Champ lapped enthusiastically from a stagnant pool of water left nestled in the rocks. He snorted with approval and started down the canyon. Lani sipped from her water tube. Her water supply was low, but she expected to hit Parsons Spring soon and so avoid the need to follow the dog’s example.
The sun rose slowly in the sky—or so it seemed as the duo made good time. Lani felt a little safer as she put distance between herself and the pursuing firebugs. Then she felt guilty about her relief as she remembered that Scott and Rollo were back along the trail protecting her retreat.
Even though she had descended in altitude into warmer country, she felt the brush of a slightly cool breeze across her cheek. At the same time, the rocky ground gave way to marsh grass.
“Parson Spring, Champ. Drink your fill.”
The dog did just that, pausing to belch wetly as Lani filled her water bladder.
“Thanks, buddy,” she said as she returned the bladder to her pack. “Try aiming the other way next time.”
Now she followed an actual trail, marked by cairns, along the creek that trickled away from the spring. She could almost feel a shower at the end of the trail. Yeah, a shower, followed by a cold drink to wash down a decent meal. There had to be somebody along the trail or at the trailhead. Even if there wasn’t anybody there, there were a few isolated houses and maybe campers along the road leading to Clarkdale. She’d get help soon enough.
Lost in her thoughts as she was, Lani didn’t hear the man approaching through the brush. She just sensed Champ stiffening next to her. And then the dog growled.
Surprised, she looked up to see … Christ! Who in Hell is that?
Ahead was a ragged cripple in a torn and filthy ranger uniform, hobbling along with a branch tucked in place as a crutch.
If Yellowstone is still staffed after World War III, Lani thought, that’s who’ll be working the visitors center.
And then the man reached for his gun.
Chapter 58
Tim awoke by the bank of Sycamore Creek to a chorus of aches and pains. The worst irritation emanated from his mangled fingertip, which glowed an angry red in the early morning light. He inserted the finger into his mouth, alternately sucking and chewing it to relieve a bit of the pain.
But the throbbing resumed immediately once he removed the digit from his mouth.
“Oh fuck,” he groaned.
Stiff from pain and from a night spent on the ground, the battered ranger slowly crawled from his sleeping bag and popped his head out of the cramped, one-person tent. He took in a deep breath of air that didn’t smell like … well … badly aged Tim.
Everything else might have gone wrong, he told himself, but at least he’d packed enough gear to get through the night. He hadn’t had a car wreck and personal injuries in mind when he’d set out from Flagstaff, but he’d had no intention of emulating that idiot Jason’s lack of planning skills either. He had no doubt that his colleagues up the canyon were having a miserable time of it, if they hadn’t already been led to their doom by the idiot.
Tim Vasquez was prepared for anything.
Without thinking, he stretched and yawned. That stressed various components of his right ankle that were no longer up to the task of bearing much abuse at all. He winced and cursed again. The cursing escalated until he unleashed an inarticulate scream that echoed through the canyon.
Taking a deep breath, Tim calmed himself. Then he spoke clearly, enunciating each word distinctly.
“I. Am. A. Law. Enforcement. Officer.”
He felt better. He felt official. The uniform—what was left of it—represented the authority of the Park Service behind him. The weight of the gun on his hip embodied the power the Park Service wielded through him.
And all was right with the world.
Except that certain parts of his body still hurt really bad.
Screw this. It was time to get the day started.
Starting late as he had, and hobbling as he was, Tim hadn’t made it far along the trail after his encounter with the hiking couple at the trailhead.
“Fucking yuppies,” he muttered, remembering the pair.
He’d made his camp along Sycamore Creek, well below Parson Spring. The water flowed free and cold here, so he bathed his wounds and his clothes as best he could. The dust and sweat rinsed away, but bloodstains and rips permanently marred the fabric of his uniform.
Checking his reflection in a still pool, Tim decided that he was as presentable as possible under the circumstances. It was time to check in. He grabbed his cell phone and eyed the screen for a signal. He smiled. The signal was weak, but he was happy to be able to use the phone at all.
He dialed a pre-set number.
“Chief Ranger Van Kamp? This is Ranger Vasquez. I just want to let you know—
“What?
“No, I’m just heading up the canyon-
“Why? Because I ran into some trouble with the truck—
“No, it’s not still running. It’s totaled.
“Hello?”
Tim pulled the cell phone from his ear and stared at it for a long moment. He briefly considered calling Van Kamp again, but dropped the idea.
“Weird little elf,” he muttered. He tucked the phone back into his pocket.
With the sun rising in the sky, Tim shouldered his pack and his makeshift crutch and started—slowly—up the trail. He whistled a marching tune he’d learned on late-night TV—something from a movie about British POWs during World War II. He admired their plucky spirit and their sense of duty.
He thought again of his odd conversation with Van Kamp.
“Why’d he get so damned upset about the truck?”
But the answer to his question wouldn’t be found here.
On he hobbled. The many creek crossings stumped him at first. Wet, moss-covered stepping stones provided poor traction for his lame ankle and crutch. He feared a fall that would add to his already painful litany of injuries. In the end, he settled for wading through the shallow water at each crossing, trusting to the creek bottom to provide firmer footing then the stones.
