Drifted

by Jeff Carson

  “You okay?” Ryder asked, looking down at her belly.

  She was shell-shocked for a few seconds, her senses drifting inward to the baby. Everything felt normal. “Yeah.”

  “This is Poncha. Go ahead.” The voice on the radio was barely audible over the rain pinging on the roof.

  “We have a confirmed sighting at the Imnaha Campground on County 832. According to a camper, Hood was here twenty minutes ago using a water pump.” She pulled up, stopped perpendicular to County 832, and looked south. “Look at that,” she said.

  The road to the right disappeared into a wall of rain.

  “Did the camper see which way he went?”

  “The camper pointed south on County 832. I repeat, Hood was last seen twenty minutes ago heading south on County 832 at Imnaha campground.”

  “Copy. We’re over on 994. We’ll have to loop in from the south. Maybe we’ll run straight into him. Nice work.”

  She turned onto 832 and faced the oncoming deluge. “I’d say odds are good he’s no longer on the road and taking shelter somewhere.”

  “Agreed!” said Poncha over static. “Which means keep your eyes peeled on the sides of the road. Head our way, and we’ll head yours. Let’s not get in a head-on collision, shall we?”

  “Sounds like a good idea to me. We’ll keep a close eye out for you.” She thumbed the radio button again. “Deputy Yates, do you copy?”

  There was no answer.

  The rain hit at what sounded like a thousand bullets per second.

  The wipers, even on the highest setting, did nothing.

  “What are you thinking?” Ryder asked.

  She looked at the man. His skin was pale and wet. He looked like he was sick with fever and covered in sweat. She remembered when she’d first been thrust into action, and felt for him.

  She smiled. “I think I’m glad I’m not on an ATV or a motorcycle right now.”

  Chapter 28

  Thunder crashed, making the 450-cc engine between Wolf’s legs sound like a rattling tin can by comparison.

  The trees either side of the trail blocked his view of the approaching storm, but God’s electric fingers slammed into the ground unremittingly and the pines lit up like lightning rods.

  The last mile of the trail had dropped in elevation—a major check in the plus column. But they’d been headed straight into the storm the whole time. He thought about Yates and his antenna, and felt for the man.

  Wolf rounded another corner, and again saw no sign of Alexander ahead of him. He vowed that at the first sign of rain he’d stop and let the others catch up. Two Coleman instant-pop-up tents were strapped to the back of Rachette’s ATV, and they were going to need them.

  The trail ahead looked relatively straight for a stretch, so he twisted the throttle, ignoring the trees as they whipped past at body-crushing speed.

  The further he rode, the more comfortable he felt. In high school, he’d lived on his dirt bike for an entire summer, riding the trails above the ranch and up and down the valley. And the adrenaline felt good. For once, the past and future were pinched out of existence. All that mattered was the wind whipping over his helmet, his vibrating arms, and his flexing shoulders.

  And the trail.

  He jammed the brakes and pulled the clutch. The motor went quiet, leaving only the sound of rubber scraping over dirt and rock toward a precipitous dip where the trail seemed to vanish.

  He continued forward, dangerously close at this speed now, and then the front end dropped. Instinct told him to skid sideways, jump off, anything but ride it out. The back end slid sideways, and he eased off the brakes.

  The bike whined as it picked up speed.

  The seat bucked up and hit him in the butt, pushing him up and over the handlebars, legs in the air. He lost hold of the clutch and the motor revved. Then by some stroke of luck or a random jolt of his wrist, the bike accelerated under him and he landed back on.

  The ground flattened, and the suspension bottomed out as his full weight pressed down.

  The bike shot out from under him, and he went back-first into the dirt.

  He hit hard, and his vision tumbled as he rolled. He body-checked a tree and his helmet connected with something hard.

  And then he was turning on the small of his back in the center of the trail. The sky and trees swirled in his face-shield, then slowed to a stop.

  He lay there for a few moments, sucking in deep breaths and taking stock.

  Lightning forked across the sky above him, followed by a crash.

