His vacation started on May 13. When he’d last driven to Dillon, autumn had made the Rio Grande calm, but now the spring snowmelt widened and deepened it, cresting it into a rage. Green trees and shrubs bordered the foaming water as white-water rafters shot through roiling channels and jounced over hidden rocks. As he drove past the entrance to the Parsons farm, he worried that one of the brothers might drive out and notice him, but then he reminded himself that they didn’t know this car. He stared to his left at the rich black land, the white buildings in the distance, and the glinting metal roof of the house. At the far edge of the farm, the river raged high enough that it almost snagged the raised footbridge.
He put a couple of miles between him and the farm before he stopped. On his left, a rest area underneath cottonwoods looked to be the perfect place. A few other cars were there, all of them empty. White-water rafters, he assumed. At the end of the day, someone would drive them back to get their vehicles. In all the coming and going, his car would be just one of many that were parked there. To guard against someone’s wondering why the car was there all night and worrying that he had drowned, he left a note on his dashboard that read, “Hiking and camping along the river. Back in a couple of days.”
He opened the rear hatch, put on the heavy backpack, secured its straps, locked the car, and walked down a rocky slope, disappearing among bushes. He had spent several evenings at home, practicing with the fully loaded knapsack, but his brick floors hadn’t prepared him for the uneven terrain that he now labored over—rocks, holes, and fallen branches, each jarring step seeming to add weight to his backpack. More, he had practiced in the cool of evening, but now, in the heat of the day, with the temperature predicted to reach a high of eighty, he sweated profusely, his wet clothes clinging to him.
His pack weighed sixty pounds. Without it, he was sure he could have reached the river in ten minutes. Under the circumstances, he took twenty. Not bad, he thought, hearing the roar of the current. Emerging from the scrub brush, he was startled by how fast and high the water was, how humblingly powerful. It was so swift that it created a breeze, for which he was grateful as he set down his backpack and flexed his stiff shoulders. He drank from his canteen. The water had been cool when he had left the house but was now tepid, with a vague metallic taste.
Get to work, he told himself.
Without the backpack, the return walk to the car was swift. In a hurry, he unlocked the Explorer, removed another sack, relocked the car, and carried his second burden down the slope into the bushes, reaching the river five minutes sooner than he had earlier. The sack contained a small rubber raft, which after he used a pressurized cannister to inflate it had plenty of room for himself and his backpack. Making sure that the latter was securely attached, he studied the heaving water, took a deep breath, exhaled, and pushed it into the river.
Icy water splashed across him. If not for his daily workouts on exercise machines, he never would have had the strength to paddle so hard and fast, constantly switching sides, keeping the raft from spinning. But the river carried him downstream faster than he had anticipated. He was in the middle, but no matter how hard he fought, he didn’t seem to be getting closer to the other side. He didn’t know what scared him worse, being overturned or not reaching the opposite bank before the current carried him to the farm. Jesus, if they see me … He worked his arms to their maximum. Squinting to see through spray, he saw that the river curved to the left. The current on the far side wasn’t as strong. Paddling in a frenzy, he felt the raft shoot close to the bank. Ten feet. Five. He braced himself. The moment the raft jolted against the shore, he scrambled over the front rim, landed on the muddy bank, almost fell into the water, righted himself, and dragged the raft onto the shore.
His backpack sat in water in the raft. Hurriedly, he freed the straps that secured it, then dragged it onto dry land. Water trickled out the bottom. He could only hope that the waterproof bags into which he had sealed his food, clothes, and equipment had done their job. Had anyone seen him? He scanned the ridge behind him and the shore across from him—they seemed deserted. He overturned the raft, dumped the water out of it, tugged the raft behind bushes, and concealed it. He set several large rocks in it to keep it from blowing away, then returned to the shore and satisfied himself that the raft couldn’t be seen. But he couldn’t linger. He hoisted his pack onto his shoulders, ignored the strain on his muscles, and started inland.
