by Marc Cameron
Lori Maycomb sat midships, facing him. She’d pulled her hair back with a couple of elastic bands. A chilly wind pinked her oval face, slightly bewildered that he’d allowed her to come along. She nodded at his belt, eyeing the worn leather pouch that was half hidden by the rain jacket, opposite the Colt Python.
Leaning toward him, she raised her voice over the roaring engine and the chatter of the boat against the waves. “What’s with the medicine bag?”
“It was my grandfather’s,” Cutter said, offering no more information.
She sat back, looking at him for a time, then said, “You’re thinking that you’ll be able to track them?”
“I plan to try,” Cutter yelled. “Levi and Donita would have had to take a boat out there. If they came this way, we’ll find where they docked. There’ll be some sign.”
Maycomb chewed on that idea. “Might be all we find is bear sign.”
“Maybe,” Cutter said. “We’ll poke around. Two people can leave a very distinct trail if you know what to look for.”
She leaned in, wanting to hear everything. “And you know what to look for?” She sounded more impressed than skeptical.
“This terrain is different from where I grew up,” he said, able to speak at a little more normal volume now that she’d moved closer. “I’ve done some tracking in similar forests on Prince of Wales Island.”
“Yeah,” Maycomb said. “But was it chasing murderers?”
Cutter chuckled. “As a matter of fact, it was…”
She grimaced at the thought.
“That has to be different from Florida.”
“Different and the same,” he said. “People move across the ground, they leave sign. Grass, downed trees, dirt. It might be slow going, but I can follow a trail if we can pick it up.”
“Thanks for letting me come with you.”
Cutter gave her a nod.
“Why did you anyway – let me come with you, I mean?”
“Two reasons,” Cutter said. “Donita Willets is your informant. That means she trusts you. I imagine she thinks everyone is trying to kill her right now. She might not come out of hiding if some ugly-looking guy like me starts poking around. She could be armed. I could get hurt.”
“She does trust me,” Maycomb said. “What’s the other reason?”
“The main reason,” Cutter said. “I don’t like the way your sister-in-law treats you.”
“Let me get this straight,” Maycomb said. She’d missed a lock of hair with her elastic bands and a gust of wind blew it across her face, wet with spray. “You let me come because Rockie Van Dyke didn’t want me to?”
“About the size of it,” Cutter said.
“That’s about the coolest thing anybody’s ever done for me,” Maycomb said, more to herself than Cutter.
* * *
Heavy chop at the entrance to Berners Bay forced Cutter to tack into the waves to keep from swamping the little skiff, curtailing their conversation for the time being.
Lori Maycomb had seen plenty of men who knew their way around a boat, but the ones Cutter’s age usually made a little show of it. They wanted you to know that they knew what they were doing. The behavior was evolutionary, she supposed. Look at me. I can make fire. I can catch you fish. I will keep you safe on the open sea. I would be a good mate.
Lots of people said they didn’t care what others thought. Apparently, Arliss Cutter was one of the few who actually meant it. He did what needed to be done and then moved on to the next thing. Oddly, his behavior only made her want to watch him more closely.
Thomas Horning had loaned them a nautical chart for the area. Cutter folded it so he could look at the relevant section through a gallon-size ziplock bag he kept on his knee. The chart allowed him not only to orient himself with landmarks and terrain as they headed south, but to tuck in relatively close to shore while avoiding boat-eating rocks that lurked under the surface.
The concrete tanks and dark brown wood of the abandoned hatchery appeared through the mist less than half an hour after they left the Echo Cove boat launch. Below the hatchery, a smooth gravel beach dropped quickly to a newish wooden dock. A painted US Forest Service sign marked the trailhead that disappeared uphill into a heavy thatch of devil’s club, cow parsnip, and sky-touching spruce. Behind the dock, a treeless point of black rock jutted sixty or seventy feet from the shore, forming a natural jetty.