  “Holy shit! Are you okay?” Footsteps came down the trail. “Sir! Detective Wolf!”

  Wolf rolled to his stomach and got onto his knees.

  “Are you okay?”

  It was Alexander, coming down the trail. He’d navigated the dip with ease, of course, and was backtracking on foot.

  “Shit, sorry. I should have stopped before it, but it came up so fast.”

  Wolf sat back on his heels and stared up. The man held his helmet at his side.

  Alexander ducked down and put his face close to Wolf’s shield. “Are you okay?”

  Wolf nodded.

  “Shit. Stop! Don’t come down here! Stop!”

  Wolf heard skidding tires and engines being killed.

  “What happened?” Rachette’s voice called down. “Wolf!”

  Wolf pulled off his helmet, savoring the cool moist air as it licked the sweat off his head. “I’m okay!”

  The taste of blood in his mouth suggested otherwise, as did the crimson that came off his tongue and onto his glove, but given that seconds earlier he’d thought he was dead, he felt like a million dollars.

  Hurried footsteps came down the trail and the other men gathered around.

  “Help me up.”

  They did.

  He stood, his legs shaking.

  Rachette got in his face. “You’re bleeding pretty good out of your mouth. You sure you’re okay?”

  Wolf nodded.

  The forest hissed as rain drops fell through the trees.

  Alexander was looking at Wolf’s motorcycle, which had tumbled a few yards down the hill. It lay on its side, pointing straight uphill. The front fender had snapped off and was stuck in tree branches.

  “Sorry about your bike.”

  “We have to take shelter,” Yates said, eyeing the sky. “It’s about to open up. That last lightning strike was right on us.”

  “Help me lift this!” Alexander skidded on his heels down to the bike.

  They stared at him.

  “Come on!”

  Wolf snapped out of the shock and stepped off the trail. Other than the damaged fender and a few scrapes, the bike looked to be in one piece.

  But the slope was too steep and Wolf couldn’t imagine riding or pushing it anywhere but straight down.

  Alexander lifted the bike, straddled the seat, and began to kick it into life.

  Two attempts and the motor roared. “Push me!”

  Wolf reached Alexander, stood to the side and pushed against Alexander’s back up the hill. Yates, Rachette, and the other two Brushing men came up and, and together they were able to get leverage, though the effort still seemed futile.

  Alexander revved and put both feet onto the pegs. “Okay, move!”

  They watched in awe as the man throttled hard and accelerated up towards the slope, angling back the way Wolf had tumbled down. Dirt spat from the wheels like water from a firehose, and they ducked away from the spray.

  With screaming engine, Alexander moved at a constant crawling speed upward, never once looking off-balance as he did so, and then popped the front end onto the trail. The man planted a foot and with a hard rev the bike flipped around almost one hundred and eighty degrees in the direction Wolf had been going.

  Alexander stared at the slope in front of him, revving the engine in short bursts like Morse code. Then he released the clutch and flew upward.

  The engine howled a single note. Tires spat. He accelerated fast up th
e slope. Then he was airborne at the top, and out of sight.

  “Ho-ly-shit,” Rachette said. “Did you see that?”

  A few seconds later Alexander appeared on foot. “Okay, ATVs have to go around and above these rocks! There’s an easy route—just go up into the trees. It’s a gradual slope. We’ll meet on the other side.”

  “Says Spider Man on a freakin’ motorcycle,” Rachette said.

  They climbed the short distance back to the trail.

  “You sure you’re all right?” Rachette squeezed Wolf’s shoulder.

  There was blast of static from Rachette’s radio. Wolf held out his hand. “Let me see that.”

  Rachette passed it over.

  Wolf thumbed the button. “Patterson, do you copy?”

  No answer.

  “Lieutenant Poncha, do you copy?”

  Still no answer.

  “I’m not getting anything either.” Yates’s voice scratched over the radio.

  Wolf gave the radio back to Rachette and hiked up with him. “Let’s go.”

  Chapter 29

  “What did you say?”

