“Okay, so what we learned is this,” Jake began, using his recollection to Noelle as his memory’s notepad, “we still have no concrete evidence that suggests that the attacker was something other than a bear, but—”
Noelle cut him short, excited, but talking in a whisper: “But we do know that for some reason, the husband, who apparently did get a clear view of the attacker, asked him or her to stop in their native tongue. Bears don’t talk! Why would he change from speaking French to English to convey a message to a bear? It wouldn’t matter either way—he could have just as well been yelling gibberish at the beast and it wouldn’t stop.”
Jake chuckled, a bit irked that Noelle had interrupted but intrigued again at the wit and curiosity of the woman. She was smart, no doubt. And beautiful, but that was neither here nor there.
Jake started again when Noelle quieted herself, realizing that she had taken the glory of their recent discovery from Jake. “Right. So, we had a man pleading for his wife’s life. He wasn’t simply screaming to distract a beast—he changed his pleas to a language that he thought the attacker could understand, and as you noted, Noelle, bears don’t speak English.”
When Jake and Noelle passed the reception desk on their way out, the nurse was on the phone. She gave them a nervous glance and spoke as quietly as she could, but they still heard her.
“Yeah, they’re still here. Okay, will do. Thank you.” Then she hung up and pretended to be busy at her computer. She never looked up.
Jake looked at Noelle and pointed anxiously toward the stairs.
“We’ve gotta go. Now.”
As they ran toward the stairwell, the nurse shouted at them to stop. When they got outside, they could hear a siren in the distance, but getting closer.
“We’ll talk soon!” Jake shouted to Noelle as she got in her vehicle.
She nodded. Jake and Noelle pulled out of the parking lot separately and merged with the local workday traffic. The police cruiser passed them going the other way, toward the hospital.
12
SNAKE RIVER, JACKSON HOLE. THE SAME DAY.
It was no longer ski season, and without guests, J.P. felt antsy. He had slept in and missed Jake by just a half hour.
Where is he? Fishing again?
That seemed the most logical explanation.
J.P. briefly entertained the idea of making himself a big breakfast but rejected the thought when he realized this would require grocery shopping first.
To pass the time, J.P. decided to go walking alongside Route 89 in the canyon south of town to pick up garbage. This was something he did from time to time, and though it was far from his favorite thing to do, it did keep him busy. His unofficial Adopt-a-Highway.
J.P. parked his truck partway down Swinging Bridge Road, a popular spot for summertime river-goers. Today it was empty. The lot still had some patches of snow and muddy puddles in the shade, and J.P. drove the vehicle too far into the slushy remnants of winter. He knew he’d probably have a hard time getting out of the parking spot, but he would cross that bridge when he came to it. He had all the time in the world, so he didn’t mind the challenge of recovering the truck if it was stuck.
J.P. walked up the dirt road toward the main highway with his black, industrial-sized garbage bag, snagging beer cans, cigarette butts, and beef jerky wrappers along the way. He realized quickly that he was out of shape, even though ski season wasn’t that long over. He wanted to light a cigarette, but off-season living—late nights, copious amounts of pale ales and whiskey, barbecue, and smoke of all varieties—had finally taken its toll. He was restless, raspy, and guilt ridden. He called it the moral hangover.
* * *
Sam was driving fast in the new car. He fiddled with its knobs and buttons and played with the stereo system. He was ecstatic that the Shaman had chosen him for such an important task, not that Sam knew exactly what the significance of his role was.
Sam was a people pleaser by nature, and he aimed to make sure the Shaman was happy with him. He wasn’t frightened by the grave nature of the Shaman’s requests. Instead, driving down the canyon in the new sedan with open windows, he felt empowered. He imagined himself as a racehorse just released from the start gate. He was finally in action—a man with a cause.
It was just bad coincidence that he passed the remains of an elk as he had these thoughts. Another victim of arrogant humans. In a rush to get somewhere—get to some engagement that was trivial in the grand scheme of things—someone mowed down a beautiful animal and left it for the ravens.
