by C. J. Box
Farkus looked furtively over his shoulder, making it a point not to establish eye contact with Campbell. Capellen was still with them, but had drifted farther back. Capellen was leaning forward in his saddle with his head down and looked to be in great pain. As Farkus watched, Capellen listed to the side and vomited up a thin yellow-green stream into the high grass.
“Excuse me,” Farkus said, trying to get Parnell’s attention.
“Shut up, Dave,” Smith and Capellen said in unison from in front and in back of him.
The men didn’t talk, except to make random observations that were answered by grunts from the others.
“It’s cooling down a little,” said Capellen.
Campbell said, “This is a live-game trail, judging by the fresh deer scat.”
“That’s elk,” Farkus corrected, surprised the man hadn’t ever seen elk shit before. “The pellets are twice the size of deer.”
“Oh.”
Smith walked his horse out of the line and let everyone pass him. “Gotta piss,” he said. “Go ahead. I’ll catch up.”
Farkus used the opportunity of the temporary opening ahead of him to nudge his horse and catch up with Parnell and get the man’s attention without including any of the others.
“Let me get this straight,” Farkus said. “You guys aren’t with the sheriff’s team that came up here from the other side a few days ago and you’re not with the state cops.”
“Correct.”
“Feds?”
“Not hardly.”
“You’re operating on your own, then?”
“Correct.”
“So who are you with?” Farkus asked. “Who is McCue? Does this have to do with what that game warden said happened to him? I was the last one to see him before he went up. Did you know that? I was fishing down on the creek way over on the other side when I seen the game warden saddling up. I told him my theory. Do you want to hear it?”
Parnell said, “You’re talking too much.”
“Ever hear of a Wendigo?”
“Of course,” Parnell said. “I’m from the UP.”
“The Union Pacific?”
From behind him, Campbell drew his handgun and jacked a cartridge into the chamber and barked, “Shut the fuck up, Dave.”
Farkus shut up. Pork-bellied cumulus clouds floated across the sky like foam bobbing on the surface of a river. When they crossed the sun and doused it, the temperature cooled instantaneously and he shivered. The air and atmosphere were both thin at this altitude, and temperature fluctuations were almost comically extreme.
Then he realized what was wrong with Capellen. “He’s got altitude sickness. I recognize it. It always happens above eight thousand feet. I helped guide a couple of hunters from Florida a few years back and one of them got it bad and spent the entire week in his tent. It hits guys from flatland states like Michigan.”
“What can be done for it?” Smith asked Farkus.
“Keep him drinking water, for one thing. But really the only thing that will cure him is to get off the mountain. I’d be happy to ride with him back to camp-”
“Nice try.”
Parnell said, “We aren’t leaving him, and we aren’t going back.”
So Capellen rode in agony, moaning, complaining that he had the worst headache he’d ever had in his life and that he was so dizzy they might have to tie him to his saddle to keep him from falling off.
Farkus said, “I’m not gonna ask whether you’re after the woman that game warden described or the girl runner if that’s really her, or the Grim Brothers themselves. I’m not gonna ask that.”
Parnell nodded. Good.
“And I’m not gonna ask who you work for or why you aren’t in contact with the locals in this area. I’m not going to ask you where you’re from in Michigan or why you came this far.”
“Shut the fuck up, Dave,” Campbell growled from behind him. He sounded very annoyed again, Farkus thought.
“All I’m gonna ask,” Farkus said, pushing, “is if you’re gonna let me go after all of this is over.”
Parnell shrugged, said, “Probably not.”
Farkus felt the blood drain out of his head and pool like dirty sludge in his gut.
From what Farkus could observe without asking, the expedition was heavily armed and expensively geared up. He counted three AR-15s Winchester and a heavy sniper’s rifle and scope probably chambered in.308 Magnum. All of the riders packed at least one semiauto in a holster, and judging by the bulges at their ankles above their boot tops, they likely had additional pistols. And that’s just what he could see.
