It came from ahead, down in the canyon. Yes, echoes could deceive, but he was sure the sound came from ahead.
He was already sprinting when two more shots rang out, but he couldn’t maintain the pace. The breath caught in his throat and his pack swayed on his back. He settled into a trot. Air hissed in and out of his mouth as he stifled gasps.
The trail here was better delineated than it had been earlier. While not exactly much-traveled, it had seen enough use over the years to wear an ankle deep scar in the landscape.
At last, the trail began to trend downward. Despite a stitch in his side, he maintained a trot wherever the trail allowed for quick passage. Sweat poured from his skin and pasted his shirt to his body. His left hand, clasped around the lightweight stock of the .22, had passed beyond pain and grown numb.
At Sycamore Creek he paused long enough to scoop water in double-handfuls into his mouth, and then over his head.
On the far side of the creek, he had a decision to make. Here, the trail forked. The right-hand path led upwards toward the trailhead; the left-hand path doubled back where he’d come from.
Trusting to instinct, Scott turned left. If Lani is in trouble, he reasoned, she’d be farther back on the trail, held up by the missing firebug. If she’s still in trouble, a treacherous voice in his head said. He did his best to ignore the gibe.
He was still in a frenzy sometime later when he rounded a bend in the trail and nearly stumbled over a corpse.
The first impression that struck Scott—aside from shock at the discovery of a body in the middle of a hiking trail—was that the corpse looked surprised. A look of open-mouthed astonishment had survived the unlucky fellow.
Scott prodded the stiff with the barrel of the .22 rifle.
Yes, he was very dead.
The second impression that struck him was that the dead man appeared to have been illused even before his untimely death. His ranger uniform was torn and grubby, and he had several obvious injuries that seemed to pre-date his demise. Scott rifled the man’s pockets and found a Park Service law-enforcement badge to match the Sig in the dirt. It was an interesting contrast to the Forest Service uniform, but Scott mentally filed it away as just a minor item in several days of weirdness.
Carefully, eyes straying again and again to the body on the ground, Scott searched the area for clues to what happened. In short order, he discovered an odd pile of stones. Soon after, he uncovered the body of Champ.
“Oh, Lani,” he groaned. “Well, of course a cop would shoot a dog. Good for you for shooting back.”
He quickly restored Champ’s makeshift grave, and then sprinted back up the trail the way he’d come.
Chapter 67
“Thank you so much,” Lani gushed. “I can’t tell you what a relief it was to run into somebody at the trailhead. After what we’ve been through … It’s just … are you sure it’s OK with you that I use your computer?” She knew she was babbling, but she couldn’t help herself. The words streamed out in a torrent, uncorked by her relief at meeting people who didn’t want to shoot at her.
“Not a problem,” Bill McGinty answered from the driver’s seat of his dusty pickup truck. “That might be a small screen on that phone of yours, but I know what I saw. We’re happy to be of help. Are you sure you don’t want to go to the hospital or the police before you do anything else?”
In the rear left jump seat, Lani vigorously shook her head.
“No. That man back there was a ranger and one of my friends is convinced the Forest Service is behind this. If he’s right, the cops may not be of any help.”
“You know that’s true, Bill,” Emma chimed in. “Those uniformed types can be a tight bunch.” She turned in the shotgun seat and shot the younger woman a wink. “We’ve had our own run-ins with the law.”
“Oh?”
Bill chuckled.
“To hear some folks tell it. We’re regular public enemies.”
The McGintys laughed uproariously.
Bounced from side to side in the jump seat, Lani mentally filed the mysterious private joke for later attention, once she’d fully processed the events of the past few days. She had enough to worry about now without prying into the private lives of her rescuers.
“We’ll have to call the police at some point,” Emma continued. “But let’s get done what you need to get done first.”
As the truck rumbled down the long dirt road leading away from Sycamore Canyon, Lani caught sight of a wrecked Park Service truck by the side of the road. She wondered if it had any connection to the ranger she’d met on the trail, then promptly forgot the matter.
Chapter 68
Scott took the last 100 yards of the trail at a pace much slower than the sprint he intended. The trail climbed steeply uphill here and was terraced in places with rough steps to ease the passage of hikers. The steps were a thoughtful addition for most users of the trail, but they were nothing more than a series of hurdles for a man dragging his feet with fatigue.
And Scott was tired. At the best of times, he slept poorly during his first night on a backpacking trip. The ground was too lumpy, the moon too bright, the sounds of night different than the muffled street noises and muffled groans of refrigerator and heating system that he heard at home. By the second night he was acclimated to the outdoors and slept like a baby.
But that was during normal trips when nobody was trying to kill him. The worries involved in waging a running gun battle with psychopathic arsonists far surpassed the pedestrian concerns about water, food and wildlife that occupied him on his usual jaunts into the desert. He was wiped out; the only thing keeping him going now was his concern for Lani’s safety.
He knew he took Lani for granted. Maybe he should think about … what? Marrying Lani? Well, maybe not marry her. They could just shack up together. That would be nice, so long as she didn’t hog the bedcovers or give him a hard time about his friends, or his drinking, or the building codes that he wasn’t obeying. Not that she was prone to nagging him—her antipathy to any such behavior was a key component to their successful relationship—but his years of hard-won experience cautioned that odd personality changes tended to accompany major shifts in the delicate balance between men and women.
