by C. J. Box
Coble looked at his watch. It was approaching eleven. He had no idea how far behind him Charlie Tibbs was but he still expected to see the black Ford at any moment.
He had already wasted time in Saddlestring finding the game warden's house. He had left his message for the game warden, done his good deed. Coble had been a little reluctant to meet the game warden face to face in the first place, having no idea how that would go.
Coble made the decision to continue on to the cabin. He pressed on the accelerator and his head snapped back into the headrest as the Mercedes rocketed up the base of the mountain.
***
Three miles past crazy woman creek, Joe slowed and pulled off the highway onto a gravel two-track. The thick lodgepole pine trees formed a high canopy above, casting deep shadows over the road. The crude map he had drawn from Marybeth's directions was on the console between the
seats. He had never been on this particular road before, but knew it led through the National Forest to several sections of state and private land where there were old hunting lodges and mining claim cabins. As he drove further up the mountain, the road worsened, pocked now with spurs of granite that slowed him down considerably
Because of the thick trees, Joe was surprised when he crested the mountain and a massive valley opened up before him. He stopped before he had completely emerged from the forest, put the truck in park, and grabbed his binoculars from his pack on the seat beside him.
It was a beautiful valley pulsing with summer mountain colors. The two-track wound down the mountain and along the length of the valley floor before disappearing into a grove of shimmering aspen. The groves fingered their way down the slope to access a narrow serpentine creek. On Joe's left, to the south, the mountainside was rugged, marked by cream-colored granite buttes that jutted from the summer grass like knuckles of a fist straining against silk. Between the knuckles were dark stands of spruce in isolated pockets.
A shadow from a single high cumulus cloud scudded slowly across the valley from east to west, its front end climbing up tree trunks while its mass engulfed entire stands of timber, darkening them, before sliding back over the top of the grove to hug the ground again.
On his right, to the north, the mountain was heavily forested. A few grassy parks could be seen through breaks in the timber where tree branches opened up. Matching the terrain to a worn topo map he pulled from his map file, Joe guessed that the lodges and cabins were tucked into the trees to the north.
Through the binoculars he could find only one structure, an ancient log cabin that was leaning so far to one side that it looked like it could collapse any minute. The door gaped open and the windows were gone. This was obviously not the place.
Joe eased down the road into the valley with his hand-drawn map on his lap. Whatever would happen this afternoon would happen here in these mountains and forests, he thought. Either Stewie would be waiting for Marybeth in the cabin he had described to her or this was a hoax of some kind. And if Stewie was in fact alive, what would his reaction be when instead of his old girlfriend, he met the girlfriend's husband?
Joe scanned the trees and undergrowth that lined the edge of the road, looking for an old, lightly used road that supposedly broke off from the two-track and headed north to the top of the mountain. The road would be blocked by trees that had been dropped across it, the directions said, so it was necessary to approach the cabin on foot.
As he descended further into the valley, Joe watched the signal strength on his cell phone dwindle to nothing. He tried his radio to contact the dispatcher and heard only static in return. He was effectively isolated and out of contact, and would remain so until he eventually emerged from the mountain valley it was warmer on the valley floor and Joe unrolled his window. His slow drive toward the aspen was accompanied by the low hum of insects hovering over the carpet of newly opened wildflowers, with spasmodic percussion from small rocks being squeezed and popped free under the weight of his tires. He noticed, as a matter of habit from patrolling, that there was already a fresh tire track on the road--which was unusual in such a remote area.
He followed a road through the trees where the noon sun dappled the aspen leaves, looking for a turnoff to the right.
When he saw the glint of steel and glass--a vehicle--deep in the Caragana brush through the passenger window, he immediately tensed up, but kept driving slowly as if he had seen nothing at all.
A half-mile from the vehicle, the aspen began to thin, and Joe eased to a stop off the road and turned off his motor. If the person in the car was trying to hide from him, Joe expected to hear a car start up and retreat up the mountain. But it was silent.