He had no idea how much additional weaponry they had in the heavy panniers carried by the packhorses. He’d seen plenty of electronic equipment when he’d stumbled into the camp, but it had all been packed away out of his sight. What he’d recognized, though, were radios, GPS devices, sat phones, range finders. Other pieces were unfamiliar to him, but they looked like tracking devices of some sort.
Tracking what? he wondered.
They rode through a gnarled stand of knotty pine. The trees were twisted and beautifully grotesque with football-sized growth tumors bulging out from the trunks and branches. It was as if they’d left the forest and entered some kind of primeval funhouse, and Farkus said, “Do you realize what this wood is worth if we took it back and sold it? I know furniture makers who’d pay a fortune for this stuff.” Then, remembering that he’d claimed knowledge of the area, he said,
“Every time I come here, I try to figure out how to get a vehicle into the area to gather up some of this knotty pine. But as you can see, there aren’t any roads.”
He got silence in response, except for the now-inevitable, Shut up, Dave. He was grateful no one challenged him.
They cleared the knotty pine stand and rode into a mountain park where the trees opened up to the now-leaden sky. Farkus noted how overcast it had become, like the clouds that were previously bouncing across the sky had hit a barrier and gathered up, blocking out the blue, like tumbleweeds stacked against a barbed wire fence.
Parnell pulled up and climbed down from his horse, looking up at the sky as if it were sending him a message. Smith said to Parnell, “Think we’ll get a reading yet?”
“That’s what I want to find out.”
Parnell let his reins drop and his horse stepped to the side of the trail and began grazing, clipping long bunches of tall grass with its sharp yellow teeth and munching loudly enough to cue Farkus’s horse to do the same. When the fat horse bent her head down, she nearly pulled Farkus out of his saddle because he’d been holding the reins too tightly.
Recovering his balance, he said to Parnell as the man walked past, “I think I’ll stretch my legs, too.”
“Stay mounted,” Parnell said, flicking his sharp, dark eyes at Farkus.
Farkus sighed and stayed in the saddle. He took his boots out of the stirrups, though, and flexed his legs. God, his knees hurt.
Parnell walked back to his horse after digging through the panniers in back. He carried an electronic instrument of some kind about the size and thickness of a hardback book. Farkus could see several lit-up digital windows on the instrument as well as a screen that glowed like a GPS display. Good, he thought. Parnell knows exactly where they were.
Parnell mounted up, holding the panel between his arm and his tactical vest. He unfolded a stubby antenna from the unit and adjusted a dial. To Smith and the others, he said, “I’ve got a faint signal. We’re headed the right direction.”
From in back of Farkus, Campbell said, “Any idea how far?”
Parnell adjusted the metal knob. “Nearly ten miles. Over the top and down the other side of the mountain.”
“Where we thought they’d be,” Smith said, nodding.
Farkus moaned. “Ten more miles? On horseback?”
“Shut up, Dave,” Smith said casually.
Even with the overcast, Farkus could tell there was only an hour of daylight left, at most. He said, “Don’t tell me
we’re gonna keep riding in the dark? I’m tired, hungry, and I’ve got a little hangover. I could use a rest.”
It happened quickly behind Farkus, the sound of a swift boot kick into the flanks of a horse and the squeak of leather and thumping of hooves. Suddenly, Campbell was right beside him, their outside legs touching. Campbell had his sidearm out, a deadly-looking two-tone semiauto with a gaping muzzle that he pressed against Farkus’s cheekbone.
“Do you know what this is?” Campbell hissed. Farkus didn’t move his head-he couldn’t-but he swung his eyes over. Campbell was squinting and the skin on his face was pulled tight. “This is a Sig Sauer P239 SAS Gen 2 chambered in.357SIG. I’ve been wondering what it would do to a man’s head from an inch away. Do you want me to find out?”
Farkus knew he shouldn’t say anything, but he couldn’t help himself. “No, please.”
Smith had turned in his saddle and was watching them now with a smirk on his face. “I was kind of wondering that myself.”