“Maybe I’ll just buy her flowers,” he grunted.
A bead of sweat dangled from the tip of his nose. It broke away and splashed down on his pumping right knee.
His breath took on a wheezing quality as the trailhead sign crawled slowly into view.
Yeah, flowers. I’ll buy Lani flowers and take her out to a nice dinner. And I’ll seriously consider the whole shacking-up idea. But not marriage—not yet. I’ll hold that off for later.
With his mind racing, Scott dragged himself the last few yards and reached the head of the trail.
“You there.”
“Wha—?”
Two men stood by the trailhead. One was tall, older and dressed in a threadbare sport coat and jeans. A biblical white beard sprouted from his chin. The index finger of his right hand jabbed accusingly at Scott.
“You’re not one of my people! And you’re not a ranger!” the man said. His voice thundered like he was on stage.
Inhaling sharply, Scott caught his breath.
“Your people? Who in Hell are your—” He stopped. He stared at the man.
The bearded man stared back.
“Oh shit,” Scott said.
Chapter 69
Greenfield stared at the stranger in surprise. It wasn’t the man’s dusty, sweaty appearance that caught his eye—that was standard-issue for anybody enjoying a little time on the trail. Nor was it the somewhat tattered state of his clothing—neither Greenfield nor his companion were fashion plates themselves. No, what grabbed the floral-rights activist’s attention was the stranger’s look of grim determination.
Well, that and the strange-looking rifle in his hand.
“You’re not one of my people!” Greenfield sputtered out of surprise. “And you’re not a ranger!”
&nbs
p; The man said something back, but the pounding of Greenfield’s pulse drowned out everything except one muttered oath.
“Oh shit,” Greenfield echoed.
He reached for the gun tucked behind his belt. His hand had just closed around the grip when he realized that he wasn’t going to be fast enough. The barrel of the stranger’s rifle was already rising.
“Oh shit,” Greenfield blurted again. With a sudden surge he charged forward, directly into the stranger. He hit the man before he had a chance to bring the rifle into play. Together, they rolled into the dust, hats and guns scattering where inertia would take them.
Greenfield felt his jaw painfully clamp shut as he hit the ground. He grunted. For long minutes they writhed in the dirt. The stranger was obviously stronger, but desperation allowed the environmental guru to cling tight in a bear hug that pinned one of the man’s arms to his side. The free hand pounded like a mallet on Greenfield’s head and back, tenderizing flesh wherever it landed.
The men’s legs scissored, sending them rolling now into a bush, then over a cactus (ouch). Spines and rocks and branches ripped at skin and tore clothing. A close-up view of the Earth exchanged itself for a cloud-speckled stretch of sky split by a hammer-like fist thundering down on— Oh. Greenfield saw stars.
“Do something!” he yelped.
“What do I do?” Happy whined.
“Jump him!”
He felt the stranger’s hand closing on his collar and pulling his head off the dirt. He stared up into a cocked fist.
“Jump him now!” His hands batted at the fist without and discernible effect.
“I can’t!” Happy’s voice climbed frantically in reply.
“Why not?”
“I’m a pacifist!”
“Oh,” was all Greenfield had time to say before the fist crashed down. He felt his nose give way and gagged at the sharp pain.
“Good,” the stranger said, letting go of Greenfield. His head thumped painfully back to earth. “Then you won’t give me any trouble when I pound you.”
With his left hand clasped to the pulpy remnants of his proboscis, Greenfield staggered back to his feet. He’d felt his pistol tumble away during the fight, and his pain, watering eyes and simmering panic rendered a search unthinkable.
“Fuck this, he said. Then he turned and bolted toward the edge of the parking lot and the desert beyond.
From the corner of his eye, he just barely caught a glimpse of Happy’s open-mouthed stare. The boy was doubled over, with the stranger’s fist stuffed deeply into his belly.
Chapter 70
The McGintys’ home was larger than Lani had expected, with an obviously recent addition tacked on to what had once been a modest house on several acres of land. Three vehicles of recent vintage were parked in the gravel driveway. Antennae poked from the roof, aimed alternately at the sky and at nearby Mingus Mountain.
A goat grazed contentedly on a grassy island in the driveway.
“Watch your step, young lady,” Bill said, as he helped Lani down from the truck. “We don’t want you getting injured now, after what you’ve already been through.”
“Thank you so much.”
“Think nothing of it.”
“Bill, why don’t you show her where the bathroom and the computer are,” Emma said. “I’ll get her something cold to drink.”
Bill nodded.
“Lemonade. From hand-squeezed lemons.”
“Oh wow. My favorite.”
Lani followed the McGintys through the unlocked front door. Carrying her backpack, Bill turned to the right and she followed. As she did so she caught a brief glimpse of what looked like a large bedroom from the corner of her eye. A reflective silvery screen of the kind she vaguely associated with photography dominated one corner. It seemed an odd decor choice among the Mexican pine furniture.
