He turned to Susanne. He tried not to look as devastated as he felt. “He’s unconscious again. I’m worried about another concussion.” He left out everything else he was worried about.
“No.” Susanne’s face was stricken. “Patrick, no.”
He wished he could offer her reassurance, but he couldn’t. “We have to hurry.”
“Then let’s go!”
To Pete he said, “I think I remember from the map that after this set of rapids we’re pretty close to town. Unfortunately, there’s a waterfall first. We’re going to have to get Perry out and carry him around the falls. When we get to the bottom there, it’s smooth sailing the rest of the way, and I’m sure we’ll find someone who can help us. But first we have to cross this last stretch of whitewater.” It hadn’t gone well for him last time. He faced the other canoes and raised his voice. “Has everybody got their life jackets on?”
Annie’s voice trembled. “I’m scared.”
Pete gave his kids a smile, although it was a somber one. “These rapids aren’t bad ones. Uncle Patrick and I went through them last night, no problem.”
Patrick wasn’t about to disagree with him. The kids needed confidence. But his stomach churned.
“Are you sure, Pete?” Vera sounded as scared as Annie.
“Absolutely.”
“When you get through the first chute, it’ll ease up for a little ways. Get out of the middle toward the left. It’s calmer over there,” Patrick said.
Pete gave everyone a thumbs up. “If we hurry, we’ll be off the water at the falls before Les and Winthropp even get to their canoes. Patrick, I’ll bring up the rear.”
“Then I’ll lead. Let’s move it, everyone. Kids, stay low.”
Susanne pulled his revolver from her waistband. “Patrick, take this back.”
He reached for it. They fumbled the hand off, and it nearly landed in the water, but he managed to catch it, only getting the back of his hand wet.
He stuck it in its holster. “Thanks.”
He sucked in a deep breath and gave Perry one last long, hard look before he moved off. No change. He dug his paddle in. Soon, he heard the splashes of paddles and canoes behind him. The calm water picked up speed and rumbled. He was worried about Susanne. He was even more concerned about Vera, and about Perry in her canoe, vulnerable. He prayed out loud the whole way, never stopping as his canoe rocked, dipped, and ricocheted between boulders. When the strainer tree was in sight, he started paddling hard left far earlier, his lips still moving.
This time, Patrick made it through with no issue. In fact, he couldn’t believe he’d nearly ended up in the water the night before. The two sides of the river were different beasts. But the level of water inside his canoe was becoming a real problem. He held his canoe steady and turned around to watch the others take their turn on the rapids, ready to break into rescue mode if necessary. Vera looked terrified, but she did fine. Susanne pumped a fist in the air as her own canoe exited the rough patch. Pete looked like he’d been whitewater canoeing his whole life.
Vera shouted, “He’s awake. Perry’s awake!”
Her canoe was too far behind him. Patrick couldn’t get to his son. “Perry?”
Vera said, “He hears you. He just gave me an okay sign.”
“Hang in there. We’re going to get you out of here, Perry.” Patrick didn’t care what Perry’d given her, the plan didn’t change. He moved back into paddling position. Water was up to his ankles now. He feared the hole was getting bigger. He dug in and pulled against the water, but his canoe barely moved forward. Vera passed him. Perry was sitting up on the seat with his head cradled in his hands .
Susanne went by.
“Perry’s awake, honey.”
“Thank God.”
“No change in plans. Getting him out of here is more important than ever.”
“Okay. I’m just glad he woke up.” Then she gave him a funny look. “Why aren’t you moving?”
Patrick didn’t want to panic her. “Waiting to talk to Pete.”
She nodded, but she didn’t look convinced. Her canoe left his behind. Patrick tried with all his might to make significant forward progress. It didn’t go well. His brother caught up with him.
Pete said, “Are you all right?”
“I’m taking on a lot of water. It’s slow going. But Perry woke up.”
“Oh, man. That’s great.”
“We still need to carry him out. He can’t hit his head again, Pete. We just can’t take a chance.”
