The Gorge Page 12

  No shit, Sherlock.

  Behind Castle, Pete and Jenny were arguing over the map, and Jenny appeared to be winning. Castle hoped, if those weird, bloodthirsty nightmare creatures really existed, they would find her. She probably tasted bad, but at least Pete would get the pleasure of watching her being dragged away across the sky. If he lived long enough to enjoy being a widower.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The Rook wasn’t quite dead, though the distinction made little difference to him.

  In the pitch darkness, he couldn’t tell how many of the creatures had put their faces to his neck and chest. It could have been a dozen, or it could have been two or three repeating the act. It wasn’t the soft sipping sounds they made that was most disturbing; it was the lack of their breath on his skin, the coldness of the lips that nipped at his upper body, the occasional teasing of lazy teeth.

  He was completely immobile. Not paralyzed, for he still had some feeling in his limbs and still sensed some motor control, though his lack of action was giving the lie to that belief. A deeper, more primal part of him was enjoying the surrender, perhaps in the same way a rabbit’s brain released relaxing chemicals when the animal was caught in the fox’s jaws. His erection hadn’t faded in the slightest during his fourteen hours of captivity, though it had long since stopped affording him any pleasure. Now it ached, persistent, throbbing, and promising no release.

  He’d tried to speak a couple of times, wondering if the creatures were intelligent. As far as he could tell, he’d been conscious the entire time, though parts of the last few hours had taken on a surreal quality that pushed aside the initial shock. Perhaps, he was simply losing his mind, the most likely and most acceptable conclusion. During his master’s program in behavioral psychology at Stanford, he’d arrived at a personal rule: If you wondered if you were insane, then you were insane. All that remained was the elimination of any lingering doubts.

  In the program, his specialty had been aberrant behavior. Like any kid growing up with Stephen King and bad horror movies, he knew all about vampire myths, with the living dead arising from their graves at night to suck the blood of innocents, in turn changing the victims into like-minded, eternally thirsty monsters. And like most sane (or formerly sane) people, he found them a bit laughable, though the psychology behind the public’s attraction to the myth was fascinating. It seemed anybody could stamp a pale, pointy-toothed European bisexual on a paperback novel cover or a movie poster and the product would achieve success, however little deserved.

  Even more fascinating than the eternal appeal of these fictional tropes were the actual, flesh-and-blood people who believed themselves vampires. They drank blood as a ritual and slept during the day, fearing they might turn to ashes upon exposure to the sun. Some even managed to induce a conversion reaction that caused them to break out in hives or boils if presented with the Christian cross, garlic, or sterling silver, all weapons used against the vampires of popular lore. To Derek Samford’s trained and modern mind, such behavior was as explainable and legitimate as the religious hysteric who spontaneously bled from palms and feet in a sympathetic imitation of Jesus Christ. Aberrant, certainly, but not necessarily harmful.

  So vampires were out of the question, and these cold-blooded creatures that were using him as a sacrament couldn’t be aberrant humans, given their lack of breath. But rational explanations had failed him long ago, shortly after he had been dangled upside down like a side of beef on a slaughterhouse hook and whisked away to this hidden hole in the world.

  Samford’s exposure to the so-called “hard sciences” was limited. He’d been through basic chemistry and physics, but preferred a realm where the rules were more flexible, thus ensuring that no theory or opinion could ever be completely wrong. Or at least not proven wrong.

  But he doubted if even a PhD in biology would have allowed him to stamp a name or genus on these creatures. Through the long night of susurrant licks and soft scratching sounds, Samford had attempted to distract himself with speculative ruminations.

  Anything to keep himself from thinking about — the blood on his shoulder, wounds still wet and oozing, wounds that weren’t allowed to crust and dry because moist tongues kept at them -

  — the probability that he was dying, a fuel tank being drained to the dregs, liquid sand pouring through the tight tube of an hourglass, hours shrinking to minutes and eventually seconds and finally to a full forever.

  Samford, an agnostic since the age of seven, wished he had a potential afterlife from which to draw comfort. Heaven, purgatory, or reincarnation held no special appeal to him, but at the moment, he would prefer even the most fiery and punishing Baptist hell over the possibility that he might return from the dead, as depraved and unnatural as the beasts that now took turns with his flesh.