“Here you go,” Bill called from down the hallway. He held a folded towel in one huge hand and waved at a doorway with the other. He’d placed her pack on the floor. “Help yourself to the guest bathroom. I’ll get the computer booted up.”
Lani took the hint. With a sigh of relief, she helped herself to a large portion of the McGintys’ hot water supply and a matching share of soap and shampoo. The shower was refreshing, but she paused before getting dressed. Her clothes were all fairly crusty from days in the desert, but the shirt and shorts she’d worn today were the worst. With a limited selection, it took only a few minutes to pick the outfit that would be the least offensive.
Emma met her in the hallway. Without her cowboy hat her silvery hair made her look grandmotherly. The frosty glass of lemonade in her right hand completed the image.
“Here you go,” Emma chirped. “Bill is waiting for you in our office.”
“Thanks.” She slurped. “This is delicious.”
In the office, Bill looked to Lani’s eyes like an astronaut, centered as he was in a cockpit-like cocoon of electronic equipment that included no less than three video monitors.
“Oh wow. My boyfriend would really envy your setup here.”
“Oh we need it for our business. It’s all a big tax write-off,” Bill said. “Come over here and take a seat.”
Lani pulled up a chair and squeezed into the space next to the big man. She placed the cell phone with its USB cable and the folded paper containing Scott’s instructions on the desk in front of her.
“I hope I can download the video from the phone.”
Bill chuckled.
“Oh, we can manage if you get stuck.” With a quick motion he plugged the cable into the phone and the computer. “There you go.”
“Oh. Thanks.”
Flattening the sheet of paper with one hand—grains of dirt spilled from its folds onto the wood desktop—Lani began to work. She tapped at the keyboard in hunt-and-peck style, with two fingers curved and jabbing like scorpion stingers. The first task was creating an explanatory email to grab attention and give the video of the arson some context. She and Scott—assisted by Rollo’s inflammatory recommendations—had spent plenty of time talking over the particulars of the text, and she had a rough draft written down. The email would link to the video.
Next, she had to upload the video to Scott’s YouTube account. That went without a hitch.
The last task was to send the letter she’d written to the distribution list Scott’s old company used for media contacts.
“Shit.”
“What is it?” Bill asked.
“Oh. I’m sorry about my language.”
“This house has heard worse. Let’s see …”
Bill leaned in to peer at the screen.
“It’s not taking your password.”
“No. They must have changed the password after they fired Scott. I don’t know what to do next.”
Bill tugged at the brim of the hat perched on his head.
“Well, what are you trying to accomplish?”
“I’m trying to send the video to Scott’s old media-contact list. It’s full of tech journalists who might be able to help us. But it’s not letting me do it.”
“So, you just need to get that video out to as many important eyeballs as possible?”
“Yes. The more people who see the video, the less reason the people chasing us will have to hurt us. It won’t do them any good if the video is all over the Internet. But now I’m stuck.”
Emma’s hand came down on Lani’s shoulder.
“Bill. Let’s let her use our distribution list. It’s full of politicians and press people.”
Lani looked up at her hosts.
“Really? Out of curiosity. What kind of business do you have?”
Bill chuckled.
“Adult entertainment over the Internet. You know, porn. It’s a goldmine.”
Emma patted Lani’s shoulder.
“You wouldn’t believe who’s on our list.”
Chapter 71
Scott turned as a flash of movement caught his eye. He saw a dirty, tattered figure flee into the dese
rt.
“Hey!”
The man bobbed and weaved, as if dodging gunfire. He took no notice of Scott’s call and made quick progress through the brush, leaving a plume of dust tossed up by his pounding feet.
Scott turned from the squatting, retching figure in front of him and took a few half-hearted steps in pursuit. He never got beyond a jog, and then froze in place, agonizing over his next move. He began to reach for his rifle, and then dismissed the thought of shooting at a fleeing man.
“Goddamn it.”
He realized he’d made a tactical error. By attempting to subdue both of the men, he’d let one escape. And now he had no time to go chasing off into the desert when Lani might well need his help.
Scott turned back to the pathetic figure on the ground. He stretched his foot out to prod the man, but he elicited a whimper before his toe ever made contact.
“Don’t hurt me!”
“I already did that. Answer my questions and I won’t hurt you again.”
No answer.
Scott stretched out his foot.
“OK! OK!”
“Who is that crazy old bastard who went charging off into the desert?
“You mean Dr. Greenfield?”
Scott squinted. The name rang a bell. Yep—it had featured prominently during the nighttime interrogation session he and Rollo had conducted with that wounded fed wannabe. Fuck. He had screwed up even worse than he thought.
“He’s that tree-power nut, right?”
Still obviously in pain, the man managed to look indignant.
“He runs the Center for Floral Supremacy! He’s a visionary.”
“Uh huh. He’s a real leader. He left your sorry ass to bleed while he hightailed it into the desert.”
Indignation turned to mournfulness. This time, Scott had to actually make contact with his toe to get a reaction.
“On your way in here, did you see a woman—a blonde?” Scott helpfully held his hand about Lani’s height off the ground. “About this tall—”
High Desert Barbecue Page 18