“I understand.”
“You take the lead. Get the women and kids to the far shore. Beach it before the waterfall.”
Pete angled his path toward the far shore and paddled to overtake the women. He turned back and shouted Patrick. “How much further do you think?”
“It didn’t look far on the map. I’d say another hundred yards or so. Unless the water speeds up, then get off the river immediately.”
Pete raised his paddle in acknowledgement. He signaled the women to the right side of the river as he passed them. Patrick snuck a glance at the left shore.
CRACK.
THUD.
Patrick felt an impact but no pain. His brow furrowed. Was adrenaline masking the pain of a gunshot wound? He didn’t think so. But he did think his canoe had taken a hit. Another hole. Great. He couldn’t paddle away quickly, so his body was going to be an easy target. He stared back into the trees and rock formations on the riverbank, looking for the shooter. Movement. He saw Les was running with a rifle under his arm. Winthropp was just ahead of him. Two canoes were near the shore, and each man grabbed one.
“They’re shooting. Keep moving. Pete, do you have your gun?” Patrick patted his own hip. Gun. Check. Knife in scabbard. Check.
“Yes,” Pete shouted back.
“Take Perry and get to town. I’ll meet you there.”
Susanne turned. Her voice was near hysteria. “I’m not leaving without you.”
“My canoe won’t make it. But I’m armed.”
“No!” she screamed. “Pete, go back for him.”
He dialed his voice down to the tone he used on scared families before whisking their mortally ill and injured loved ones away from them. Calm. Convey confidence. “Pete, go on. Susanne, it’s going to be all right.” He blew her a kiss, keeping the prospectors in his peripheral vision. He was ready to duck if Les started shooting again. “Paddle, Susanne. Perry needs you.”
The expression on her face gouged at his heart, but then she turned and started paddling hard and fast. Good. The group would take Perry and go for help. Now it was up to him to slow the prospectors down, or stop them altogether, to give the Flints a chance to get to safety.
And he knew that it would be far easier to do that without his family there.
CRACK. CRACK.
He ducked into the belly of the canoe. His focus had wandered, and he hadn’t been watching. Hadn’t ducked early enough. Not that it would do much good, other than make him a harder target to locate. The bullets would punch right through the sides of the canoe, if Les’s aim was good. But these shots had gone wild. Patrick peeked over the edge toward the shore. Les was paddling and trying to fire at the same time. He wasn’t reloading. If the rifle magazine held four shots, then it would be empty now. If it held more, then there was no telling how many bullets he had left. Patrick wished he knew.
CRACK. CRACK.
Wild again. Good. Waste your ammo. Six shots now. Patrick’s mind raced. The prospectors were gaining on his sinking canoe rapidly. He needed a plan, but all he could come up with was to move. He sat up, low, and started paddling again. It was like running through sand with hundred-pound weights on each ankle.
In the distance, his family was dragging their canoes to the shore. Pete lifted Perry and eased him over his shoulder. Vera, Susanne, and Lana were gathering the rest of the kids. Susanne turned toward him one last time, her hand tenting her eyes. He didn’t dare stop paddling. He tried to send her a message with
the power of his intention. Go. Go and take care of our boy and be safe.
The family disappeared behind a tall rock face, Susanne last in line.
His family, safely away. His dad with the girls, safely upriver. He was relieved, but he also felt a strange energy course through him. He was free now to fight the prospectors without holding back. Like a man unafraid his family would be caught in the crossfire. To fight without a care for what anyone he loved would think of him. To fight them the way they deserved for what they’d done to his brother. His daughter. His niece. To all of them. Even, if his suspicions were correct, to the Hilliards. Because he didn’t believe for one second that that grizzly would or could have killed three men with wilderness experience, although he knew the big bears wouldn’t pass up the chance for a meal if one was left for them. Left by Les and his gang.