The gruesome sight enraged him and he cursed out loud.
“Fucking wankers!”
Sam’s ball of rage exploded when he saw the man walking back up the highway’s shoulder toward the carcass with a bag over his shoulder. He’s going back to see what he can salvage from the animal. This redneck wants the meat! Like most of the Shaman’s followers, Sam was disgusted by the thought of a human consuming any of Nature’s noble beasts. This display of arrogance—destroying a native animal and then removing it from its ecosystem—appalled him.
Sam swung the car around in the entrance to a dirt road, making a quick three-point turn that threw dust into the air. The reckless turnaround probably wasn’t good for the car’s transmission, but Sam didn’t care; it wasn’t his car and the Shaman would be proud of his zeal regardless of any damage to the vehicle. He floored it back onto the highway.
Sam initially planned to frighten the man by skidding to a halt in his walking path. But a darker notion hit him, and it presented a much more appealing option:
Why not just hit the bastard?
He backed off the accelerator—he didn’t necessarily want to kill the man who was now bending over and paying no attention to traffic. If he died, though, so be it.
The Shaman isn’t fucking around anymore, and neither am I!
Sam decided to nudge the man with the right corner of his bumper. He didn’t want to run him over and risk incapacitating the car.
Hit by a car! How apropos!
Sam wrapped his fingers firmly around the wheel so he wouldn’t lose control on impact. Then he steered the sedan so that its right side was just barely over the white line. He was on the perfect path for a collision.
When Sam was within fifty yards, the man with the bag heard the engine, squared with the car, and looked through the windshield at Sam. The shared eye contact lasted but a fraction of a second. The soon-to-be victim’s face expressed confusion rather than fear.
A truck was rounding the corner, coming fast toward Sam from the opposite direction.
Oh shit!
The truck driver would be able to identify the car. In a last-ditch effort, Sam tried to steer back onto the road, but the gravel was unforgiving and his sedan held its trajectory. The pedestrian started to move right and out of the way just as the car’s mirror smashed into his hipbone.
Wham! The impact spun the man into a cartwheel. He landed hard on the roadside.
For a second, J.P. looked straight up at the blue sky. It was serene. Then everything went black.
* * *
One mile north on the same route, Jake and Noelle were pulling into their first stop, one of the many combination fishing shop, tavern, trailer park, and campgrounds that dotted the corridors of the great fishing rivers of the West. They had parked south of town, and both jumped into Jake’s SUV to continue their quest. The business, perched above popular trout rivers, offered the one service necessary for all guides and recreational fishermen who floated in drift boats down the river—shuttle service. The necessity of the service was obvious. If a boat is put into a moving river, the boat will end up downstream from the put-in location and the angler’s vehicle.
Drift boats, like kayaks and canoes, lacked motors, and rowing far upstream against a strong river current was not an option. Hence the need for arranging for boat, angler, and vehicle to all end up in the same place at the end of the float. Amazingly, people unfamiliar with rivers foolishly challenge this un
forgiving rule, floating a rental vessel downriver without making any arrangements to move their vehicle. This seemed to happen about once a summer in Jackson.
Jake and Noelle hoped to speak with someone who might have shuttled the vehicle of the dead man. Maybe that person would be able to recall where the vehicle was left for the takeout and who, if anyone, was with the man on his last day on earth. Unfortunately, there was also the possibility that the man had phoned in the request, or never even arranged for a shuttle.
“Definitely worth a shot” was what they settled on. Finding the man’s vehicle and discovering the identity of any companions would be extremely useful pieces of evidence.
Jake killed the engine. “I think it would be best if you did the talking this time,” he said, which made Noelle smile. Her tan face emphasized the whiteness of her teeth. The contrast made her face glow. Jake imagined how stunning she must look in a white linen shirt—the same hue as her teeth—and how the disparity between her bronzed body and the fabric would make her whole being glow.