After the first crossing, his feet were thoroughly soaked, so his hike was now serenaded by a creaky squishing sound from his hiking boots.
Heavy with water, his boots slowed him further.
Along a dry stretch of trail, he turned a bend in the cliff face. A small opening in the canyon wall looked to him like an abandoned wildcat mine. He stopped for a drink of water and surveyed the area. Scattered remnants of rusting mining equipment in the brush confirmed his guess. He wondered what had drawn the long-gone miners to this canyon. Arizona was known as a copper state, but almost anything could have drawn a wandering prospector’s attention.
Then he snickered as he thought of how his allies Bob, Rena and Samantha would react to the abandoned mine. Greenfield’s fanatics wouldn’t like this intrusion into their church, he guessed.
“Somebody shit on their altar,” he said out loud.
He snickered again—and then stopped, abruptly, as another sound caught his attention.
Somebody was coming down the trail. Whoever it was must have been quiet because they were close and they—she. There she was! A cute, if slightly grubby, blonde came into view, backpack in place and eyes on the ground before her. She was alone except for a black-and-white dog trotting ahead.
Tim flushed. His breath quickened.
He recognized that dog from the confrontation up on the rim. Mottled black and white with a prominent dark spot on top of its head, that dog was with the guy who’d spied on Jason and his team and disappeared into the canyon—very likely with incriminating evidence.
And if the dog had been on the rim, he bet the woman had been there too.
He reached for his pistol.
“You! Hey you there!”
Chapter 59
“What kind of bird is that?” Jason wondered softly into Samantha’s ear. Something warbled again, an oddly familiar sound, but one he couldn’t place in distance
or origin.
The two environmental crusaders—Jason had tentatively settled on the idea that he and his team were crusaders, though the thought brought up mental images at least as troubling as those associated with his musings about Carthage—lay nestled side by side in their chosen haven near the canyon wall. Thick brush gave them privacy, creating the illusion of a private love nest. Well, a somewhat less-than-luxurious private love nest that was already, early in the morning, growing uncomfortably warm.
“I’m not sure,” Samantha mumbled. Her eyes were closed and her head rested on Jason’s arm, bringing her lips within a scant few inches of his own. “It sounds like—”
Her eyes flew open. She lifted her head from Jason’s arm and listened carefully.
“It sounds like somebody crying.”
Jason lifted his own head.
“Huh.” He was still for a long moment. “It does sound like somebody crying. It’s probably Terry—”
“It’s not me,” came a voice from a nearby bush. “I’m not the one who’s crying.”
“Crap.” Jason reached for his shorts and scrambled into them without rising from the ground.
“You’re so modest,” Samantha giggled. She ran her fingers through her hair, dislodging twigs and other bits of vegetation. Then she shook her head, flipping her curls around her face and setting other parts of her anatomy into motion.
Jason looked on in awe. Then he shook his own head.
“I’m not that modest,” he whispered. “Terry just creeps me out a little.”
“That’s cold,” Terry answered. His head popped into view through the brush. “And it’s uncalled for.”
Samantha paused in mid-groom.
“Have you been there all night?”
Terry’s mouth hung open, and then snapped shut abruptly.
“Not all night.”
“That’s what I’m talking about, Terry,” Jason said. “That’s just not right.”
Terry’s face seemed to sag.
“I was just a little …” his voice trailed off.
Without turning her back, Samantha wriggled into her shorts. The view set off a biological response in Jason that had him happy he was already dressed. Well, half-dressed.
“Hey,” Samantha said. “I think somebody is crying.”
With the topic of conversation mercifully changed, the trio set off down the canyon. It wasn’t hard to follow the sound since it meant little more than retracing their steps of the evening before. With daylight creeping into the canyon, they easily made their way back to the clearing in which Ray had been left to spend the night.
There, they found Bob and Rena struggling to free the wounded Park Ranger, who was bound hand and foot. A scrap of filthy fabric lay crumpled by the man’s head. Bob fumbled at the restraints with just his uninjured arm and made slow progress as a result.
“What the fuck?” Jason said. “What happened here?”
“I don’t know,” Rena answered. She glanced briefly toward the team leader but wouldn’t meet his eyes. “He was like this when we found him. He started crying as soon as we got the gag out of his mouth.”
“Didn’t anybody guard him?”
Bob shrugged.
“You kind of suggested that we all leave him alone.” He glanced at Rena who kept here eyes firmly fixed on a stubborn knot. “I guess we all thought he’d be safe enough by himself.”
“Crap.”
Terry and Samantha joined the effort to free Ray while Jason looked around the clearing for clues as to the night’s events. The clearing was small and bare except for Ray’s backpack, so he soon gave up the effort and returned to his wounded comrade.
“Ray, buddy.”
The man continued weeping.
“Ray, I need to know what happened.”
The man stopped crying.
“Jason, it was fucking horrible.”
The team leader caught a flash of motion from the corner of his eye. He turned to see Rena staring straight down at the ground. What little of her face was visible was bright red. Confused, Jason turned back to Ray.