Cutter eased off the throttle, but instead of motoring to the dock, he swung out, arcing well away from the point. Lines of rock like that rarely ended abruptly, instead trailing into the sea just under the surface, like hidden teeth, waiting to rip the bottom off a boat.
“We’re not tying up at the dock?”
Cutter nodded at the point. “Levi’s still missing, so we have to assume others are actively hunting for Donita. That kid doesn’t strike me as a very convincing liar, so whatever he knows, the bad guys will know soon enough.”
“Still,” Maycomb said. “I thought we were going to track them.”
“We are,” Cutter said, looking down at the chart before bringing the skiff abeam the rocky point. “I’m hoping to hide the skiff. Hopefully it’ll give us a slight advantage if—” He stopped, cursing under his breath. “Looks like they beat us here.”
Another aluminum boat bobbed nearshore on the far side of the natural jetty. Slightly larger than the Smoker Craft, this skiff was much older, dented and scraped. A fifty-horse Suzuki hung off the transom, kicked up to keep from damaging the prop in shallow water.
His left hand on the tiller, Cutter’s right dropped to the gun on his belt.
Cutter scanned the shoreline – shape, color, movement – anything out of place among the thicket of devil’s club and forest. They were less than fifty yards from the shore now, easy pickings if someone was hiding with a rifle – certainly closer than the killing shots at the shrine. Consoling himself with the flimsy knowledge that no one had shot them yet, Cutter pulled the tiller toward him and turned the Smoker Craft in a smooth arc toward the other skiff.
A bright yellow rope ran from the bow to a scrubby clump of willows, far above the line of driftwood and other flotsam that signified the high-tide line. They were at low tide now. White shells, likely the leftovers from a sea otter’s dinner, littered the gravel bottom. Cutter guessed it to be around three feet, deep enough to keep the boats from going dry. The natural jetty offered protection from ocean swells. An anchor, also off the bow, allowed the boat to swing while keeping her from drifting onto the rocks.
“Valkyrie boat?” Lori mused as they came alongside.
“Good guess,” Cutter said. “But only a guess. There’s nothing to identify it one way or another. It’s hidden off the main dock, but that could just be someone who doesn’t want to get their boat stolen.” Pulling the other skiff closer, he leaned across to feel the motor with the back of his hand.
Some residual warmth still lingered on the block, but it had been here long enough to cool substantially.
Cutter scanned the shore again and located the likely trail. The foliage on the dense scrub was slightly blanched where the lighter underside of several leaves had been turn upward, almost woven together when someone had pushed through. He reached over the side and unhooked the rubber hose that ran between the outboard motor and the fuel jug, taking it with him.
The boats gave a hollow clunk as they bumped together. He pushed away and then flipped the Honda’s transmission into giving himself enough room to turn around in the deep water before heading around the point to the dock. He held up the black fuel hose.
“I’ve chased more than my share of fleeing boats in my day,” he explained. “Worst case, that skiff has nothing to do with us and they have to wait a little to get their line back.”
“Not sure that’s the worst case,” Maycomb said. She pulled her jacket tighter around her neck, chilled by the breeze – and the situation. “I get that this is faster than rigging a shore line and anchor, but aren’t you worried about tying us u
p in the open?”
“I’m not tying up for long,” Cutter said, hopping out and wrapping the bow line quickly around a rusted cleat. He lifted his pack onto the dock beside him. The rock helmet, rope, and other gear had wreaked havoc on his system and he had to dig through his pack to find the satellite phone. “You take the skiff and get out of here. I’ll catch a ride back with—”
Maycomb frowned. “What about letting me come along because Donita trusts me?”
“It was stupid of me to put you in this kind of danger,” Cutter said. “I’d hoped we’d get her to safety before anyone was the wiser, but that is obviously not the case.”
Maycomb grabbed her pack and stood. “You didn’t put me in danger.”
“Look,” Cutter said. “These people have already committed at least two murders. If you’d seen the bodies in that chapel, you might be a little less inclined to come along and risk getting your skull blown open.”
