by Jan Burke
“One person can fly this thing?”
“You’d better hope so,” Stinger said.
“Stinger—” Jack’s exasperated voice came over the headphones.
“It’s okay,” Frank said. “He’s right, it was a dumb question.”
“Naw,” Stinger said. He hit some switches and there was a “whump” and then the whine of the turbines began to build. Frank saw a little puff of smoke from the exhaust. “Don’t let that worry you,” Stinger said, working the controls. The blades of the rotors swoop-swoop-swooped, faster and faster — within twenty seconds, both the main and tail rotors were spinning at a steady speed.
Everything around them was a roar.
Travis’s voice came over the headphones. “The dogs are scared.”
“They’re always like that at first,” Frank heard Jack say. “They’ll settle down in a minute.”
“You mean my dogs have ridden in this thing before?” Frank asked.
“Oh, yeah.” Stinger laughed, managing pedals and sticks all at once.
They lifted off, and Frank was caught up for a time in simply taking in the sensation of flight, in the way that only a helicopter could provide it — close enough to the earth to observe it in detail, high enough to feel free of it.
They climbed, and then moved forward, and climbed again. He had grown up in Bakersfield, and now, below him, he saw familiar landmarks passing quickly. He stayed silent as Stinger acted as tour guide for Travis and Jack.
Frank thought of what it must be costing Jack to do this. The fuel cost alone would be outrageous — Stinger had said the helicopter used one hundred gallons an hour. All the trouble and expense his friend was going to on their behalf — how could he ever repay him? He knew Jack wouldn’t expect anything in return for his help, but still . . .
Stinger piloted with the ease of long experience, and of a man who knew his territory. Frank began to realize that another pilot might not have been able to lead them so readily to the mountain airstrip; when Stinger pointed it out as they passed over it, it seemed to Frank to be little more than a roughly mown narrow swath in a meadow.
There was patchy mist and fog below them; the mountain air currents, temperatures and shapes of the valleys affected this — in some places fog lay thick and still; in others, it was no more than softly moving mist; in still others, there was none to be seen.
They were moving closer to her, Frank told himself. He could find her on foot from the airstrip if he had to.
Maybe she would be just fine. Maybe he was asking Jack to spend a ton of money for nothing.
Irene would be furious with him if she was okay. She had accused him more than once of being overprotective. And the rangers might have already gone in and picked up the whole group — she could be on her way home . . .
“Wonder what that lawyer is up to?” Stinger asked, snapping him out of his reverie.
Frank had tried to call Newly several times before they left Stinger’s home. He had wanted to verify the GPS coordinates; the ones Frank had written down showed that the group had hiked in circles and doubled back on itself more than once. But Newly hadn’t answered the phone.
“He may be knocked out on pain medication,” Frank said.
“Hmm. Could be,” Stinger answered. “Kinda odd, though, giving you access to that GPS. Doesn’t make a lot of sense. Oh, well. We’ll be able to check out some of these places we marked on our maps, anyway — maybe we’ll get lucky.”
“Any chance the rangers have already been in to pick them up?”
“I can radio them at their heliport. Only one problem, though.”
“What’s that?”
Stinger smiled. “Well, technically, this is wilderness area we’re flying over. And the law says we shouldn’t even be here in the first place, not in an aircraft, not in a truck — you know, emergencies and special situations only. Las Piernas cops must have had to have all kinds of special permission to be using that airstrip, which is really only there in case the Forest Service needs to land firefighters up here. Your department know somebody up here? We might need somebody on our side if we get caught.”
“One of the rangers — he’s had the help of the forensic anthropologists we work with,” Frank answered, wondering if he’d just be fired, or fired and arrested. “They aren’t department employees. The forensic anthropologists, I mean.”
“Hope that ranger got along okay with Irene. Anyways, if I call the ranger station, I’m basically asking them to bust us.”