  Wolf watched Alexander’s lips move but could hear nothing over the rain pounding the synthetic fiber roof of the Coleman pop-tent.

  “I said, it’s really coming down now!”

  Wolf nodded and pulled open the tent door to look outside.

  The trees whipped back and forth. He squinted as mist flew into his face. The rain came down in sheets, swirling on the fierce wind.

  The lightning struck more intermittently now, but they were in no less danger. Twice, bolts had struck so close that the flash and crash of thunder were one. The tent had been erected in a flat clearing off the edge of the trail. Wolf wondered if standing with golf clubs over their heads would have been a better idea.

  They’d leaned the ATVs against trees to keep them upright. Four drenched mechanical horses.

  “I can’t hear shit!”

  Wolf turned back to the interior of the tent.

  There was room enough for six men to sit cross-legged and wait out the storm.

  Rachette had the radio near his face. “Patty, do you copy?” He twisted dials and shook his head. “Nothing.”

  “There’s no way we’re heading down the trail in this rain, anyway,” Alexander said. “Even if it stops, it’s gonna be crazy slick.” He glanced at Wolf, no doubt imagining him laying down his prized dirt bike a few more times and ripping off the other fender.

  Wolf sat and pulled out his phone. Still no reception.

  A light hanging from the ceiling swayed, illuminating the men with a florescent glow. They looked cold and tired. Wolf’s rain gear had held out while he’d helped erect the tent and park the vehicles, but he still felt like a wet dog.

  Rachette pulled out a can of Copenhagen and put a pinch into his bottom lip.

  Alexander double-took the silver topped hockey-puck container. “Hey, you have another one of those?”

  “Yeah, full can.” Rachette tossed it and Alexander caught it.

  “How about me?” Yates asked.

  “Whatever. Pass it around.”

  Wolf looked at his cell phone—3:10 p.m. They’d been stuck here for over an hour.

  Rachette went to the front flap and spat out into the rain. “It’s definitely letting up.”

  The pounding on top of the tent settled to a patter, and shortly after stopped completely, save for the occasional pop.

  They stepped out of the tent and into matted-down grass amid still pines.

  Sun lanced through the clouds, illuminating rising mist.

  Alexander walked over to the trail and put his foot down. His boot slid with the slightest pressure. “I hate to say it, but it’s still dangerous as hell. That was a big downpour, and it’s going to be hard staying upright.” He looked around. “Even for me.”

  “If this man says it’s hard to ride, I believe him.” Rachette spat and looked at Wolf. “Then what do we do? We’re dead in the water.”

  Wolf held out his hand for the radio and Rachette gave it to him.

  Wolf stepped over to the vehicles. A new stream with hundreds of burbling tributaries snaked down the center of the trail, pooling at the edges and running into the forest.

  He could see down the hillside but the bottom of the valley disappeared underneath a belt of white fog.

  He raised the radio to his lips and pressed the button. “Patterson, this is Wolf. Do you copy?”

  There was a scratch and faint noise.

  “Lieutenant Poncha, this is Chief Detective Wolf. Do you copy?”

  He gazed along the tops of the mountains. The higher peaks were appearing from behind the mist, gleaming in sun.

  “Anybody?” Rachette appeared next to him.

  “Nope.”

  They stood in silence, listening to the sounds of water leaching through the ground and trees.

  “How are you doing?”

  He looked at his detective and nodded. “I’m doing okay, Tom. Thanks. Just a little bruised. Could have been worse.”

  Rachette gave him a lopsided grin and glanced over his shoulder at the other men. They stood laughing and telling stories. One of the Brushing men had lit a cigarette. The smoke hung like a veil in the dense air.

  “Sir?”

  “Yeah.”

  Rachette cleared his throat. “Is it true?”

  Wolf looked at his detective. “Is what true?”

  Rachette said nothing.

  The radio scratched and a male voice came through. “—up there? Do you copy?”

  Wolf thumbed the button. “This is Detective Wolf. We copy. Who’s this?”

  “Wolf! It’s Wilson.”