“I don’t scare,” she said.
“And I don’t have time to argue.”
Maycomb stepped out of the skiff, defiant.
“Then you don’t have time to arrest me. Don’t fret. I’m not after a story. But I am worried about Donita. Let me help. You know good and well you need another set of eyes.”
Cutter grit his teeth.
“There won’t be time for you to smoke.”
“Okay.” She wagged her head. “I just quit.”
Cutter punched Lola’s number into the sat phone.
“What’s your ETA?” he asked as soon as she picked up.
“We have the gear,” she said. “The Hernandez brothers are spilling their guts, naming their cartel jefes and just about everyone they can think of.”
“Anyone local?” Cutter asked, eyes on the tree line.
“No,” Lola said. “But they’re giving damning information on enough kingpins that the DEA and FBI have climbed into bed with the little bastards. I’m thinking they’ll be in WITSEC with new names and respectable jobs before you know it.” The disdain was clear in her voice.
“Okay.” Cutter asked again. “Your ETA?”
“That’s the thing, boss. Beason has everybody and their dog running down the heaps of leads the Hernandez brothers are puking up. He thinks that’s the best way to find Donita Willets.”
“He could be right,” Cutter said.
“No,” Lola said. “I’m going with your gut. It’s just taken us a bit to get a boat. Everything’s organized now and we’re driving out to Echo Cove to launch.”
“So how long?”
Silence while she conferred with Van Dyke.
“We’ll hurry,” Lola said when she came back on the line. “Forty minutes, tops.”
Cutter briefed her on the second skiff.
“Now I’m really going with your gut,” Lola said.
“We can’t be sure it belongs to our shooters,” Cutter said. “Beason will argue that it’s hikers or something, but see if you can get a couple of the other teams heading this way. It wouldn’t hurt my feelings if you could get a Coastie Jayhawk to fly over the mountain.”
“Copy that,” Lola said. “Sit tight and we’ll be right there.”
“I’m not waiting,” Cutter said. “You just follow my tracks.”
“Hang on a sec,” Lola said. “What if I get lost?”
“You’ll do fine,” Cutter said. He shouldered his pack and started toward the dark patch in the foliage. “You’ve been tracking for over a year now.”
“Always with you!” Lola said. “Boss, don’t do this. Wait for me to get there.”
“Did Tom Horning give you a topo map with the mines located on it?”
She was breathing heavier now. “Yes.” The Kiwi crept back in, turning it into a tentative yis.
“Then you know where we’re likely to be going. Seriously, you’ll do fine, Lola. Step by step.”
“Okay,” she said, still unconvinced. “Step by step.”
“As fast as you can.”
“Boss!”
Cutter kept his voice low, steady. “Not faster than you can. Like I said, you’ll do great. Just use what you’ve learned. Gotta go so I can concentrate.”
He started to end the call, but Lola stopped him. “Hang on, what about Lori Maycomb?”
“Still working that out,” he said.
Chapter 43
Cutter found a patchwork of tracks in the mud right away. It was not uncommon for a moat of murky water to mark the transition zone between the gravel beach and the tree line. Left behind from high tides or storm surges, the water was usually stagnant and brown. Silty mud above and below the water made the perfect track trap.
Maycomb followed, but stayed ten feet behind, out of the way. To her credit, she kept her eyes up on the trees more than down.
“You’re not going to try to talk me out of coming with you?”
“I told you I don’t have time to argue,” he said. “I meant it.”
“Well, okay then,” Maycomb said. “You won’t regret it.”
Cutter stooped to study the tracks. “I already regret it.”