He stole a look back at the other canoes. Winthropp was closing in on him. The big man had twice the muscle mass of the much smaller Les. A lot more than Patrick, too. And Winthropp didn’t have a canoe full of water. Patrick lifted his feet. There had to be six inches in it now. He eyed the waterline. Dangerously high, close to swamping.
He didn’t have much time.
CRACK.
Seven. He saw a tiny splash about ten yards to his left. Was it still Les shooting? Patrick needed to be sure Winthropp wasn’t firing now, too, and he risked another look back. No signs of a weapon on the bigger man. Both of his meaty hands on the paddle.
Patrick had an idea. If he could lure Winthropp close enough, he could put his paddle down and take Winthropp out with a shot from his own gun. He winced. Could he shoot another man at point blank range? Maybe he could just shoot to incapacitate him. But he knew that was always a bad idea. A wounded Winthropp was still a formidable foe. And he was much more likely to miss and waste ammo if he didn’t shoot for the man’s thick torso.
If Patrick shot, he had to shoot for keeps. He thought of his family. All of them. He knew he could do it, that he would do it, because he had to, to keep them safe.
He headed back toward the north side of the river, away from where the Flints had beached and hiked away. His canoe was barely wallowing along now, but he dug in and pulled like his life depended on it. Like Perry’s, Trish’s, and Susanne’s did. Like those of his parents and his brother’s family did.
He got the sensation that his canoe was speeding up. For a moment, he believed thoughts of his family had energized him. He’d gotten a second wind.
But then he realized what it was, and it wasn’t a good thing. The water was moving faster. The falls were near. He had to make his next move quickly and get off the river before he was swept over. He aimed for a stretch of shore with a pebbly bank. It was next to a tumble of boulders. He didn’t dare look back into the river at the prospectors.
He put his paddle down, got out his .357 Magnum, and raised his voice. “Winthropp, do you ever do what you want to do, or just what Les tells you to do?”
Winthropp answered with a growl. His voice sounded closer than Patrick had imagined it would be.
“What about you, Les? Are you a man, or do you just let Winthropp fight your battles?”
Silence. Patrick had hoped Les would answer. That way he could get a fix on the man’s location.
CRACK.
The bullet pinged off a boulder, winging a chip of rock into the air. Eight shots. Patrick didn’t know of any rifles with more than ten shots in the magazine, but that still left as many as two. More if Les had another loaded mag with him.
It was time to act. With a last mighty pull, he beached the canoe and stepped out. The ground under the water was rocky. Carefully, he scrambled to shore through them, barely noticing his ankle anymore. No better painkiller than adrenaline.
CRACK.
Nine. He sprinted the few yards to the boulders. Right before he reached them, he heard one last CRACK. Ten.
Something stung his hip. Pressure. A stinging, burning sensation. He’d been hit. Panting, he dove behind the giant rocks. He rolled, protecting his gun, then came to a stop and checked his hip. A patch of red was growing, spreading. He tested his weight on it by rising to his knees. It hurt less than he’d expected, was surprisingly stable. Just a flesh wound.
“Get out of that canoe and go after him,” Les screamed.
Exactly what I wanted to hear. Patrick positioned himself behind the rocks for optimal cover. He cocked the revolver and peered around the edges of the boulders.
Winthropp must have taken Les literally. He jumped out before he reached the shore, then disappeared underneath the water. Deeper than I would have thought.
“No, you idiot, what are you doing?” Les screamed.
Blindly following your instructions.
Patrick took aim over the water, waiting for Winthropp to come up for air. He frowned. Why was the big man still under? Then, a hand broke the plane of the water. The fingers opened and closed, then it sank again.
“Winthropp?” Les yelled. His voice sounded more uncertain than angry now. “Come on out of there, now.”
But Winthropp didn’t surface. And after a minute, Patrick knew he never would. He slumped to the ground, stunned. Whether Winthropp had impaled himself on something or caught his foot under a rock, the man was drowning before their eyes. The doctor inside Patrick raged that he should do something. Save him somehow—the same man he’d been prepared to kill only moments before. But Patrick couldn’t risk it. Not within easy range of Les and his gun. But he’s fired ten shots already, one part of him said. Another part of him argued back. He could have another magazine and ten more bullets in it.