“Please, no,” Farkus said, his voice cracking. “Put the gun away. You see, I’ve always been a talker. I’m sorry. I’ll shut up. I’ll start now.” To himself, Farkus said, “Shut up, Dave.”
Campbell’s face twitched. “What’s that smell?”
Farkus felt hot tears in his eyes from fear and shame. He said, “I’ve ruined the saddle.”
Campbell leaned away and lowered the pistol. Farkus looked down as well. A wet stain blotted through the denim of his crotch. Dry leather on the pommel soaked it in, turning it dark.
To Parnell, Campbell said, “This guy is becoming a liability.”
Parnell’s dead-eye silence didn’t reveal a thing about what he was thinking. But what he didn’t do, Farkus noted, was disagree with Campbell.
Campbell said, “Dave, I’m starting to think you’re just a bullshitter, because all I’ve heard out of your pie-hole is bullshit. And don’t think I didn’t notice how you caught yourself back there when we rode through that knotty pine. You’d never been there in your life, have you? I’m thinking you don’t know where the hell you are right now and I don’t see how the hell you’re going to help us.”
A minute went by. Toward the end of it, Campbell raised the Sig Sauer to eye level.
Despite the cold feeling of dread that coursed through him, Farkus said, “That’s where you’re wrong. Hell, I’ve not only hunted up here, I used to move cows from the mountains down to pasture on the other side.”
Campbell shook his head, not buying. Then he gestured to the horizon, toward the highest point. “What’s the name of that peak?”
To Parnell, Campbell said, “Check his answer against your map, and we’ll see if he’s lying.”
Farkus pointed, stalling for time, “That one? That one there?” He searched his memory, trying to recall conversations from his buddies around the campfire talking about where they’d been that day. Years of conversations to sort through. He wished he’d paid more attention.
His mouth was dry. He could recall his friend Jay telling a story about wounding a young bull elk and tracking it in the snow all the way to.
“Fletcher Peak,” he said.
Parnell studied his map. While he did, Farkus tried to think of how he could talk his way out of this. Could he say, Well, that’s what we always called it.
But Parnell said, “Fletcher Peak. Ten thousand, eight hundred feet.”
Farkus tried not to close his eyes as joy replaced dread.
Campbell lowered the weapon.
And Farkus thought, I wish I knew where the hell we are.
WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 2
16
With Marybeth at work and the girls at school, Joe had the revelation that he’d never been alone in his own house before. It was remarkably quiet. He felt like both a voyeur and a trespasser as he limped through the rooms carrying a plastic five-gallon bucket filled with tools and equipment. His only company was Tube, who, since they’d returned two days before, had not let Joe out of his sight. In fact, Tube trailed him so tightly that the dog would bump into the back of his legs if Joe stopped.
At dinner the previous night, Joe had queried Marybeth and his daughters for their wish lists of repairs, maintenance, and projects. He listed the chores on a legal pad and finally begged them to stop after he filled the first page and after April requested he build “a wall of separation” between her bed and Lucy’s in the room they shared so she “wouldn’t have to look at her face, like, ever.” He was embarrassed there was so much to get done, which was a testament to his long absences over the past two years. In addition to his own list-painting the house, fixing a leak in the garage roof, cleaning the gutters, shoring up his leaning slat-board fence, sorting out his long-neglected Game and Fish office-Joe figured he had at least a week’s worth of projects ahead of him. By then, he hoped, his in-house sentence would be over and Governor Rulon would lift his order of administrative leave.
Certainly Marybeth had welcomed him home and was pleased he was getting to all of the neglected projects, but Joe could feel tension building between them. Marybeth ran the house and family, and she did a good job of both. She had become used to him not being around. Joe’s presence, especially since he was at home during the day, disrupted her management and routine. He sympathized with her and found himself feeling sorry for himself as well. Joe didn’t like being inside so much.
