by Nina Revoyr
It had been years since he had stalked a target at night, but as he grew more sure-footed, the old feeling, the familiar adrenaline, returned. Despite hardly eating or sleeping, despite his earlier coldness, he felt good, he felt alive, stronger and more alert than he had in years. He remembered early mornings in Wisconsin, moving in the dark to reach the deer blind in the woods before the sun came up; he remembered a quality of stillness and fullness in the air, as if the night itself anticipated violence. But then he’d been hunting for creatures—deer, sometimes birds. Now he was hunting a man.
From the moment he’d heard the gun’s report, he’d felt, along with fear, a burning anger. Anger that one of their group had been shot and that the rest of them were targets. Anger that they were desperately trying to escape because they’d stumbled onto someone else’s mischief. Anger that he’d been reduced to crawling behind a rock, which would give him the chance—just the chance—to make it home to his family. And most of all, anger that he’d been so fooled by A.J. that he hadn’t recognized the danger, had even been glad when A.J. first shot the Mexican kid and made his way down to the ledge. Gwen and Oscar had been right, and his unwillingness or inability to see this guy for what he was had contributed to their predicament. When A.J. made those ugly cracks about them, Todd saw that he meant it, and he understood something that he’d never known before. But by then it was too late. He should have grabbed José’s gun when it was there for the taking. He should have backed A.J. off as soon as he saw him. They should never have been in the position to be led back to the camp and then forced to destroy the garden. Oscar was right—they should have incapacitated A.J. when they left—broken a bone, blinded him, or killed him. Todd had been trying to do the right thing, the human thing, and he’d been swayed by Gwen and her principles. But decency meant nothing when you came up against a man who wasn’t decent. He had made a huge mistake in dealing with A.J. He wasn’t going to make another.
Below, maybe a half-mile farther down, he could just make out a stream, the moving water catching light from the moon. That must be the bottom of the valley, he thought. That must be the stream that feeds the lake. The bit of forest where they’d slept that morning was farther to the right, and he was more certain than ever that the shooter would have retreated there. He decided to continue his path straight down, putting him to the left of the woods. Then he’d circle around and enter from the other side. If the shooter had watched them go up the slope, he’d have seen them traversing more to the left, and that’s where he might still look. It occurred to Todd that the shooter might be doing what they were doing, taking advantage of the darkness to move. What would he do if the shooter was making his way up the slope? He didn’t know, and the thought of it worried him. He looked toward the woods and then scanned the slope to his right. No movement from below, and none above.
Suddenly he could make out the opposite ridge and the slopes on either side—the moon was peeking over the mountains. Shit. He moved behind a large boulder and looked out from behind it. The entire valley was visible now; it looked haunted and beautiful. He saw the lake where they’d filled their water bottles, the woods, the place they’d started hiking uphill. He looked behind him up the slope, afraid to see the movement of the others. But there was nothing—either they were too far away or they, too, had taken refuge from the light. Or, he thought worriedly, remembering Oscar’s grimace, maybe they haven’t even left at all.
He waited ten, fifteen minutes and the canyon went dark again; a curtain of clouds was drawn over the moon. He left his hiding place and continued downhill, veering even farther left, away from the woods. The going wasn’t any easier—he was still slipping, and he’d tweaked his knee when he’d fallen—but there was a rhythm to it now. He held onto boulders or the occasional tough-rooted plant, jamming the rifle against his shoulder, his back. He was glad he hadn’t brought his pack—just a bag of nuts that had escaped the dog’s scavenging and a water bottle clipped to his belt with a carabiner. Anything else would have bogged him down. He couldn’t see very well, but every once in a while he got a glimpse of the stream’s reflection, and that was enough to aim for. His body was moving of its own accord. Adrenaline had taken over.
