twitching.

  Ivan wheezed, his voice weakening. “You said you’d help.…”

  Stu recognized a dying animal. He’d seen them all winter. “Sorry, dude.”

  CHAPTER 33

  It felt different killing a man. Stu thought it would feel more tragic than killing the bear. But the bear was the nobler creature. It came at him head-on. No deception. No pretense. It didn’t try to trap him or trick him. It simply challenged Stu to a straight-up fight for supremacy, for life. Well fought, bear! he might have said, whereas he wanted to spit on the sneaky son of a bitch on the ground at his feet.

  The explanation for killing a man, however, would be decidedly more complicated than for a wild animal. Stu wondered what he might say.

  I came back to confront the pilot who left me in the woods with shelter and plenty of gear. I was angry because I was an incompetent camper who ruined my cabin and almost starved myself. I hit my victim from behind with a hatchet while he was running away because he pointed a gun at me that I knew to be unloaded. Then I pulled down his pants and let him bleed to death. That about sums it up.

  Stu gave his summation standing over Ivan’s body, then smacked himself in the forehead. It sounded terrible. It was terrible. If someone had dropped such damning facts on his desk when he’d been a prosecutor, he would have charged himself. Murder two, at least. Twenty years. Ten with a good plea bargain.

  He glanced at the lake, then at the house. He’d seen enough police reports to know that suspects made hundreds of mistakes at the scenes of their crimes. If he thought of fifty of them, he’d be doing well. He already had Ivan’s DNA on his clothes. But he had one advantage. He was dead. Like Blake, he was a ghost. Or, at least, nobody knew he was alive.

  The first item on the agenda was to get away from the body. He wouldn’t hide it—that would be an entirely new crime. There was no posing the scene as an accident. That never worked; forensics were too good these days. And how does a guy accidentally hit himself in the ass with a hatchet? He had to get somewhere and think, and as little as he wanted to go into the house, it was the only immediate choice.

  The back door was open. There was nothing of interest in the kitchen. The living room offered little more. The smell of marijuana was overpowering as soon as he opened the bedroom door. Big surprise. He wanted badly to call Katherine. But not from here. Nor was it a good idea to charge his cell phone. It could be traced as soon as it was turned on. In fact, he was lucky its battery was as dead as the man lying out in the creepy forest of carved trees with an extra hole in his butt.

  Stu shivered. That man had tried to kill him. Not just today, but also six months ago. He’d clearly said Stu was “supposed to be dead.” Stu wondered why. Was he protecting a stash and thought Stu was DEA instead of ex-DA? He was dumb enough, Stu supposed.

  Stu wore his gloves as he walked through the house. The more time he spent here, the more danger there was he’d get caught at the scene or leave evidence. He had to make it quick. The computer was on, but he didn’t dare touch it. Use of the computer after the time of death would be noticed, and anything he was interested in searching for would likely hint at his identity.

  The Browning would have to be disposed of. It was possible Ivan had told Search and Rescue he’d loaned the rifle to Stu. The lake would serve that purpose, somewhere away from Ivan’s property. He couldn’t take Ivan’s car, either, obviously; nothing was easier to trace. Stu kicked a carved wood bear, frustrated.

  In the end the only thing he took was a wad of eight one-hundred-dollar bills he found in the bedside table beside several bags of weed. It would spare him using his credit card before he absolutely needed to. Cash, especially drug money, was one thing an investigator wouldn’t know was missing unless the owner said so, and Ivan certainly wouldn’t be saying so.

  Stu hiked three miles before hurling the Browning into the lake, then another three before trying to thumb a ride into town. The hitchhiking was good in Alaska. The first truck stopped, and he rode in the backseat of the extended cab with Blake’s deerskin cap pulled down, pretending to sleep so the driver wouldn’t chat with him.

  At the airport he registered himself at a kiosk under his middle name, Paul. He listed Stuart as his surname. Then he
paid in cash. His Massachusetts driver’s license contained both names in only a slightly different order, and it got him past security after a short breath-holding moment in front of the guard’s podium. He was on the plane almost before his heart rate returned to normal.

  Ivan’s words haunted him. The dead pilot had said he was “supposed to” abandon Stu in the Alaska interior. Stu analyzed the words from every angle and concluded that, unless Ivan had been hearing imaginary voices—which was a distinct possibility—another person was involved. Thus, it was possible somebody else wanted Stu dead. Another reason not to reveal myself yet. He immediately wondered if Clay was in danger too. His partner had also been slated to come on the trip. Or Katherine. If someone had it in for him, she might be a target. When he got to Seattle, he’d be brave enough to go online and peek at his e-mail accounts to confirm that the two of them were okay. Until he got out of Fairbanks, however, he wouldn’t log on to anything, and the cell phone would remain as dead as he was supposed to be.

  * * *

  Katherine was alive. A moment on a pay-by-the-minute computer terminal at the Seattle airport revealed recent pretentious e-mails between her and her friends—someone was furnishing a beach house. He had only a half an hour, so he didn’t linger. She was fine.

  He needed to check on Clay, too. Stu plugged in his cell phone, but the account had been discontinued, and so the thing was now little more than an expensive clock. He used the terminal to tap into the law firm’s computer system. The front page had been changed. There was a new professional photo of their building and, oddly, a second phone number for a Providence office. It also had a memorial photo of Stu and a short obituary. Exactly as he’d predicted, everyone thought he was dead. He couldn’t help reading it.