“But you seem to know the area so well,” Travis said, reminding Frank that their conversation had been overheard in the cabin. “Isn’t there some legitimate reason we could be up here?”
“We’ll think of something,” Jack said.
“What the hell,” Frank said. “We’ll either get away with this, or it’s too late to worry about it.”
Stinger laughed. “I’m beginning to see how you and old Jack got to be friends.”
They flew to the last place Newly had recorded on the GPS, then began circling from there, flying over the meadows they had marked as the most likely candidates. Most of the meadows were shrouded in fog; low and flat, the moist, cool air collected in them.
“Too bad I don’t have infrared on this thing,” Stinger said. “This fog should burn off in a while; we may just want to set down and wait.”
They found three meadows that had fairly good ground visibility, which Stinger had explained was more important to flying the helicopter safely than most other weather factors. They had already taken a quick look over the third meadow when Jack said he thought he had seen something odd near a tree.
Stinger turned the helicopter and made a lower, slower pass.
“Good eye, Jack,” Frank said suddenly. “Look at the ground. Somebody has camped here.”
“Yep,” Stinger said, hovering over the spot. “Although it’s hard to know how long ago.”
“Let’s go back to that tree,” Frank said, pointing toward the other end of the meadow. “The place where Jack thought he saw something. Some serial killers like to pick out spots they can find again — many of them revisit burials. It does sound as if Parrish brought the group to Sayre’s grave — so he had some way of finding her.”
It took only a few seconds to travel the distance to the tree.
“Look out there!” Travis said. “Someone was digging.”
“Looks like you’re right, Frank,” Jack added.
They could all see it now, the dark oval, the markers, the loosened soil.
“I’m going to set her down,” Stinger said.
“No — not here,” Frank said. “They moved on from here, remember? We need to look for that ridge — the ridge that divides this meadow from another one.”
They moved around the edges of the meadow, and saw only one place that seemed to fit the description they had — a third-hand description that had gone from the ranger to the pilot to Pete, Frank reminded himself. They flew up over the ridge, but the meadow on the other side was a pool of fog.
“Okay,” Stinger said. “Let’s go back to the ridge. I saw a place where I can set this baby down.”
At the last minute, Frank did end up closing his eyes, and was thankful that Stinger was too caught up carrying off the tricky landing to notice his momentary loss of nerve.
“Jesus, Stinger,” Jack said.
“You think I was gonna trim the trees, Chicken Little?”
“No, I thought they were going to trim us. I’m not as tired of life as you seem to be.”
The dogs might have been veteran helicopter riders, but Frank noticed that they both seemed happy to be on the ground. They stayed close to him; every few moments they would venture a few feet away, peer out uneasily into the fog, sniff the air, and come back to him. He had been discussing a plan of action with the others, and only now did he notice that Dunk’s hackles were raised and that the dog was growling softly.
“Hey!” he called to the others, and they looked over
at him from near the cargo door. He motioned them to silence.
Both dogs were standing with stiff legs and tails now, ears pitched forward, listening. Everyone was watching them except Stinger. He had hurried into the cabin of the helicopter.
When he came back out, he had a shotgun. “There’s another one in there if anyone wants one,” he whispered. “You probably have a fine enough handgun in that shoulder holster, Frank, but I’m gettin’ old, so I like something that doesn’t require such nice aim.”
Stinger looked at Travis, who shook his head, and at Jack, who smiled.
“Still a knife man?” Stinger whispered.
Jack nodded.
Stinger shook his head.
“Could just be a squirrel or something,” Frank whispered, but opened his jacket.
They heard twigs snapping, the sound of footsteps.
Dunk started barking; Deke joined him.
“Hush!” Jack said, and was obeyed instantly.
Good thing Jack gave the command, Frank thought, unsnapping his holster. The dogs were notoriously unruly around their true owners.
The footsteps came closer.
By silent consensus, the group moved to take cover, Jack putting Travis behind him. Frank called softly to the dogs, but they ignored him.