There were at least four, maybe five sets of footprints. One of them was considerably smaller, probably a woman. The edges of this one made him think it was a little older, but the recent rains made it difficult to tell. He made a quick sketch of the particulars – heel wear, length of stride, straddle – the width between tracks, and a couple of sole blemishes that might help him tell two of the larger sets apart – if he was fortunate enough to get clear prints, which was unlikely in forest duff. The most he could hope for were partial prints, but he was more likely to get scuffed moss, broken branches, and occasional heel digs. Stride and size of each track would be key. The smaller track had the corrugated ridgelines of an Xtratuf boot.
“It’s like they issue these things,” he muttered.
Willow was almost as abundant as devil’s club, and it didn’t take him long to cut a relatively straight shoot, about the diameter of an arrow and half again as long, and then glance at Maycomb. “Can I borrow those elastic hair ties?”
She rolled them off her ponytail at once. “See,” she said. “Useful already.”
“I’d have gotten by,” Cutter said. “But thank you.”
He doubled the bands so they fit tight around the willow shaft, and then rolled them over the end, one at a time. Next, he stooped over the mud where the clearest set of the two smallest tracks first appeared. Holding his stick in his fist, he put the tip at the heel of the forward track. The heel of the rear track was even with the leading edge of his fist. That gave him stride. He marked it by rolling the first elastic band to his hand. The second band went just forward of the first, indicating the length of the smallest track.
“Make sure you sing out if you see or hear anything,” he said without looking up. If Maycomb was going to hang around, he might as well give her a job.
Finding tracks was straightforward through the mud, but there was far more to tracking than seeing footprints. Cutter took the time to scribble a few more sketches and then stepped to the edge of the mud. Sign in the way of heel digs, scuffs, and transferred mud was abundant in the duff, but it was impossible to tell whose track was whose.
Almost.
He crouched over the last track he could positively identify as belonging to the smallest set of Xtratufs. Keeping the rearmost elastic band so it lined up with the back of the heel, he played the point of the stick back and forth in a slow arc.
“I get it,” Maycomb said. “You measured Donita’s step so now the tip points you to the next track.”
“I measured somebody’s step,” Cutter said. “The length of their stride. Not sure if it’s Donita’s yet. That’s my best guess, though, so I’m going to follow it. But you are correct on how the tracking stick works.”
He moved quickly now, following divots of leaf-littered duff and scrapes over mossy deadfall. The trees provided a thick canopy overhead, giving the forest a sense of perpetual twilight. It was so
dense in some places as to block the rain, leaving the trail relatively dry but for seepage and runoff. The sign bushwhacked upward at first, skirting heavy thickets of devil’s club and large outcroppings of rock, but generally heading due east. After a quarter of a mile, it turned south, sidehilling over the deadfall and basketball-size hummocks.
“Tailings?” Maycomb offered, panting from the endless up, over, and around they had to do to negotiate the mountain.
“I’m thinking tailings would have been crushed to get at the gold,” Cutter said. “This could be an old rockslide.”
“Got it,” Maycomb said, saving her breath.
Cutter made exaggerated digs with his own heels every few feet, marking the trail for Lola. She was good, but still learning, and this wasn’t the time for a test.
The wind shifted just a hair, but enough that he could hear the hiss of a waterfall.
Tom Horning’s maps indicated two mines ahead, so it was impossible to tell which one they were going toward – if any. Oddly, the elevation lines on the topo showed a deep gorge a few hundred yards ahead through the trees, running straight down the mountain, blocking their path. He checked the map against the GPS.
“Must be a bridge up ahead,” he said. “Or they turn—”
Eyes on the trail, he heard Lori Maycomb’s plaintive sigh as the sound of the waterfall grew louder.
His hand dropped to the Colt instinctively.
“What is it?”
“A hand tram,” she said, pointing through the trees at a set of cables.
Another few steps brought three cables into view, strung like powerlines across a deep ravine. A series of waterfalls boiled just uphill, throwing a cloud of misty spray. Across the gorge was a simple basket of bent steel and wooden benches hung from the cable on two pulleys. Cutter estimated it was seventy or eighty feet away. Someone had used it to cross and then left it on the other side.
