“You may not make your plane.”
“It’s my own damned fault,” he said with vehemence. “Where is this . . . Command Post, did you call it?”
“Trailhead parking lot.”
“And who will be there?”
“You mean aside from all the reporters that are probably camped out there by now?”
“The media is there? Effing hell! Just shoot me now.” He pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead.
Gracie made the effortless leap into caregiver mode and noted that beneath the pink cheeks Rob’s pallor resembled homemade flour paste. “Take it easy,” she said. “Try not to get yourself worked up. It’s possible they’re not allowed up there, in which case they’re all still back at the SO—the Sheriff’s Office—in town.”
Rob looked not at all placated.
Gracie could empathize somewhat with the man’s distress. She despised the media, the constitutional right to free speech and the public’s right to know notwithstanding. Whenever reporters appeared at a search, they were an unwanted distraction. The vans. The cameras. The lights. The incessant prying and prodding. And even when they were spoon-fed details from a search, nine times out of ten they got it wrong.
She shuddered at the thought of them focusing their microscopes on her and her life. She couldn’t begin to imagine what it was like for any kind of celebrity, and decided that in that area Rob most decidedly received her sympathy vote.
“How far are we, right now, from the . . . Command Post?” Rob asked suddenly.
Gracie mentally calculated the distance. “Four miles. Maybe five. I’d have to check the map for an exact distance.”
“Five? That’s all? I can walk five miles.” He grabbed the trekking pole. “I’m walking out.”
“Hmm,” Gracie said, watching him carefully. “I don’t think you’ll be able to with that ankle.”
“Well, I have to try, don’t I?” He pulled himself to stand on one foot, then swayed, almost falling.
“Whoa!” Gracie jumped up to catch him in case he toppled over. “You better sit down before you fall down.”
Rob obediently sat down, looking more ashen still.
“We’re going try to get you out of here as quickly as we can. I promise.” She pushed her sleeves back to check her watch: 7:08. They should have called in to the Command Post an hour ago.
She looked around for the radio, then remembered that Cashman had it, probably inside his sleeping bag to keep it dry and the batteries warm. Her eyes wandered over to where her teammate lay a few feet away, silent and unmoving, encased within his army-green bivy sack.
He looks like a big fat zucchini, Gracie thought and fought off the urge to prod him with her toe.
She stood up abruptly, hands on her hips.
“What’s going on?” Rob asked.
“We need to call in,” she answered distractedly. “Steve has the radio.” She stepped down to where the man lay. “Cashman. Wake up.”
Not a twitch from the bivy sack.
She leaned directly over him. “Cashman. Get up.”
Still no response.
“Cashman,” she yelled in a shrill voice reminiscent of her ninth-grade algebra teacher. “Eeesh.” She tried again in a normal tone. “Cashman, you have the radio and we’re late checking in with the CP. Cashman!”
With an enthusiasm too fully charged for him to have just awakened, Cashman unzipped his bivy and popped out his head. Ignoring Gracie completely, his eyes sought out the actor on the hillside above him. “’Morning, Rob.”
Rob lifted a hand and smiled. “Good morning.”
How long have you been awake?
Cashman sat up and kicked out of his sleeping bag. He produced his hiking boots from inside the bivy and pulled them on. “You survived the night,” he said to Rob, then guffawed loudly at what he obviously thought was a great joke.
“Thanks to Gracie,” came Rob’s casual reply.
When Gracie looked over at the actor, he winked at her.
Gracie felt her cheeks flame. “We need to radio the CP, Steve,” she croaked. “Rob’s stable enough. I can take my turn and hike up to radio in.”
CHAPTER
37
GRACIE collapsed full-length onto the ground next to where Cashman was crouched sipping coffee. “Nothing,” she said, panting. “No reception.”
Since they hadn’t been able to raise the CP from anywhere near where they had left the trail, she and Cashman had studied the topo map and decided to take a calculated gamble in order to save time. Instead of climbing all the way back up to the trail, Gracie would climb the shorter, presumably faster, distance up the mountain directly behind them to try to acquire a radio signal.
Before she set out, she and Rob had set a world’s record for fastest breakfast consumed mainly because throughout, Cashman stood over Rob bragging about how he never got cold and that he could hike faster and farther than anyone else on the team. Rob gulped down his instant apple-and-cinnamon oatmeal, then politely announced, “I’m knackered. I think I’ll lie down for a bit,” and withdrew into the shelter.
Equipping herself for expeditious travel, Gracie left her SAR pack behind, taking only her chest pack with the HT fastened to one strap and her GPS to the other, a minimal amount of survival gear, a full water bottle and a single trekking pole. She headed straight up from the shelter and was instantly swallowed up by beckoning wisps of cloud.
With visibility at ten feet, sometimes less, Gracie climbed the mountain blind.
She tested for radio reception at regular intervals. The telltale wonk of the radio grew more obnoxious with every failed attempt.