He was thinking of moving out to grab them, when he saw the vague form of a man — or a woman — he couldn’t be sure — coming closer. Stinger chambered a round. “Could be one of our own!” Frank warned.
“Who’s there?” the misty figure called out. A man. Frank didn’t know the voice. Stinger was looking at him, read that lack of recognition, and raised the shotgun.
“I don’t know all of them!” Frank said desperately. “For God’s sake, calm down.”
“Who are you?” Frank called back.
The man halted, then suddenly turned and ran away.
“Stop!” Frank called out. “Stop!”
The man kept moving — they could hear him crashing through the brush.
Frank turned to Stinger. “You and Travis, stay here!” he ordered. “Jack, come with me.”
He didn’t wait to see if he was being obeyed. He moved after the noise, once glancing back to see Jack behind him. The dogs took up the chase, and moved ahead of him, but stayed within sight.
There was a strange thudding sound, and then the man screamed — a scream of pure, unadulterated terror. Frank ran faster.
A few moments later, the man came into view. The dogs had halted, ears back, tails tucked down. The man was still screaming, and batting wildly at something, like a child whose face had been caught in a large spiderweb — batting at strange shapes dangling from a tree.
Christ! he thought, they looked like dogs — no, no, not dogs. Coyotes. They were jerking and swaying, bouncing off the man and swinging back, until the man suddenly dropped to his knees, huddling beneath them, curled up in a protective ball.
For a moment, Jack and Frank stood frozen in place, horrified by the sight of a dozen dead coyotes swaying and thudding into one another, some breaking as they collided.
It was Dunk who moved ahead, while Deke stayed back with Frank — Dunk who whined and cautiously sniffed at the huddled man.
The figure raised his head, and Frank saw the haggard face of a young man — a terror-stricken man, but one who had not just this moment become afraid. He wasn’t looking at Frank or Jack, but at the dog.
“Bingle?” he asked, as if experiencing a miracle.
Frank relaxed a little, but still approached cautiously.
“That’s Dunk,” he said easily, moving a little closer. “But I know Bingle. I’ve worked with him. I’m Frank — what’s your name?”
The man glanced up at Frank, seemed to catch sight of the coyotes, and quickly looked away, back at Dunk. He reached out and touched the dog, began to stroke his fur. Dunk leaned in for more; the young man held on to him.
“Jay. Jay Carter,” he said, his voice shaking. “J.C.”
“J.C.,” Frank said. “Is that what your friends call you?”
J.C. nodded.
Frank moved closer still and reached out a hand. “J.C., why don’t we move a little ways away from here? Give me your hand, J.C., and we’ll get away from them, okay? Come on.”
J.C. took his hand, let himself be led away from the tree, keeping his face averted as they passed it. He was watching Dunk and Deke, who were sniffing his shoes.
“They smell them,” J.C. said.
“The coyotes?” Frank asked.
J.C. shook his head, didn’t answer. His face drained of color, and he swayed on his feet. Frank put an arm around his shoulders, and with Jack’s help, led him to a fallen tree.
“Here, have some water,” Frank said, but J.C. fumbled for his own water bottle, then drank deeply.
“I’ll let Stinger and Travis know we’re okay,” Jack said. “And I’ll bring back some hot coffee and blankets.”
“Thanks,” Frank said.
Jack hesitated. “Should I take the dogs?”
“No!” J.C. said.
“Okay,” Frank said easily. “We’ll keep them here.”
It wasn’t until Jack left that Frank had the time to notice something about the man that he had missed before.
“You’re with the Forest Service . . .”
“Yes, I’m a ranger,” J.C. answered dully. He put the water bottle away, then moved from the tree to be closer to the dogs. He hugged them, buried his face in their fur. Frank wondered if the dogs would resist a stranger confining their movements, but they seemed more inclined to nuzzle and fuss over him than to try to escape him.