Quietly Joe got out of his pickup. He slipped his .12 gauge shotgun from behind the seat, loaded it with three double-ought buckshot shells, and filled his shirt pocket with additional shells. Then he
eased the pickup door shut.
Lizzie anxiously backed out of the trailer, and he was grateful she didn't slam a shoe against the metal floorboard or whinny when she was free. He mounted, secured his hat tightly on his head, slid the shotgun into the saddle scabbard so only the butt of it showed, and nudged Lizzie back toward the road. He kept her in the trees with the road on his right, and she picked her way back to where he had seen the vehicle.
Joe narrowed his eyes as they entered the alcove where the old road was and leaned forward in the saddle to avoid a chest-high branch. It was quiet here, away from the stream, and Lizzie's footfalls were the only sound. He was tense, his senses tingling, and he could feel his heart beat in his chest.
As he approached, Joe could see that the car was a dark green, late model SUV with Colorado plates. Someone had broken leafy aspen branches and laced the hood and windshield with them in an attempt to hide the car. Joe recognized the familiar Mercedes logo on the grille. Because he couldn't call a 1028 in to the dispatcher, he noted the license plate number in his notebook for later, when he would have a radio signal again.
He dismounted, reins in hand, and peered through the branches at the leather interior. There was an open backpack on the front seat, but there was no one in the car. He felt the hood with the palm of his hand--it was still warm. That puzzled Joe because he had assumed that the vehicle belonged to Stewie, or whoever was posing as Stewie, and therefore that it would have been parked for some time. But the cuts on the branches were fresh as well. Joe squatted and confirmed that the vehicle's tire tread matched the tread pattern he had noticed out on the road.
Joe stepped back and, with his eyes, followed the old road through the trees until it ended beneath two massive spruce trees that had fallen--or were dropped--over it. A single footprint in the loose dirt of the old road pointed up the mountain. This had to be the place, he said to himself. But someone had gotten here before him.
Joe mounted Lizzie and nudged her out of the shaded alcove into the grassy park where the old road led. Riding parallel to the two downed trees, he finally reached their crowns, then turned Lizzie to go back down, along the other side of the trees, to get back on the road.
He wasn't sure what he should do now, how he should proceed. His original plan was that he would ride up to the cabin, find out who was in it, and make a report. But circumstances had changed. The SUV meant that a third party had entered the picture. He was out of radio contact and the threat that he could be entering a situation, alone, that he wasn't prepared to handle was very real. Everything he had ever learned told him he needed backup and that the smart thing to do right now was to retreat back to the road, drive to the top, and call the dispatcher for assistance.
That's when he heard a truck rumbling down the two-track.
Crouched behind the wall-like branches of the downed trees that blocked the road, Joe waited for the vehicle to drive by He saw flashes through the trees as it came down the road from the east, the same direction Joe had come. When it passed by the alcove he saw it in full: a sleek, massive black pickup with dark windows, pulling a horse trailer. Then, almost immed
iately after it passed him, Joe heard the low hiss of brakes and saw brake lights flash through the brush. The truck was backing up.
Joe turned to check on Lizzie and saw that she was feeding on grass just behind him. He hoped against hope she would keep her head down. If she heard or sensed another horse in the trailer, it would be just like her to raise her head up and call to it. Horses were like that, mares especially he had noted. They wanted to connect with other horses.
"I'm sorry, girlie," Joe whispered in her ear as he unlashed a coil of rope from the saddle horn and slipped it down over her head as she ate. Then he circled the coil around her front legs with his right hand, caught the loop with his left, and pulled it hard and fast. With a double hitch, he tied her head down against her ankles so she couldn't raise it.
Lizzie's nostrils flared and her eyes flashed with white. Joe tried to keep her calm, patting her shoulder and whispering to her, so she wouldn't panic and try to buck the rope off. He could feel her muscles tense beneath his hand, but kept talking to her in what he hoped was a soothing voice, telling her he was sorry but it was for her own good, telling her that there would be some good grass to eat at the end of the day
She calmed, exhaling with resignation, and Joe briefly closed his eyes with relief.