Jake hoped Noelle’s looks and charisma would help them get the answers they wanted. Pretty girls didn’t exactly wander into fishing hangouts every day. He didn’t want to be seen with her for fear of ruining her chances, so he fell back as Noelle approached the desk closest to the fishing and boating supplies—the counter where you could jot down your information on a yellow notepad for the shuttle service.
He looked at flies and fishing gadgets and tried hard to listen, though he couldn’t hear much. Glancing over, he could see Noelle had one hand resting on the counter and was turned slightly to the side. The clerk had followed her hand with his eyes, up her arm and over her shoulder to her eyes. She had his attention.
After just a few moments, Noelle strode past Jake and back into the main room of the shop, where they sold cold drinks, cheap bait-fishing equipment, and gastronomic treats like nacho-cheese-flavored sunflower seeds.
* * *
J.P. was breathing, but it didn’t sound right. His breath was raspy and constricted. When he got to his feet, it improved somewhat. He didn’t say anything to the truck driver who was now standing beside him, looking horrified. J.P. just stood there holding his right side, wobbling.
An ambulance arrived, and the paramedics strapped him onto a backboard and loaded him in. Then J.P. finally spoke: “Shit, am I going to die?”
“You’re gonna be fine.” The look on the paramedic’s face disagreed.
During the ride to St. John’s, he hoped that Jake would show up soon. Jake always seemed to know what to do.
* * *
“What do we do now?” Jake asked. Noelle and the clerk had only made small talk. The clerk didn’t know anything about a man named Hawlding.
Of course the guy wanted to chat, look at you! Jake thought.
“I bet he offered to teach you how to fish, right?” he said.
“What? Who says I don’t know how to fish?” Noelle was smiling. Aside from a few disastrous experiments, she had no experience with a fly rod. She could only boast that she had hooked a friend’s ear, several trees, and her own thumb.
“Never mind,” Jake said. “Where to next? Should we just keep going, shop to shop?”
“Hoback River Tavern is just down the road,” Noelle replied, “and I don’t think I have ever met a fisherman or river rat that didn’t like cold beer.” She was right about that. The bar was an out-of-the-way hole-in-the wall; neither Jake nor Noelle had been inside the place in a few years.
They got back into Jake’s vehicle and pulled out of the dusty parking lot toward the bar. As they did so, an ambulance whizzed by them, headed north on its way to the hospital.
“Must be another accident,” Noelle said nonchalantly. Route 89, where it meandered through the Snake River Canyon, was twisty and congested with migrating wildlife. Add in the shady and sometimes icy surfaces, and the road was a recipe for disaster. Jackson didn’t have many suburbs to speak of; those residents looking for tranquillity or cheaper rent were limited to living on the west side of Teton Pass, a treacherous road in its own right, or down south by Route 89. The roads were scenic, but both induced anxiety on a stormy day even for the most weathered locals.
Stormy was exactly what it looked like the afternoon was going to become, and quickly. Dark palisades of thunderheads rolled ominously toward Jake and Noelle from the south, filling up the canyon. The air was cooler and more fragrant now as well—a sure sign of an approaching storm. When they pulled into the tavern’s parking lot the rain was beginning to fall in large, bulbous drops. The parking lot was so dusty and the drops so huge that each individual dollop tossed up its own dust cloud into the air.
“Well, we could use the rain,” Jake said aloud as he looked up at the darkening sky, eyes half-closed in case one of the giant drops unluckily landed on him.
“Isn’t that always the case?” Noelle responded. “Same deal as before? You want the hot chick to do the talking?” Noelle smiled.
“Pretty much.” Jake’s eyes bugged at the flirty tone, but he kept his cool. “Let’s just have a seat at the bar and see where it leads.”
Jake held the door for Noelle as she entered the cavelike taproom. It wasn’t an intentionally polite gesture, but one that she appreciated nonetheless. She acted as if she wasn’t expecting him to hold the door and then slipped through, mouthing the words “thank you.” Her lips were only a few inches from his face.