She scrambled up the incline, hauling herself up by a branch to gain ten feet, clawing at the earth with both hands to scramble up fifty, then a hundred, two hundred, only to find the way completely blocked by boulder piles or fallen trees materializing out of the mist. Each time she fought back her mounting frustration, sliding back down far enough to circumvent the obstacle, then clambering back up to regain the distance lost and plod on. Each breath seared her lungs. Leg muscles quivered. Hair clung like damp yarn to her forehead and neck.
She stopped and pulled out her GPS to reassure herself once again that it was tracking her route so when she descended in the cloud, she could retrace her steps and find her way back to the bivouac.
She pulled the map from her pocket and pinpointed her location, confirming what the altimeter on her watch told her—she had climbed more than twelve hundred vertical feet and now stood higher than the trail across the yawning canyon, invisible in the pearl gray sea of cloud.
She turned on the radio. Still no signal. And the battery was almost dead. She turned it off again.
She studied the op art of contour lines on the map. In the area above where she stood, the lines grew more densely packed together, indicating the mountain grew steeper and even more treacherous farther up.
As a last resort, she pulled out her cell phone and turned it on. No little bars indicated reception, but no message announced “No signal” either. She pressed 911 and waited. Nothing. She moved ten feet in every direction, each time with the same discouraging result. No signal.
“Shit! Shit!”
They had made the wrong call. She should have climbed back up to the trail again and hiked to where they knew there was reception. The fact that hindsight was always twenty-twenty provided her not one ounce of comfort.
She glanced again at her watch. It had taken her an hour to climb up from the bivouac. It would take at least half that to descend. The miscall would cost them more than ninety minutes.
Ralph would be apoplectic that she hadn’t radioed in. The brunt of his wrath would fall on her shoulders—that was a given. She wasn’t the designated team leader, but seniority and experience made it her responsibility. Making the wrong decision and not calling in on time was egregious. Even worse, relief teams might already be out looking for the other MisPers. Her miscalculation could cost someone his or h
er life.
“Sorry, Ralphie,” she said, unable to shake the feeling that she had let him down personally. “Well, absolutely nothing to be accomplished by sitting here sniveling . . . um, blubbering . . . uh, wringing your hands . . .” Since she couldn’t think of a single other synonymic phrase with which to waste a little more time, she stashed the phone and map back into her pocket and started back down the mountain.
• • •
CASHMAN LEANED BACK on an elbow and crossed one well-muscled leg over the other. “So the CP still doesn’t know where we are.”
Gracie pressed her forehead to her knees. “I should have gone up to the trail.”
“So if any relief teams are out there—”
“They’re searching blind.”
“They could search for hours before they found us. Fuckin’ if they found us.”
“Gee, thanks, Cashman,” she said. “Push the knife in a little deeper.” She stared at the ground, biting her lip. “Let’s think this through. Rob can’t hike out. Aviation can’t fly in. We go much longer without contacting the CP and the search for the MisPers will shift to a search for us, and I really don’t want that to happen. Plus, the longer relief teams are out there looking for us, the higher the risk to them.”
“I’ll hike up to the trail again,” Cashman offered. “Call in. Lead the relief team in.”
As much as Gracie loathed the idea, that was exactly what they were going to have to do.
Gracie hated breaking the rules. She was secretly proud of her reputation on the team for adhering to regulations and procedures, or, as she liked to put it, for “dotting her t’s and crossing her eyes.” But when emergencies or situational anomalies occurred, flexibility was an asset. Rules needed to be broken or at least bent a little in order to problem solve. If they had to separate again, then so be it.
Cashman pushed a little harder. “I’m the faster hiker. I can get help here quicker.”
Before Gracie could respond, he jumped up and flicked away the dregs of his coffee. He hauled his sleeping bag out of the bivy sack and began mashing it into its own little stuff sack.
“Don’t hike all the way back to the CP,” Gracie said as she watched him pull the drawstrings tight. “Just hike as far as it takes to get a signal.”
Cashman stuffed his bivy into its sausage-shaped sack.
“Cashman? Are you hearing what I’m saying?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
For some reason, Gracie didn’t believe him. “Just call in the coordinates.”
“Gotcha.”
Gracie watched Cashman pack together the rest of his gear. She hadn’t liked it last night when he had taken the radio with him. She definitely didn’t like it now.
The specter of an unknown attacker out there somewhere reemerged. Gossamer fingers of unease tickled the back of her neck. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this, Cashman,” she said.
“It’ll be fine,” Steve replied so flippantly Gracie knew he was blowing her off.
Her mind reached back to an avalanche class she had taken the winter before last where her male instructor had emphatically drilled into their brains that proportionately far more men died in avalanches than women, mainly because women tended to listen to those still, small internal voices when they whispered, “Are you out of your fucking mind?!”
Gracie pushed herself to her feet. “Maybe we’re rushing this a bit,” she said. “Let’s think this through some more. What are our other options?”
“There aren’t no other options,” Cashman said. “You’ll be okay ’til I get back.”
Ignoring the condescension, she asked, “Will you leave me your sleeping bag?”
Cashman’s face told her that was the last thing in the entire world he wanted to do.
“Never mind,” she said. “Bad idea. How about your sleeping pad at least?”
No answer.