Although the home they owned on the quiet residential street in Saddlestring was much more conventional and convenient for Marybeth’s business and the girls’ school and activities, Joe still pined for past houses in the country. He’d even mentioned to Marybeth when they pulled into the driveway from Billings that it seemed the neighboring houses on each side had somehow encroached a few feet closer to theirs. This was not the first time he’d had this impression, and it made him doubt his sanity.
After he turned off the water to the toilet so he could reset the float to make it stop trickling constantly, Joe parted the curtain and checked to see if his neighbor, Ed Nedney, was still out in his yard. He was. He was out there reseeding a one-foot patch of slightly bare earth in his backyard with a rake so it would grow to be as perfect as the rest of his yard. Nedney was a former town administrator who’d retired solely, Joe believed, to keep his lawn and home immaculate and because it gave him more time to disapprove of Joe’s home maintenance regimen.
Joe had watched Nedney through the window all morning while he himself was on the phone making arrangements for his father’s body with a Billings funeral home. He didn’t look forward to discussing the costs with Marybeth later that night. Marybeth’s business transition was facing hurdles now that the downturn in the economy had finally reached Wyoming. The buyers were slowing down the process and making noises about pulling out of the sale. Since the sale had been negotiated, half of her retail clients had either closed shop or taken their financial management in-house to save money. Marybeth had laid off two of her four employees and was in the process of prospecting for more clients while running her office on a day-to-day basis. Because the state had frozen salaries, including Joe’s, money was tight.
In a calming and well-practiced baritone, the funeral home director had explained the costs and options for cremation and urns.
The cremation alone would cost $1,835. Joe contained his alarm.
He told Joe, “Our charge for a direct cremation (without ceremony) includes basic services of funeral director and staff, a proportionate share of overhead costs, removal of remains, necessary authorizations, minimum container, minimum urn, and cremation. Another option that has proven very meaningful to families is to have a traditional service followed by cremation. The cost for this type of service is three thousand nine hundred fifty dollars.”
Joe wondered if it would be bad form to ask how the cost compared with that of a burial, but assumed a burial would cost more. Plus, he couldn’t ask his girls and wife to attend the funeral for a man they’d never met. Meaning it would be a burial with one mourner-him. Cr
emation was the only option.
“That’s kind of expensive,” Joe said. “We can do the cremation, but it’s more than I thought it would be.”
“The process must be thorough to maintain dignity,” the funeral director said in a well-practiced response. “Now we should talk about an urn.”
“Okay.”
Joe thought of his father’s last laugh. Now he thought he knew what it was about.
“If an individual weighs one hundred eighty pounds at the time of cremation, they will require an urn one hundred eighty cubic inches or larger,” the man said. “Do you know the weight of your loved one?”
Joe said, “I’d guess one-sixty.”
He could hear the funeral director tapping on computer keys. “You have many, many choices of urns,” he said. “Many people these days like to purchase an urn that would mean something to the departed. We have urns available from forty-five dollars to five thousand, so it would help if you could give me the parameters of your budget.”
Joe hadn’t thought about budgeting the funeral. He thought, How much is he worth to me, this man who walked out on our family so many years ago and never even bothered to make contact with his wife or sons? Then, ashamed of his conclusion, he said, “We don’t want to make a big deal of it. Simple is best.” By simple, he meant cheap.
“Very well,” the man said. “Maybe I can help you make a decision. As I mentioned, the trend is toward themed urns. Did your father like to golf? We have golf urns ranging from fifty dollars to two thousand dollars. Fishing? Fishing urns are very popular here in Billings, as you might guess. We have fishing urns in metal, ceramic, glass, and biodegradable. Did your father like to fish?”
“No.”
“And we have cowboy boot urns, another popular choice in Montana and Wyoming. Hunting urns as well. Did your father like to hunt?”
Said Joe, “My father liked to drink. Do you have urns resembling a bottle of gin or Old Grand-Dad bourbon? Or maybe one shaped like a suitcase? He was fond of packing up and leaving.”