When he turned back to the tree and the alcove beyond it, he saw that a tall man wearing a gray Stetson had emerged from the black Ford and was now studying the SUV.
Joe considered calling out to him, but something about the man precluded it. Joe watched as the man approached the vehicle, much as Joe had, but the man did it looking down the sights of a semiautomatic pistol he held stiffly in front of him. Joe watched as the man circled the SUV nudging branches away so he could see inside. The man was now on the driver's side of the car. If the man were to look up, Joe thought, he would see Joe in the trees. But the man didn't look up because he was busy smashing in the driver's side window
The Stetson twisted and lowered as the man reached inside the car toward the dashboard. Then Joe heard a small pop and saw the hood of the SUV open.
The old man strode to the front of the vehicle, raised the hood, reached inside, and stepped away with a fistful of loose wires. To ensure the car was disabled, the man bent over and twisted the air valves out of both front tires with a Leatherman tool he had pulled out of a case attached to his belt.
The way the man moved was fluid and calculating, Joe thought. He wasn't quick, but he was deliberate and purposeful. This man did not hesitate; he didn't stop and think about what he was going to do next. He had dismantled the SUV in a couple of minutes without even looking over his shoulder to see if someone was watching. He knew what he was doing, Joe thought, as if he had done this kind of thing before. Joe realized, with a shiver, that he was watching a professional.
Suddenly the man turned from the car, pliers still in his hand, and a pair of icy blue eyes seemed to bore a hole through the branches into Joe. Joe froze, his breath caught in his throat. It was as if the man had heard Joe thinking, sensed Joe's fear the way a predator sensed prey Joe lowered his hand to the butt of his revolver and felt his thumb unsnap the strap that secured it in his holster.
Only when the blue eyes raised over the top of the trees did Joe realize that the man was following the road, past the downed timber and into the spruce. Joe found he could breathe again and his breath shuddered out.
The man stood staring into the trees above Joe for a moment, then turned and peered through the opening in the alcove at the other mountain, the one on the east side with the granite knuckles. It was as if he were taking a measurement, comparing this mountainside with the other.
The man turned on his heels, without a glance back, and Joe heard the engine of the truck come to life. But instead of proceeding down the road, the pickup turned sharply and started climbing up the other side of the mountain, straight away from Joe. A plume of dirt shot out from the Ford's tires as the black pickup shifted into four-wheel-drive low.
Joe untied Lizzie, ignoring her glare, and swung himself into the saddle. He could breathe again, but the terror he had felt when he thought the man saw him had not yet released its grip.
He could hear the Ford as it climbed, but could no longer see it through the trees. He was surprised there was a road over there because he hadn't seen it.
Then he had a thought, and it chilled him. The man had estimated where the cabin was located in terms of elevation on the mountain. Joe guessed the man was working his way up the facing mountainside to take a position directly across from where he thought the cabin would be.
Joe had a decision to make, but none of his choices were worth a damn. "Joe," he could almost hear Marybeth telling him, "You have really done it this time"
"Let's go, Lizzie." Joe barked, turning her and spurring her on so she loped up the mountain road in the direction of where the cabin was supposed to be.
***
Twenty MINUTES BEFORE Joe had discovered the Mercedes SUVJohn Coble had drawn his gun, stepped up on the slat board porch of the low slung log cabin, and kicked the door open. He had entered and had pointed his pistol at the man inside, who was seated at a table eating his lunch. Coble was winded from the climb so he leaned back against the doorframe to rest. The cabin was simple: a single large room with a kitchen, dining area, fireplace, and desk. A darkened doorway led to the only bedroom.
"I know you were expecting your lawyer, Stewie, but let me introduce myself," Coble wheezed. "I'm Mr. John Coble, and I've spent the last two months trying to kill you and others of your ilk."