Jake felt silly—was he using this opportunity to spend a bit more time with Noelle? He fruitlessly tried to steer his mind from Noelle and his feelings for her. He’d spent too much time in the past pondering questions of romance and women. Unfortunately, he never came up with much.
Elspet had presented him with an unsolvable problem, and it had left him confused and insecure about romantic relations. She was a strong woman who needed independence but still demanded a man stronger than herself. She had high expectations, but also yearned for someone free-spirited and adventurous. She was incredibly sweet but, when crossed, horrifyingly lethal.
After much post-Elspet pondering, Jake’s conclusion was that whatever he felt for her or she felt for him, it wasn’t love. Love was a word that described the mutual feeling of respect and reliance between two people. It wasn’t the attraction or lust that one felt early in a relationship. That was something else, something dangerous. It was also the close brethren of jealousy, hateful passion, and insanity. There was a reason they called it “sparks.” It almost always led to a wildfire.
Now, as he and Noelle sat on the knobby pine bar stools, something occurred to Jake that seemed like a final piece of the puzzle dropping easily into an otherwise complete picture. The problem in part was his own expectations—he couldn’t expect any woman to be his savior and that was exactly what he had needed during those last few years on the East Coast. Now, as he settled into the seat, he understood that he finally wanted someone to love. Someone to care for and enjoy. He didn’t expect perfection, but could something very close to it be sitting right next to him?
“Jake?” Noelle asked, at first with a worried face and then laughing as Jake came back to reality with the same tiny daydream shudder that affects a person as he is falling asleep.
“Ah, I’m sorry—was just trying to think about the forest, but I got stuck in the trees,” Jake said coolly, glancing to see if a bartender was near.
“Easy, Wordsworth. If there’s a big picture here, we’ll find it,” Noelle responded, misunderstanding his sentiment. Jake gave her a meaningful look.
A large, tattooed bartender ambled over, and Jake motioned for Noelle to order first. She got a bottled beer, some microbrew that Jake wasn’t familiar with. Jake ordered tonic water with lime.
“Can’t have just one?” Noelle said.
“It’s not that—just the driver.” He patted the pocket of his jeans where he kept the keys. This was only partially true. He wanted to stay sharp, not just because he was keen to do some serious problem solving regarding th
e recent deaths, but also because he wanted to listen to Noelle and learn about her. A couple of beers and he might just talk about himself. This was something he wanted to avoid.
When the bartender returned with their drinks, Noelle asked him if he had been working the prior weekend.
“Sure was,” he responded. “I work every night this time of year.” He began drying a few old, pitted pint glasses in front of them with a stained cloth.
Jake looked around the bar. It featured a handwritten sign advertising a “roll-a-day” dice game among the traditional beer mirrors and posters.
It wasn’t at all uncommon around Jackson. He knew that when closing time was approaching, the bar probably turned into a dice casino. People mostly played with small bills—usually just ones or sometimes fives. There would be some hard-core players that bet twenties, but they were a small group and most folks wouldn’t play with them for fear of losing their modest paychecks. For the most part, the cops turned a blind eye.
“Do you think you would happen to remember a certain patron if we could describe him to you?” Noelle asked the bartender.
“More than likely. It’s been pretty empty around here. Only a few guys a night and I know most of them. Who’s asking?”
Noelle glanced at Jake, giving him his cue. “Right,” he said. “The guy was five ten or so, fit, blond hair. He was young.” Sounds like every guy in Jackson Hole, Jake thought.
“Well, there were mostly locals here Saturday night—people I recognized, and most of our demo is not so young,” the bartender said, keeping his eyes on Noelle as if she were the one who described the man.
“Friday night there was a couple here early—around eight p.m.—and the guy was not fit. Later on, three dudes came in and hit it pretty hard. I guess they were young and fit, not that I really noticed.” He laughed, keeping his eyes on Noelle.
Machismo bullshit, Jake thought. Judging by this guy’s muscles and the way he keeps his hair, he pays plenty of attention to what his competition looks like.
Death Canyon Page 13