“C’mon, Cashman. It’s only for a couple of hours. You won’t need it. We’ll be stationary. You’ll be moving.” She felt like she was asking a ten-year-old if she could ride his new shiny red Schwinn. “You’ll get it back. Cross my heart and hope to die.”
Cashman thought for a moment, then made a big show of unclipping the roll of closed-cell foam from his pack and tossing it at her feet. The sleeping bag landed next to the foam. “Rob can use this, too,” he said, the implication obvious. He clipped the top of the pack closed and threw it onto his back, cinching up all the belts. With no further word, he turned away from her and started down the hill.
“Cashman,” Gracie called.
He paused and looked over his shoulder.
“Keep an eye out for any sign of the others,” she said in a low voice. “And don’t take any chances, okay?”
He gave her a thumbs-up.
With no small amount of trepidation, Gracie watched her teammate disappear into the cloud.
CHAPTER
38
MILOCEK squatted next to the trail.
When daylight had finally crept across the valley, he found he could see nothing outside a ten-foot radius. An oppressive, suffocating white wall of cloud curled and writhed around him like a living being in agony.
But as the day progressed, the cloud had gradually lifted, allowing occasional glimpses of the granite walls cutting steeply upward behind him and, in front, falling away in a precipitous quarter mile of jagged boulders, evergreens and manzanita.
Diana was somewhere up the trail. Rob and the searchers were somewhere down below him in the canyon. Sooner or later one or all of them would appear. His patience would pay off. He was certain of it.
Milocek froze.
Dried leaves crackling. Footfalls on rocky ground. Someone was climbing up to the trail from down in canyon.
Without a sound, Milocek jumped to the ground and crouched behind the boulder. With a single eye he peered out from behind the rock and watched as the male searcher climbed up over the edge and stepped out onto the trail.
CHAPTER
39
GRACIE sat cross-legged at the shelter entrance staring out at the pea soup that was the world outside through a small gap between the orange plastic and her pack.
Behind her, Rob lay inside Cashman’s sleeping bag, which Gracie had magnanimously offered him since the thought of climbing inside her teammate’s bag gave her the willies. Rob didn’t seem to care one way or the other as long as the bag was warm. Gracie had turned off the lantern flashlight to save batteries and to make it easier for Rob to get as much sleep as possible. Although she couldn’t see clearly into the murk at the back of the shelter, she was fairly certain from the actor’s measured breathing that he was sleeping.
As Gracie waited for Cashman to return with the relief team, she blew bubbles with her gum and brooded over what might have happened with Rob and the other missing persons. There were a few things she knew definitively. There was blood—a lot of it—up on the outcropping. Fact. Rob had become separated from the others, who were still missing. Fact. He had somehow injured himself, sustaining a head injury of undetermined severity, which might or might not manifest itself in delusion. Fact. There was a lot happening up there on the trail with footprints leading in both directions at various points along the trail. Fact.
Gracie blew a large bubble, popping it quietly so as to not disturb Rob.
She had been able to identify only four distinct sets of prints. The Reeboks, the honeycomb, and the flat sole were unique enough that probably only one person had laid each of them. Hiking or work boots with a lug sole were common enough that several different people could have laid them, but possibly only one person.
She dug inside a side pocket of her parka and pulled out her little notebook. She paged back until she found where she had cursorily scribbled the track measurements. The smaller prints with the honeycomb pattern measured three and a half inches wide by ten inches long, small enough to indicate a woman had laid them—Diana or Cristina, although they were probably too small for the string bean,
Cristina. The lug-sole pattern going both ways was four and a half by thirteen inches, almost an inch and half longer than Gracie’s ladies size 9 hiking boots. That was probably too big for Cristina. Unless Cristina’s feet were the size of Hippolyta, Queen of the Amazons, those tracks had definitely been laid by a man. Rob’s boot had the smooth sole. If Tristan was wearing Reeboks, that left Carlos or Joseph wearing the lug-sole boot.
At least two people had left the outcropping and hiked back down the trail. Two people, one with the flat soles, presumably Rob’s, and one with the honeycomb pattern, very possibly Diana’s, had continued up the trail past the rock promontory. But only Rob had come back. Why? Why separate? And why would Diana or whoever it was go that way in the first place? There was nothing out there but acres and acres of wilderness area. The Aspen Springs Trail eventually split—one fork leading up to the summit of San Raphael, the other meandering for almost fifteen miles down the mountain all the way to the desert floor. No matter which way she had gone, the odds of her being found alive were pretty close to nonexistent.
But where had the rest of the group gone? Had they descended into the canyon as Rob had? Gracie was confident the churned earth she and Cashman had followed had been caused by only one person, two at the most. Certainly not by three and definitely not five.
Dead end.
She turned her attention back to the two sets of tracks returning to the trailhead.
If someone had been injured severely enough to produce as much blood as there was on the outcropping, then two people—a man and a woman—might have headed back to the trailhead to call for help. Since Gracie had noticed no blood on the trail itself, it was a safe assumption that neither person traveling down the trail had been seriously wounded. But that didn’t answer what had happened to the injured person. Or the two people hiking back.
Zero-Degree Murder (A Search and Rescue Mystery) Page 12