He tried to imagine his children home in their beds—quiet, and helpless in sleep. What would they say if they could see him now? What would Kelly say? Nothing in their lives together had any relation to this. He had never felt so apart from them, or been so afraid. And he had never felt more full of purpose. If he was able to do what he was supposed to, A.J. or his brother would soon be dead. The others could get over the pass without danger of being shot at again—and then they’d be on their way down the eastern slope and into the Owens Valley. He’d be left to get out of the mountains by himself. But he’d have made it possible for them to escape.
Oscar’s gunshot wound had turned his stomach. The blood, the quick bruising, the impossible mess of the flesh, where the muscle and skin were supposed to be smooth, unbroken. It was hard to see the agony, the horrible pain, Oscar crying and moaning and holding onto his shoulder, rocking until Gwen told him to stop, told him to hold still until the blood flow could be staunched, which it was, after some time, with her help. Todd was impressed with Gwen’s efficiency, the quickness and matter-of-factness with which she used a shirt to apply pressure, the competence with which she attached a bandage. He knew she was afraid, but she seemed glad to have something to do, a person to attend to, a problem that was within her reach to solve. He thought of Kelly, who was fastidious about their children’s most mundane bug bites—she would not have been able to handle this. Tracy had helped too, opening the bandage wrappers, handing over the scissors, but mostly she had stared up at the ridge trying to find the way over, and Todd had felt a welling anger at her, frustration with her stubbornness, the clear knowledge that they would not have encountered such trouble if she hadn’t pushed them to take this unused trail. But there was no use dwelling on that; they were where they were. And it was Tracy who would have to lead the others over the pass, while Todd went back to kill their pursuer.
He continued down the slope, going faster when there were larger rocks to use as steps, and slower on the scree, more mindful of being quiet as he got closer to the valley floor. Twice he had to lie flat behind a boulder when the moon reemerged, but as he peered out over it he saw no other movement; either the shooter was being careful too or he had never left his position.
Finally he reached the bottom and returned to springy earth. He stopped and looked around. In front of him, behind him, the looming dark shapes of the mountains, the sky still streaked with clouds overhead. He could no longer see the stream but he could hear it; the running water was more audible than it had been in the daylight, and he wondered if the darkness somehow amplified the sound, or muted all the other senses, the body adjusting to what sensations the world had to offer, making up in hearing what it lost in sight. He heard everything—the water trickling over rocks, the wind through the brush, a lonely creature calling in the dark. And he knew that if he could hear so well, the shooter could too; he needed to be quiet, as stealthy as he could, even here, a half-mile from the woods.
He started walking, experimenting with how to pick his feet up and put them down again—if he moved too fast, there was a sucking sound when he pulled up a shoe, and a muffled splash when he stepped back down. But if he moved slowly, the softness of the tundra absorbed all sound, and he could walk nearly silently forward. After fifteen minutes, he reached the small stream. He could only see the general movement of water, could not make out where the rocks were, or where he might step—he moved up and down the bank but found no obvious crossing. Did he really need to cross the stream? Yes, he thought. He did. Better that he circle back and approach the shooter from behind. He did not want to run into him head-on. He knelt down, taking the cold water in his cupped palms and drinking thirstily. He refilled his water bottle. He splashed some water on the scratch on his leg, which was feeling hot, infected.
Then he stood up again, and found what looked like the easiest way across, and stepped onto a rock a few feet from the bank. But there was no rock or branch to step on next, so he braced himself and stepped straight into the water, the shock of cold taking his breath way. With an effort, he swung his other foot onto the opposite bank and then hopped one-footed in the river with the help of his pole until he was close enough to step out. But the one wet foot made him cold, and reminded him that his clothes weren’t yet totally dry from the storm, and he needed to get moving again.