Three hours later, after following a trail that led along the back of the ridge that bordered the river, he finished the long, slow, difficult hike to the top. The scrub brush was sparse, the rocks unsteady under his waffle-soled boots. Fifteen yards from the summit, he lowered his backpack and flexed his arms and shoulders to ease their cramps. Sweat dripped from his face. He drank from his canteen, the water even more tepid, then sank to the rocks and crept upward. Cautiously, he peered over the top. Below were the white barn and outbuildings. Sunlight gleamed off the white house’s pitched metal roof. Portions of the land were green from early crops, one of which Romero recognized even from a distance: lettuce. No one was in view. He found a hollow, eased into it, and dragged his backpack after him. Two rocks on the rim concealed the silhouette of his head when he peered down between them. River, field, farmhouse, barn, more fields. A perfect vantage point.
Still, no one was in view. Some of them are probably in Santa Fe, he thought. As long as nothing’s happening, this is a good time to get settled. He removed his night-vision telescope, his camera, and his zoom lens from the backpack. The waterproof bags had worked—the equipment was dry. So were his food and his sleeping bag. The only items that had gotten wet were a spare shirt and pair of jeans that, ironically, he had brought with him in case he needed a dry change of clothes. He spread them out in the sun, took another look at the farm—no activity—and ravenously reached for his food. Cheddar cheese, wheat crackers, sliced carrots, and a dessert of dehydrated apricots made his mouth water as he chewed them.
Five o’clock. One of the brothers crossed from the house to the barn. Hard to tell at a distance, but through the camera’s zoom lens, Romero thought he recognized Mark.
Six-thirty. Small down there, the pickup truck arrived. It got bigger as Romero adjusted the zoom lens and recognized John getting out. Mark came out of the barn. Matthew came out of the house. John look displeased about something. Mark said something. Matthew stayed silent. They entered the house.
Romero’s heart beat faster with the satisfaction that he was watching his quarry and they didn’t know it. But his exhilaration faded as dusk thickened, lights came on in the house, and nothing else happened. Without the sun, the air cooled rapidly. As frost came out of his mouth, he put on gloves and a jacket.
Maybe I’m wasting my time, he thought.
Like hell. It’s not the fifteenth yet.
The temperature continued dropping. His legs cold despite the jeans he wore, he squirmed into the welcome warmth of his sleeping bag and chewed more cheese and crackers as he switched from the zoom lens to the night-vision telescope. The scope brightened the darkness, turning everything green. The lights in the windows were radiant. One of the brothers left the house, but the scope’s definition was a little grainy, and Romero couldn’t tell who it was. The person went into the barn and returned to the house ten minutes later.
One by one, the lights went off. The house was soon in darkness.
Looks like the show’s over for a while, Romero thought. It gave him an opportunity to get out of his sleeping bag, work his way down the slope, and relieve himself behind a bush. When he returned, the house seemed as quiet as when he had gone away.
Again, he reminded himself, today’s not important. Tomorrow might not be, either. But the next day’s the fifteenth.
He checked that his handgun and his cellular phone were within easy reach (all the comforts of home), settled deeper into the sleeping bag, and refocused the night-vision scope on the farm below. Nothing.
The cold made his eyes feel h
eavy.
A door slammed.
Jerking his head up, Romero blinked to adjust his eyes to the bright morning light. He squirmed from his sleeping bag and used the camera’s zoom lens to peer down at the farm. John, Mark, and Matthew had come out of the house. They marched toward the nearest field, the one that had lettuce in it. The green shoots glistened from the reflection of sunlight off melted frost. John looked as displeased as on the previous evening, speaking irritably to his brothers. Mark said something in return. Matthew said nothing.
Romero frowned. This was one too many times that he hadn’t seen Luke. What had happened to him? Adjusting the zoom lens, he watched the group go into the barn. Another question nagged at him. The police report had said that the brothers worked for their father, that this was their father’s land. But when Romero had come to the farm the previous fall, he hadn’t seen the father.