  If he could have belatedly summoned faith, he would have prayed hardest of all for some higher power to wipe the rigid smile from his lips.

  Instead, he waited, and he served.

  One of them pulled away from his shoulder, and despite the general numbness that infected his entire body with the exception of his penis and the open sores on his torso and neck, he was glad for the respite, because for the space of a heartbeat (and a tiny gush of blood that pulsed out along with it), he could pretend the whole encounter had been a bad dream caused by the hard ground beneath his sleeping bag, that he’d soon awaken, make coffee, and discuss with Jim Castle whether or not they were really going to capture Robert Wayne Goodall and what it might mean for their careers.

  Then another tongue laid into him, with gentle teeth around it, and he knew there was no more career, no bad dream, nothing but the juice of his soul seeping away into the everlasting night.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  “Maytagged their asses,” Farrengalli said, looming over Raintree a s he and Dove checked Travis Lane’s condition. “Put the fuckers throug h the spin cycle.”

  Raintree gave the idiot a cold look, but Farrengalli kept on. “Hey, where’s Whitlock and the Golden Boy? Making out under the waterfall? ”

  “If you don’t want to help, at least shut up and stay out of the w ay,” Dove said. Farrengalli glowered and shoved his boot against the b eached raft, sending it skidding across the mud. Then he went to the w ater’s edge and squatted, waiting for the foundered second raft to mak e its way downriver.

  “How is he?” Raintree asked Dove. Lane had been unconscious when t hey’d pulled him from the water. He appeared to be breathing regularly, though when Dove peeled back his eyelids, his pupils were tiny dots of ink against the gray irises.

  “I don’t think it’s a concussion. Pupils are the same size. Pulse is normal. No shock.” Dove moved with knowledge and experience, checki ng Lane’s scalp for trauma.

  “Should I get the first-aid kit?”

  “Want my armchair diagnosis?”

  “Sure.”

  “He passed out from fright.”

  Raintree was glad Farrengalli hadn’t overheard, or he would have r idden Lane for the duration of the trip. “Well, if he wet his pants, a t least it won’t show.”

  Dove grinned, but only for a second before her eyebrows arched wit h concern. She looked upriver at the waterfall that had dumped the raf t. “Bowie, where are you?” she said, half to herself.

  She’s worried about him. And not just as a team leader.

  Raintree felt a twinge of jealousy, and it annoyed him. He touched her wrist, and was about to tell her not to worry when Bowie emerged from the rock shelf and gave out a shout. “Get the raft!”

  Farrengalli waded in until the water was above his knees, and then swam toward the half-submerged raft with smooth strokes. He caught it fifty yards downstream and guided it toward shore, pushing it before him, hanging onto the grab loop with one hand.

  Bowie and McKay climbed the rock face beside the waterfall, findin g a natural shelf and edging along it until they reached the shore. By the time they reached Lane, the man was sitting up, spitting brackish phlegm
and cussing.

  “Passed with flying colors,” Bowie said.

  “It didn’t burst,” Lane said.

  “Took on water too easy.”

  “It’s a field test.” Lane gave a wet hack. “We can take all the in formation back to the lab. ProVentures wants us to reach takeout in on e piece, and we’re still in one piece.”

  “Another incident like that and we’re walking out, bonus or no bon us.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Bowie,” Dove said. “We could use a break an yway. Early lunch?”

  Raintree was impressed with the way Dove Krueger handled both Whit lock and Farrengalli, as well as her calm approach in treating Lane. H e knew little about her, only that she was a highly regarded journalis t known for her coverage of extreme sports and outdoor adventures. She and Bowie exhibited a familiarity with one another that made it seem like they’d worked together before. None of his business, though. His spirit was already troubled enough without speculating on the affairs of others. He touched the medicine bag for comfort.

  McKay helped Farrengalli wrestle the second raft ashore, tipping t he water out and dragging it beside the first. Lane stood on shaky leg s and inspected it. “See, no damage at all. Built to withstand the wor st that nature has to offer.”

  “Is that the ad copy or did you improvise?” Bowie asked.