He walked toward the opposite slope, moving more quickly across this solid ground. He felt terribly exposed—if the moon should reemerge now, he’d be caught out, nothing to hide behind, nowhere to go, like a burglar in someone’s kitchen with the light switched on. But soon he reached a cluster of rocks and slipped safety behind them. He sat down, ignoring his wet foot and throbbing knee, and ate a handful of peanuts, feeling the energy course through him, the needed fuel. He checked the rifle to make sure that nothing had broken or jammed; checked that the safety was on. And while there was no way it could have fallen out, he also checked the ammunition.
He tried to imagine what A.J. would do, tried to get inside his head. A.J. had to have known that he hit one of them; he would have seen them dragging Oscar behind the rocks. So he knew that one of them was hurt, maybe dying. If Oscar was dead, they could leave his body, but if he wasn’t, they’d never leave him—especially not with someone coming after them. So A.J. knew they would continue up the slope, but when? It would be hard in the dark, with no trail and an injured man, and a slope that was treacherous even in daytime. If they waited until daylight, though, they’d be easy to pick off. So it would make sense for them to leave in the dark, or as close to dawn as possible. It seemed that A.J. should try to make his way up the slope in the dark, so what was stopping him? Maybe he thought he’d be too clear of a target, coming up the slope unprotected. Maybe he was still suffering from the effects of his beating. Or maybe he knew that he could easily overtake them, even if they got an earlier start.
Then another thought occurred to Todd and chilled him to the bone. What if someone was coming from the other direction? Just over the crest of the mountains was the Owens Valley, and a string of small, lonely high-desert towns. A.J. could have called or signaled someone who was now coming from the east. The same way that Tracy and the others were heading out of the range, someone could be heading in to cut off their escape. Maybe that’s why A.J. could afford to stay still. Maybe he knew he had them trapped, like a base runner caught between bases, the fielders slowly closing the gap.
But maybe not. The satellite phones seemed spotty out here, and of course there was no cell reception. A.J. was probably alone. Or joined only by his brother coming in from the west. Tracy and the others would be safe going east. This is what he had to tell himself.
He walked along the valley floor, the land rising on either side. Behind him, the big peaks loomed but the range was now shrouded in darkness. If the others were moving, they were totally hidden, and this, he decided, was why the shooter stayed still. Looking east, everything was dark and obscured. West, any movement would be visible.
He reached the edge of the woods and skirted around to the left until he came to a granite boulder with a sprig of plants beside it. This was the point where they had entered the woods yesterday morning, and it was a good place to enter again. He remembered roughly the path they’d taken under the cover of trees, how long it was before they’d reached the house-sized boulders. But when he stepped in from the open sky and into the shelter of the woods, he realized that this would be different. Away from even the small light of the moon and the stars, this world was almost totally dark. He waited for his eyes to adjust but in the black of night, all of the trees looked the same. A minute in, he spun around and wasn’t sure which direction he’d come from. Finally he righted himself and held out one arm, reaching to touch trees before he walked into them. Each step he took was painfully slow; he lowered his feet gently so as not to snap a twig.
He walked this way for twenty minutes and covered very little ground. He was hungry and thirsty, but afraid to open his bag of nuts; any sound was amplified in the dark. Now he stopped and reconsidered his strategy. How close did he want to get to this guy? How close could he get, really? He couldn’t shoot him in the dark unless he was right on top of him, and there was no way he could get that close without being detected. He needed to be within range, but at a safe distance. And the only way he could do that would be with light.
And A.J. could be anywhere, anywhere in these woods, or if he’d left already, anywhere in the canyon. Todd might have walked right past him already and not even known it.
But he didn’t think so. He thought he knew where he was. A.J. had already shown his patterns. He’d stayed in the camps they’d made, at the trailhead and at the lake; he’d liked stalking them that way, sleeping where they’d slept, drawing energy from their presence. He’d be in the clearing where they’d fallen asleep yesterday morning. Protected by the house-sized rocks.