Or yesterday.
Or this morning.
Where the hell was he? Was the father somehow responsible for the shoes and …
Were the father and Luke not on the farm because they were somewhere else, doing …
The more questions he had, the more his mind spun.
He tensed, seeing a glint of something reflect off melted frost on grass beside the barn door. Frowning harder, he saw the glint dart back and forth, as if alive. Oh, my Jesus, he thought, suddenly realizing what it was, pulling his camera away from the rim. He was on the western ridge, staring east. The sun above the opposite ridge had reflected off his zoom lens. If the light had reflected while the brothers were outside …
The cold air felt even colder. Leaving the camera and its zoom lens well below the rim, he warily eased his head up and studied the barn. Five minutes later, the three brothers emerged and began to do chores. Watching, Romero opened a plastic bag of Cheerios, Wheat Chex, raisins, and nuts that he’d mixed together, munching the trail mix, washing it down with water. From the drop in temperature the previous night, the water in his canteen was again cold. But the canteen was almost empty. He had brought two others, and they would last him for a while. Eventually, though, he was going to have to return to the river and use a filtration pump to refill the canteens. Iodine tablets would kill the bacteria.
By mid-afternoon, the brothers were all in one field, Matthew on a tractor, tilling the soil, while John and Mark picked up large rocks that the winter had forced to the surface, carrying them to the back of the pickup truck.
I’m wasting my time, he thought. They’re just farmers, for God sake.
Then why did John try to get me fired?
He clenched his teeth. With the sun behind his back, it was safe to use the camera’s zoom lens. He scanned the farm, staring furiously at the brothers. The evening was a replay of the previous one. By ten, the house was in darkness.
Just one more day, Romero thought. Tomorrow’s the fifteenth. Tomorrow’s what I came for.
Pain jolted him into consciousness. A walloping burst of agony made his mind spin. A third cracking impact sent a flash of red behind his eyes. Stunned, he fought to overcome the shock of the attack and thrashed to get out of his sleeping bag. A blow across his shoulders knocked him sideways. Silhouetted against the starry sky, three figures surrounded him, their heavy breath frosty as they raised their clubs to strike him again. He grabbed his pistol and tried to free it from the sleeping bag, but a blow knocked it out of his numbed hand an instant before a club across his forehead made his ears ring and his eyes roll up.
He awoke slowly, his senses in chaos. Throbbing in his head. Blood on his face. The smell of it. Coppery. The nostril-irritating smell of stale straw under his left cheek. Shadows. Sunlight through cracks in a wall. The barn. Spinning. His stomach heaved.
The sour smell of vomit.
“Matthew, bring John,” Mark said.
Rumbling footsteps ran out of the barn.
Romero passed out.
The next time he awoke, he was slumped in a corner, his back against a wall, his knees up, his head sagging, blood dripping onto his chest.
“We found your car,” John said. “I see you changed models.”
The echoing voice seemed to come from a distance, but when Romero looked blearily up, John was directly before him.
John read the note Romero had left on the dashboard. “ ‘Hiking and camping along the river. Back in a couple of days.’ ”
Romero noticed that his pistol was tucked under John’s belt.
“What are we going to do?” Mark asked. “The police will come looking for him.”
“So what?” John said. “We’re in the right. We caught a man with a pistol who trespassed on our property at night. We defended ourselves and subdued him.” John crumbled the note. “But the police won’t come looking for him. They don’t know he’s here.”
“You can’t be sure,” Mark said.
Matthew stood silently by the closed barn door.
“Of course, I can be sure,” John said. “If this was a police operation, he wouldn’t have needed this note. He wouldn’t have been worried that someone would wonder about the abandoned car. In fact, he wouldn’t have needed his car at all. The police would have driven him to the drop-off point. He’s on his own.”