  “Maytagged your asses,” Farrengalli said.

  Lane ignored Farrengalli’s taunt. “I have complete faith in our pr oducts, or I wouldn’t bet my life on them.”

  “But what about betting our lives?” Bowie asked.

  “Hey, there’s no such thing as bad publicity,” Farrengalli said. “ If a couple of you clowns buy the farm, then there’s more glory for me.”

  “Hey, man, this isn’t a canned episode of Wild Life with Natalie,” McKay countered. “This is reality. I’d like to see you handle that spill.”

  “No sweat, Golden Boy.” Farrengalli puffed out his chest, as if ex pecting another physical confrontation. Raintree stepped between them, sensing Dove would do so if he didn’t. “Let’s eat, gentlemen. Accordi ng to the map, we’re about halfway to Babel Tower. Two more hours on t he water and we should reach our campsite.”

  Farrengalli glared at Bowie. “You going to let Geronimo here give the orders from now on?”

  “That wasn’t an order,” Bowie responded. “Let’s give Mr. Lane a ch ance to recuperate, and we could all stand some refreshment. If you do n’t mind, that is.”

  “Bush-league bullshit,” Farrengalli said, stalking off toward the edge of the woods.

  “He’s going to be trouble before the trip’s over,” Dove said to Bo wie.

  “He was trouble before it even started. Okay, folks, crackers and dried fruit; then it’s time to catch some serious hair.”

  Raintree gathered his backpack, noticing Dove and Bowie sat down t ogether to share their rations. He went into the woods away from Farre ngalli, wondering if the sylvan glade would offer up the vision he sou ght. A large part of him felt foolish. Vision quests were archaic, los t in the early nineteenth century, vanished like the buffalo and elk. Nowadays, vision quests were offered as vacation retreats, a week in t he desert or the high mountains with a self-proclaimed “spirit guide” who accepted cash, traveler’s checks, or credit cards. Like the sad ol d men who made their living posing in ceremonial headdress for tourist photographs, Raintree was just another sellout. He’d traded on his im age and heritage as much as anybody, a cigar-store Indian with good te eth and muscle frame, blessed with a lithe form that might in another time have wrestled grizzly bears and cougars.

  Farrengalli clearly hoped someone would die on the journey. Raintr ee didn’t care. He didn’t know which was worse.

  But he wanted to succeed. He would do it for his people, though th e Cherokee had changed along with the rest of the civilized world. The

  White Man took their lands but later made good by granting gambling c asinos. The Great Spirit had abandoned its people yet again, but then rolled sevens after they had given up all faith.

  He rummaged in the medicine bag. A couple of the black, a white, and maybe one of the yellows for good measure. Raintree looked toward the sky, up where one of the White Man’s gods was supposed to dwell on a golden throne. He saw no sign of such a god, but a few clouds had drifted from the northwest, high cumulus with swelling, gray underbellies. All part of the Great Spirit, along with the forest, the river, the rocks, and “Where the fuck is everybody?”

  Farrengalli. A force of nature unto himself.

  Raintree was about to return to the others along the riverbank when he saw a creature drifting high off the cliffs, perhaps a half mile away.

  A hawk? A feathered brother that would fulfill his quest and provide him with strength and knowledge?

  No, its wings were too awkward for that of a hawk, its flight uncertain. This creature angled against the wind as if it had been thrown off the rocky heights and expected to fly or drop like a stone. It flew as if it had no direction, no purpose.

  Raintree squinted against the veiled sun, trying to make out the winged form. Eagle? They were rare in the mountains, he’d heard, but liked to nest in pairs near water, so it wasn’t impossible. He’d never seen an eagle in midair, but suspected its flight would be majestic, not crippled. Falcon? Not as rare as eagles, but again, such a bird of prey would project more strength in the air. This was more likely a vulture.

  Even from this distance, though, the creature projected a non-avian aspect. Whatever it was, its lower body was dense, not built for aerodynamic grace. It appeared to be gliding, its wing-like projections held out stiffly from its trunk. It cut a slow, lazy ellipse, a darker speck against the clouds, and then it disappeared among the distant treetops.