Once Todd thought this, he knew it was true. He would find A.J. where they had slept themselves, enjoying being where they’d been, waiting until first light when he could see well enough to follow. A.J. hadn’t needed to finish them off right away; he liked knowing they were waiting, afraid. He was like the neighbor’s cat, who sometimes, since the passing of Roger, came into their yard to hunt. Tossing a defenseless mouse up in the air and batting it around, letting it scamper away for a couple of feet before catching it and sinking his teeth in. Yes, he would be in the clearing, waiting for light. As soon as Todd knew this, he could feel him there, breathing.
Todd made his way slowly to the left of where they’d been that morning. He would circle around and approach the clearing from the opposite side, which would give him a clear view between the rocks. It was painstakingly slow movement, step by agonizing step, as he tried not to make a sound when he walked. Once the butt of the rifle bounced against a tree, and Todd cursed under his breath. It was dark—consuming, lonely dark—and by the time he saw the massive shape of the boulders, an hour had passed since he had entered the woods.
He kept a distance of about fifty feet from the boulders and circled around to the left. He got to an area on the opposite side and stayed there, not approaching the boulders or the gap between. He’d wait here out of sight until the sky began to lighten. He shielded his watch so that no light would be visible and then pressed a button. The illuminated face said 2:37.
He sat down and leaned back against a tree. Now that he’d stopped moving, he felt cold; he burrowed into his jacket. Images passed before them—Gwen lying down on the riverbank their first day out, the view back toward the lake when they’d reached their first pass. A.J. tied up at the pot garden, and José lying dead on the ledge. Then other things, home things: sitting at the kitchen table with the Sunday paper, Kelly sunning in the garden, Joey hitting a baseball, Brooke playing with her dolls. He saw Rachel from work, and remembered the Colsons. How distant it all felt now.
If he didn’t get out of here alive, he thought, he’d had a good life. More success than he’d ever imagined. A beautiful family, two great kids. If it turned out badly in the morning and A.J. killed him, at least he’d left things in order for his family. At least he would have died trying to save other people, instead of falling to a heart attack or cancer. He’d be remembered as a guy who’d been brave enough to take on a killer. He’d be remembered not as an even-tempered corporate lawyer, but as a guy who took things into his own hands, who died fighting, like a man.
He startled awake. What time was it? 4:47. He’d dozed off, damnit, but it was probably all right; the sky was still dark. Dark, but he could make out the shapes of the trees now. Just a few more minutes and he should go.
He shook his head, trying to wake up, and then extended his legs, which were stiff. Holding on to the tree for stability, he slowly stood up, moving by inches so as not to m
ake noise. The dark shapes of the big boulders were clearly visible. He waited five minutes, ten, until he could make out individual branches, and then he slowly moved over behind one of the boulders. He felt the surface of the granite and this shocked him awake; he pressed his cheek against its cold roughness. This is surreal, he thought. It can’t really be happening. But it was. He touched his forehead to the granite and said a short prayer. Then he moved slowly to the right, close-hugging the rock, until he could look into the clearing.
Someone was there, sitting back against a tree, his head falling forward. There was a cap on his head, covering his face. Todd felt a jolt of adrenaline go through him; his heart beat so loudly he was sure it was audible. It was too dark still to make out anything else—the color of the clothes, any features. But it was definitely a man, sleeping with a rifle across his knees. A man who had tried to kill them.
Todd stepped clear of the boulder and slowly lifted his rifle, raising the butt to his shoulder. He was exposed, but he didn’t feel any fear. His target was asleep and laid out perfectly. I am about to kill a man, he thought. There was no question that he had to do it. He lifted the rifle and set his eyes to the sight. He put the capped head in the crossbars. Lord Jesus, help me hold steady, and please forgive me, he prayed. Then he held the rifle still and pulled the trigger.
Chapter Sixteen
Gwen
Gwen jumped when she heard the gunshot, even though she’d been expecting it for hours. She looked at Tracy, supporting Oscar from the downhill side. Oscar himself didn’t react.
“That sounds like Todd’s rifle,” Tracy said.