Matthew fidgeted, continuing to watch.
“Isn’t that right, Officer Romero?” John asked.
Fighting to control the spinning in his mind, Romero managed to get his voice to work. “How did you know I was up there?”
No one answered.
“It was the reflection from the camera lens, right?” Romero sounded as if his throat had been stuffed with gravel.
“Like the Holy Spirit on Pentecost,” John said.
Romero’s tongue was so thick he could barely speak. “I need water.”
“I don’t like this,” Mark said. “Let him go.”
John turned toward Matthew. “You heard him. He needs water.”
Matthew hesitated, then opened the barn door and ran toward the house.
John returned his attention to Romero. “Why wouldn’t you stop? Why did you have to be so persistent?”
“Where’s Luke?”
“See, that’s what I mean. You’re so damnably persistent.”
“We don’t need to take this any further,” Mark warned. “Put him in his car. Let him go. No harm’s been done.”
“Hasn’t there?”
“You just said we were in the right to attack a stranger with a gun. After it was too late, we found out who he is. A judge would throw out an assault charge.”
“He’d come back.”
“Not necessarily.”
“I guarantee it. Wouldn’t you, Officer Romero? You’d come back.”
Romero wiped blood from his face and didn’t respond.
“Of course, you would,” John said. “It’s in your nature. And one day you’d see something you shouldn’t. It may be you already have.”
“Don’t say anything more.” Mark warned.
“You want to know what this is about?” John asked Romero.
Romero wiped more blood from his face.
“I think you should get what you want,” John said.
“No,” Mark said. “This can’t go on anymore. I’m still not convinced he’s here by himself. If the police are involved … It’s too risky. It has to stop.”
Footsteps rushed toward the barn. Only Romero looked as Matthew hurried inside, carrying a jug of water.
“Give it to him,” John said.
Matthew warily approached, like someone apprehensive about a wild animal. He set the jug at Romero’s feet and darted back.
“Thank you,” Romero said.
Matthew didn’t answer.
“Why don’t you ever speak?” Romero asked.
Matthew didn’t say anything.
Romero’s skin prickled. “You can’t.”
Matthew looked away.
“Of course. Last fall when I was here, John told you to bring him the phone so he could call the state police. A
t the time, I didn’t think anything of it.” Romero waited for the swirling in his mind to stop. “I figured he was sending the weakest one of the group, so if I made trouble he and Mark could take care of it.” Romero’s lungs felt empty. He took several deep breaths. “But all the time I’ve been watching the house, you haven’t said a word.”
Matthew kept looking away.
“You’re mute. That’s why John told you to bring the phone. Because you couldn’t call the state police yourself.”
“Stop taunting my brother and drink the water,” John said.
“I’m not taunting him. I just—”
“Drink it.”
Romero fumbled for the jug, raised it to his lips, and swallowed, not caring about the sour taste from having been sick, wanting only to clear the mucus from his mouth and the gravel in his throat.
John pulled a clean handkerchief from his windbreaker pocket and threw it to him. “Pour water on it. Wipe the blood from your face. We’re not animals. There’s no need to be without dignity.”
Baffled by the courtesy, Romero did what he was told. The more they treated him like a human being, the more chance he had of getting away from here. He tried desperately to think of a way to talk himself out of this. “You’re wrong about the police not being involved.”
“Oh?” John raised his eyebrows, waiting for Romero to continue.
“This isn’t official, sure. But I do have backup. I told my sergeant what I planned to do. The deal is, if I don’t use my cell phone to call him every six hours, he’ll know something’s wrong. He and a couple of friends on the force will come here looking for me.”
“My, my. Is that a fact.”
“Yes.”
“Then why don’t you call him and tell him you’re all right?”
“Because I’m not all right. Look, I have no idea what’s going on here, and all of a sudden, believe me, it’s the last thing I want to find out. I just want to get out of here.”
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