“And you know Bingle?” he asked.
“I knew Bingle,” J.C. said softly, and tears began rolling down his face.
Frank felt his stomach clench. “You know David Niles, then? Ben Sheridan?”
“They’re dead,” he whispered.
“What are you saying?” Frank asked, unable to keep himself from shouting it. “Who do you mean?”
“They’re all dead,” he said.
“No . . .”
“I left them here.”
“No!”
“Yes . . . I . . . left them,” he said jerkily. “I promised them . . . promised them I would be back. But I was late . . . and he . . . he killed them.”
“Irene—” Frank half-asked, half-called out.
“All of them! He killed all of them! I don’t know how — a gun — in their faces! And an explosion, I think. They’re in little pieces! They’re — they’re on my boots! I couldn’t help it, I stepped on them. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to be late!”
“You’re crazy!” Frank said, angry and wanting to slap him, wanting to make him say it was a lie, that he had made it up.
J.C. looked up at him. He said calmly, “Yes, I know.”
And then, as if earlier introductions had only now registered with him, J.C. said, “Oh, Jesus. You’re her husband. I’m so — oh, God, I’m so sorry!”
Frank took a deep breath, and somehow found his self-control. His own voice was quiet again when he asked, “J.C., when’s the last time you had any sleep?”
He was petting the dogs again. “I don’t remember.”
“It’s Friday. You hiked out with Newly on Tuesday, right?”
“Yes, I think so. I don’t know. It was a long time ago.”
“You hiked back that same day?”
“No, I slept a little that night, hiked back the next day.”
“Wednesday. What happened that day?”
“They were already unburying her.” He shut his eyes.
“Julia Sayre?”
He nodded, looked back at Frank. “I haven’t slept much since then.”
“The rest of the group hiked into the meadow on the other side of this ridge?”
“Yes.”
“You came looking for them today, J.C.?”
“The helicopters won’t work.”
“What helicopters?”
“Our
s, at the ranger station. I was already late. I promised I would come back.”
“And you kept your promise. You did the best you could. But Parrish — listen to me, J.C. This is really important. Could you actually identify bodies?”
“Merrick. Manton.” His face twisted up. “I — I saw parts of the others.”
“You must have been really upset, anyone would be.”
“Yes.”
“Did you run from there, then? It — it sounds horrible. I think anyone would run. Did you?”
He nodded, and, too tired not to be literal, said, “I walked, too. I got a little mixed up, I think. I was going back to the ranger station. I wanted to get help. Then — then I realized it was too late. And I heard a dog — I thought it was Bingle, because I hadn’t seen him — I wasn’t sure, but I hadn’t seen him, and he might have been a little bit away from everyone, with Irene, like before. And then — then I thought he was out there, and — the coyotes — and—”
“Shhh, shhh. It’s okay.”
A little bit away, with Irene. Frank held on to it.
They heard the sound of the others moving through the trees. J.C. looked up at Jack as if seeing him for the first time, and then at Travis, but when he saw Stinger, his eyes widened. “Stinger? They sent for you after all?”
“You know each other?” Frank asked.
But Stinger was down on his knees, eye-level with J.C. and wrapping a blanket around him, hugging him hard, then holding him by the shoulders, looking into his face. “My God, J.C.,” he said, “next time you play piñata with a bunch of dead coyotes, use something besides your face for a stick — you’re looking as fucked up as I am.”
J.C. laughed, then said miserably, “I was too late, Stinger.”
Stinger hugged him again and said, “Poor old J.C. — Fremont, get with the fucking program. Let’s have some of that coffee. Can’t you see this man is in need of it? And Harriman, where the hell do you think you’re going?”
“To find my wife.”
“Shit—”
Frank cut him off, telling the others, in a few short sentences, what J.C. had found. Jack and Travis registered shock, then, sharing Frank’s anxiety, were all for going down to the meadow right away.