No. He was not going to try to rescue Winthropp. He still had to deal with Les, the man who most wanted to do his family harm. The man behind all of this.
“Winthropp!” the little man shouted. Then, softer, “Son of a bitch. Why’d you have to go and drown yourself, you idjit?”
Patrick snuck another look around the rocks. He heard splashing. Les, paddling. At first, Patrick thought he was headed for the bank. That will work. Patrick felt confident he could best the man one-on-one. But with a jolt, his eyes processed the scene. Les was turning his canoe. Turning and heading to cross the river toward where Patrick’s family had gone.
With a roar, Patrick sprang to his feet and ran, the pain in his bad ankle and gunshot wound not registering at all. He launched himself at his own canoe, then, remembering it was filled with water, he stopped. Winthropp’s had floated downriver and was headed for the falls. He tucked his gun in the back of his pants and dumped his own canoe out, then pushed it into the current and leapt in. It rocked, and he held on to both edges, helping it regain stability. Water started seeping in immediately. He reached for the paddle and started his strokes while still on his knees. He had to catch the bastard.
Les’s head swiveled. He caught sight of Patrick and grinned at him. “You’re going to make this easy by getting close enough to shoot before I go after your family?”
Patrick growled. He eased himself up to the seat and paddled harder, closing the gap between his canoe and Les’s quickly with the help of the current.
Les laughed. He lifted his gun and took aim. Were there any bullets left? Patrick wasn’t going to wait around to find out the hard way.
Patrick rose and, just as he dove into the water, he saw Les fumble for balance. As the icy river wrapped him in a shocking embrace, he heard the CRACK. Damn. New magazine. His boots, jeans, and long-sleeved flannel shirt became instant liabilities. He’d been a breaststroker on his high school swim team, but he struggled to execute the stroke underwater weighted down with his loose clothing. His hands struck his canoe. He grabbed hold of its side. The current was sucking him downstream at the same speed as his canoe now. Even with the cover of his canoe, he didn’t dare raise his head out of the water for a breath. Instead, he opened his eyes. The water was shockingly clear. He saw explosions of white foam as the water collided with underwater rock formations. But he had one nice surprise. He w
as within a body’s length of Les’s canoe. His lungs were burning with lack of oxygen. Patrick didn’t care. He released his canoe and pulled his arms through the water as he kicked. Then he sent himself with all his strength straight at the belly of the other man’s canoe. His hands found its aluminum shell. He walked them up it and grasped the side rail. He kicked upward, then pulled down as his body descended back into the water. The water worked against him and kept the craft upright. He kicked again, drew a breath, and pulled like he was doing a chin up. The craft stayed upright for what felt like an eternity to him, then it tumped sideways. Under the water, he saw the bubbles and disturbance as Les fell into the river.
Patrick broke above the surface and gasped for breath. The sound of cascading water was deafening and close. He reached for the gun in his waistband. It was gone. He fumbled for his knife, but his fingers were so cold that he couldn’t work the snap. He was running out of time, pulled along by the power of water moving at fifteen hundred cubic feet per second. He walked his hands around Les’s sinking canoe. When he got to the other side, he saw Les attempting to swim for shore. The man was clearly not much of a swimmer, and his progress against the current was slow.
And then something hit Patrick’s elbow. A paddle. He grabbed it. A weapon. With one arm, Patrick swam freestyle after Les. The prospector was only a few yards away. Patrick kicked. He pulled with one arm, using the paddle in the other for flotation. It kept his hips and legs from sinking which helped his kicks produce more power and speed, even without his other arm pulling. He was gaining on Les. Within seconds, he was close enough to grasp the man’s shirt. He yanked him back toward him.
Scapegoat: A Patrick Flint Novel Page 25