  “Hey, happy to hear your voice. What’s happening?”

  “We have an official sighting, but still no Hood. Patterson talked to a man who saw him come through one of the campsites on County 832. Imnaha Camping Grounds. He was only there for a few minutes and headed south on 832 after that. We covered the entire stretch of road for twenty miles south, but there’s no sign of him. Of course, with that storm, it’s no wonder.”

  Wolf turned around. The other men had walked over to listen in.

  “What’s happening up there?” Wilson asked. “You guys okay? That was a soaker of a storm. Lots of lightning.”

  “Yeah. We’re okay, but I’m afraid we’re stuck. It’s too dangerous to descend this trail right now.”

  “Roger that. MacLean’s arrived with another six units at the rock quarry. They’re on their way to meet us. We’ll get that bird back up in the air soon. It’s grounded in Brushing until this clears up.”

  “Where’s Patterson?” he asked.

  “Hey,” she said. “Right here with Wilson.”

  “How you holding up?”

  “I’m fine. Thanks.”

  Wilson’s voice came back on. “Radio contact’s intermittent through these valleys.”

  “Roger that,” Wolf said. “Don’t worry about us. We’ll get down as soon as we can. You go find Zack Hood.”

  “Roger that. Keep your radio on.”

  They said their goodbyes and Wolf handed the radio back to Rachette.

  Yates and the other men went back to the tent, leaving Wolf and Rachette by the ATVs.

  A patch of blue sky grew in the south. Wolf noticed Rachette still looking at him. “What?”

  “You don’t have to answer.”

  “Answer what?” Wolf exhaled long and eyed the others loitering by the tent. “Oh, yeah. Is it true that I cracked up on top of that mountain yesterday? That I had a panic attack?”

  Rachette’s face was stone.

  “Yeah. It’s true.”

  Rachette shrugged. “I wouldn’t worry about it too much.”

  Wolf nodded. “Yeah. Thanks.”

  “I mean, you’ve been through a lot. Shit, you had your pinkie blown off. That’s a major, painful, life-changing, gut-wrenching, I don’t know, badass thing to happen to somebody.” Rachette eyed his own left
hand and stretched his fingers. The stump where his pinkie had been severed two years ago wriggled.

  Wolf looked at him.

  “But, seriously. You’ve been through a lot lately. With what happened with Lauren … and Ella? I … don’t know how that must feel inside, you know, ditching out on that little girl. Or, you know, feeling like you ditched out on her. But it’s gotta be pretty bad.”

  “You have a way of speaking bluntly about the most awkward of subjects.”

  Rachette patted his shoulder and walked away.

  Wolf reached for him and snatched his arm with an iron grip.

  Rachette froze.

  “Thanks.”

  “Yeah.” Rachette pulled free and slapped Wolf’s back again. “And, damn, your birthday next week? Forty-six?”

  “Forty-seven.”

  “That’s gotta be eating at you, too. Cause you’re really old.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.” Rachette walked away.

  Chapter 30

  “All right. I’ll lead the way.” Wilson stood outside Patterson’s window and slapped the roof.

  “Listen.” She looked up at the mountains rising on either side of the road. The sunlight reflecting off the dripping forest. “I’d rather stick here with Ryder, if that’s okay with you. We have radio contact with Wolf and the other team. What if Hood came down only for a few minutes, then climbed back up into the trails? What if they run into him, and we’re none the wiser?”

  Wilson nodded. “It’s probably a good idea. Radio’s shit in these tight valleys.” He looked up and down the road. “Okay. Fine. You two stay here. I’ll head back and rendezvous with MacLean and Poncha, and we’ll be back within the hour with reinforcements. Then I say we backtrack. Hood would have been hiding out during that storm. No way he rode through that in his clothing. He’s still close.”

  She nodded. “Agreed.”

  A pickup truck towing a camper rounded the corner and slowed to pass them.

  “Here’s the guy who saw Hood earlier,” she said.

  Wilson turned. The trailer bounced heavily on the wet road, kicking up mud as it passed.

  The man waved on the way by.