Stewie Woods was frozen where he sat, a spoon filled with soup raised halfway to his mouth. Stewie's face was hard to see because Coble's eyes had not yet adjusted to the darkness inside the cabin.
Coble paused to take a couple of deep breaths of air and then continued. "What I have to say is simple. Get out of this place as soon as you can and don't look back. Don't ask a bunch of questions because we don't have the time. A manhunter named Charlie Tibbs could show up here any minute. Don't stop until you're out of the country; get yourself to Mexico or Canada or wherever you can get to fast. Get on a plane and go overseas if you can. Contact no one and just flat run"
Stewie lowered the spoon into the bowl. His words were raspy and filled with air when he spoke, as if his voice box was a carburetor that had the mixture set too lean.
"I guess I've been expecting you. I just didn't realize you would be so old," Stewie rasped. "Somehow, that makes it worse."
A woman stepped from the bedroom rubbing sleep from her eyes. "Stewie, I..." she said before she noticed Coble and gasped.
"Britney this is John Coble," Stewie said, looking stiffly over his shoulder at her and wincing in pain as he did so. "He is one of the men I told you about." Stewie Woods is in bad shape, Coble thought.
Britney's face drained of color as she stared at Coble.
Stewie turned back in his chair. "This is Britney Earthshare. She lived in a tree to protest the logging of an old growth forest. She's famous." Coble squinted at her. "Yeah, I remember. I remember I thought that was stupid."
Stewie chuckled at Coble. "Britney's been helping me out while I recover. She's a saint."
Coble grunted.
"Why don't you sit down and talk to me for a few minutes?" Stewie asked politely "You've probably got a pretty good story to tell."
Coble's eyes were still adjusting to the darkness in the cabin. As Stewie Woods's features began to appear, it seemed to Coble like a Hollywood special effect where the closer he looked, the worse it got. Stewie was horribly disfigured. His face was monstrous. His prominent features had once been a jutting jaw, well-defined cheekbones and languid blue-green eyes, but now those outstanding features -were ragged mutations. One eye was completely closed, the lid concave over an empty, seeping socket. Stewie's nose was flattened to one side of his face, and the exposed nostril burred and flapped like the beating of a hummingbird wing when he exhaled. Coble cringed and looked away Britney took a pos
ition in back of Stewie with her chubby hands on his shoulders. Her eyes were still wide.
"I don't blame you," Stewie said to Coble. "I still scare myself sometimes. Especially in the morning when I look in the mirror and expect to see the old Stewie. I used to be a pretty good-looking guy you know"
Coble looked back but focused on a spot somewhere above and to the left of Stewie's head so he wouldn't have to look at him again.
"I don't have time to sit down and chat."
"You're doing a good thing, aren't you?" Stewie asked. "That's impressive."
"I'm not here to save you or protect you. I don't want to be your friend. I still think you and your ilk are shit heels Coble shook his head. "I'm amazed that you are still alive."
"Me, too," Stewie said. "So why are you doing this?"
Coble had a strange thought. He had not yet holstered his gun and it was at his side in his hand. It would take no effort to raise it, shoot Stewie and the tree-loving woman, and return to Charlie Tibbs. He could tell Tibbs he just wanted to finish this job himself. Tibbs may or may not believe him. There was comfort in evil, Coble thought. It was simpler.
"I'm doing this for me, not you," Coble snapped. "Our job seemed right at first. It seemed like the only way left to strike back. You people threatened our way of thinking and our way of life. All you environmentalists just showed up one day and told us that everything we've done for years was now wrong, and that everyone living in the West was a stupid ignorant criminal.
"You people expect everyone out here to suddenly give up the only jobs they've ever known in mines and the fields," he shot a dirty look at Britney, "and the forests. Somehow, all of us are expected to get jobs working out of our homes with computers, telephones, and modems. That's all you've offered up as an alternative, you know. Like lumberjacks and cowboys can just change over to being software programmers."