“What was horrible?”
“I was tortured.”
Rena looked up.
“Tortured?”
“Well, sort of tortured.”
“What do you mean?” Jason asked.
“The big guy sat on me until I talked.”
“Sat on you? Wait. What big guy?”
Ray met his gaze. His face looked blank, worn out.
“The people we’re chasing. Two of them. I don’t know if there are any more. Anyway, they came down during the night, found me and questioned me. Then they tied me up. It was horrible.” He grabbed Jason’s arm and pulled him closer. “I held out on the most important information. I never told them about Tim.”
Rena gently brushed Ray’s forehead.
“Oh, you poor thing.”
Ray shuddered, but said nothing.
Jason opened his mouth to speak, but thought better of it. He looked around the clearing again and spotted Ray’s backpack. By itself.
“Ray, where’s your rifle.”
“What? It should be over there.” He pointed.
“It’s not there. Shit.”
They all ducked as the first gunshot of the morning sounded—directly overhead.
Chapter 60
With a snarl, Champ raced forward before Lani had fully digested the situation. The ragged ranger yelled, and Lani opened her mouth to call off the dog—why was her big, friendly pooch attacking a ranger?—when an important fact registered in her mind: the battered, odd-looking ranger had a rather nasty-looking firearm in his hand.
“Oh. I guess Rollo was right. What are the chances of that?”
The ranger hopped in place on one foot, having dropped the branch that served as his crutch, and raised the pistol away from the holster on his hip.
The dog closed the gap, paws a blur against the ground, muscles rippling beneath his dirty fur. Dust exploded in spurts from the contact of his claws on the ground and rose in a haze that hung in the air.
Lani grabbed for her own pistol. Unpracticed, she fumbled at the holster’s thumb break, losing a precious second before the snap parted and her hand slid down over the grip, grating against checkered wood panels and reaching for the trigger.
The ranger’s gun came up toward Lani, its bore tracing a line up her torso. She felt—she imagined she felt—a fiery dot move across her flesh, as if a powerful laser beam projected from the gun’s muzzle. She braced for the impact of the expected bullet.
Like the anchor of a boat, Lani’s gun weighed down her hand as she dragged it from her holster and raised it into position. Remembering lessons taught by Scott, her fingers wrapped around the grip and depressed the safety, her left hand rose to support her right hand. In her mind was the certain knowledge that she was losing the race with the homicidal ranger.
Within feet of the stranger, Champ hunched his muscles to cross the final gap with the interloper. The ranger’s eyes flickered, recognizing the new threat. The muzzle of his gun wavered.
Lani wrestled to bring her gun into position, fighting gravity and feeling every ounce of steel in the pistol’s composition. She wasn’t moving fast enough.
Champ leaped.
The ranger fired.
The dog struck with a dull sound, like a mallet hitting meat. The ranger’s mouth opened wide in surprise. He grunted. Two bodies fell in a tangle of fur and flesh.
Champ lay still and broken like a discarded toy. His body stretched out, half on the ground, his lower half resting on the ranger’s chest. The dog’s blood puddled on the hard-packed dirt of the trail.
“Nooo!” Lani screamed.
Cursing, the ranger pushed the dead dog aside, and rose to a sitting position. His gun remained clenched in his hand.
Lani brought her pistol into position. The front sight lined up in the notch of the rear sight, against the ranger’s chest. She fired.
Once.
Twice.
The gun bucked hard after each shot, defying gravity and her strength to rise toward the sky.
The ranger sprawled backward, his gun tumbling from his hand to rest in the dirt.
Sobbing, Lani ran to the dog. She had to step over the body of the man to reach the animal, and saw his eyes, wide and staring up at the sky. He had already done all the harm he would ever do. She dropped her gun to the ground and grabbed hold of the remains of her pet.
Champ’s body lay warm and dusty as she cradled his head in her lap. She sat in place, crying and holding the dog as the sun rose higher in the sky.
Eventually—how much later, she didn’t know—she rose from the ground and slapped sensation back into her legs, which had cramped during her period of mourning. She dropped her backpack to the ground. With great effort, she dragged the dog’s body into the brush. Using only her hands, she dug a shallow grave into which she placed Champ. Dirt caked under her fingernails and blood oozed from small cuts as she pushed aside thorns and sharp stones. Finally, she piled rocks over the body to protect it as best she could from scavengers.
Rising once again, she returned to the trail where the ranger lay staring sightlessly at the sky, his mouth still open in a wide “O.” Without a word, she retrieved her pistol from the ground and returned it to the holster. Then she leaned forward over the prone figure and spat. The glob made a star pattern on the dead man’s forehead.
Permitting herself one final sob, Lani donned her pack and continued along the trail.
Chapter 61
A whiff of smoke hung in the air. The whir of the fan in the window suddenly changed in tone. The blade visibly turned slower, and then slower still.
Van Kamp sighed.
“Power’s out,” the Park Service man said. “Again.”
“That’s the least of it,” Van Kamp said. “People in Flagstaff are used to losing power during the monsoon. But riots are new. Those draw attention we don’t need.”
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