  Seconds later, Raintree realized what he had witnessed, but could only smile to himself. The Great Spirit played tricks when delivering visions, and those who sought too hard often engaged in flights of fancy.

  The thing had been a man.

  Flying without a plane, hang glider, or parachute.

  Raintree touched his medicine bag. Psychedelic mushrooms, jimson weed, foxglove, and belladonna were natural paths to visions. But Raintree didn’t want the natural path. He craved the finest that modern drug companies had to offer, in clean, easily digestible pill form. He had been saving the best stuff for some unforeseen sacred moment. Maybe visions came when least expected, and made so little sense the seeker had to dream on them for weeks or months or even years to understand their meaning.

  Or, perhaps, he had imagined the whole thing.

  Raintree unfolded himself, rose, and headed back to the rafts, anxious to finish the journey, no longer so curious to suffer sacred visions.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Despite what Ace thought, Clara Bannister wasn’t from old Yankee money and she wasn’t an uppity bitch. She’d been raised in a mobile home in Cleveland, Ohio. Her father had been an automotive mechanic as well as a preacher, and had briefly been on the pit crew of Indy 500 champ Al Unser. In between sermons, he ran his own garage and raced the dirt tracks. Her mother worked the counter at the Dairy Queen, attending night school at the local community college, taking five years to get a two-year degree in physical therapy. Not enough money to make it out of the trailer park, but they had instilled a strong work ethic and a passion for success. And a whole severe slate of morals.

  Sometimes, she wondered if her overachieving nature related to those roots. Such a beginning wasn’t humbling. It was embarrassing. In junior high, once she was old enough to know better, she loathed catching the school bus with the dirty-kneed, runny-nosed brats from the neighboring trailers. She deserved better. In her off-the-rack Kmart jeans and thrift store blouses, she was always four years behind the trends, but the real cruelty was that she’d been granted just enough intelligence to be painfully aware of her condition. She didn’t fit, even though she pursued the usual outsider fields of band, theater, and art. Even among the losers, she came
up lacking.

  But there was one area where genetics paid off: rides. When the other juniors were sporting about in pre-owned Hummers and Toyotas, her dad put her behind the wheel of a lovingly restored 1969 Camaro. Such cars were the fuckmobiles of their era, and Clara did her best to uphold that reputation. Clara had never derived as much self-esteem and satisfaction as she did when chauffering some boy around the downtown square a few times before parking in the alley and rutting with him in the backseat, leaving him spent but her bright-eyed and eager for the next pickup.

  Determination (and a timely sexual encounter with the high school counselor) had won her a scholarship to Radford University in Virginia. She did well her first semester, but made the mistake of falling for an anthropology professor who turned her on to the pleasures of hallucinogenics, feminism, and radical politics. When she should have been studying for finals, the nights were spent instead with sagging candles, oversized pupils, and debates about the “eternal struggle.” The sex was lousy, but the discussion was exhilarating. Such stuff was as far removed from her childhood trailer park as she could imagine, and nothing could have made her happier. Clara roved from Green Party to Marxism to Taoism to Maoism and, despite a brief love affair with the chairman of the Radford Young Republicans, she began exploring the extreme libertarian fringes. Out there where left and right collided in a conflicting ideology of legalized drugs and Fourth Amendment fever.

  The sophomore Clara had grown bored with acid, as even the most ardent hippies eventually did, because once you’d visited there a few times, it wasn’t so revolutionary or appealing. Instead, she was drawn to a new form of excitement, one she would never have thought possible and one that no doubt would have sent her father toward his third and probably fatal heart attack. She found she enjoyed pain.

  At first, it had come in fleeting electric brushes, such as a boy who bit her nipples a bit too hard through inexperience. Then the Young Republican had taken delight in twisting them between his thumbs and fingers until she yelped in a surprise that he took as delight. A Buddhist old enough to be her father had picked her up in a bar and taken her to a motel room, tied her to the bed, and left her there for two hours until she wet the sheets. He then proceeded to remove his leather boot strings and lash them across her bare legs, back, and buttocks for an additional two hours. Sometimes cruelly slapping, sometimes teasing the laces across the welts. He entered her at dawn and, raw and tingling and confused, she experienced the first orgasm of her life.