The Gorge Page 9

  Ace took to staying out all night, sometimes balling some skank welfare slut in the trailer park, sometimes just sleeping out in the woods under a blanket propped up on sticks. It was in the Alabama pine forest where he first felt at peace. Alone, he felt everything made sense, and when he first heard the Voice, he thought it was just another too-loud radio blaring from an open window on the freeway. But the Voice didn’t fade with distance. It stayed right there until it made itself heard. Probably like Jesus did when God sent Him out to wander the wilderness.

  “Ya gotta carry your own cross when the time comes,” his mom was fond of saying.

  He didn’t know about no cross, but when he started carrying around a Bible, the probation officer suddenly became all smiles, his teachers cut him enough slack that he didn’t drop out until he reached legal age, and he wasn’t an automatic suspect every time a Coke machine was jimmied or a motorbike turned up missing. That was when Ace finally appreciated the power of the Lord: Go to church of a Wednesday night and twice on Sunday, and you could pull the wool over the eyes of a lot of sheep.

  With their blind faith, Ace turned seriously cruel instead of just being casual about it.

  “Ya gotta carry your own cross when the time comes,” he said now to Clara.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Nothing. It’s just words.”

  “We’re out of toilet paper.”

  He nodded, wondering what Jesus used to wipe his ass when out wandering in the wilderness. Probably, the Devil had popped up and offered the Lord a roll of Charmin hot off the presses, saying, “Sit on my porcelain throne and be king of all thou survey.” Jesus would never take the soft wipe, the easy way. No, He’d rather tough it out, ass rash or no.

  “Let’s get walking,” Ace said.

  Clara nodded, waited for him to take the lead, and he wanted to slap her silly straight teeth down her throat. Just because Eve was beyond his reach.

  Instead, he pointed downriver. “That way.”

  Clara nodded again, like she knew it all along, then gathered her macrame shawl about her shoulders and sought a flat path near the shore.

  Uppity bitch. Ace followed her, pausing first to spit into the churning river.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “What the fuck, Raintree?”

  Robert Raintree looked up from his stump. Beside him was his backpack. He’d broken down his tent, tucked it and his sleeping bag away, and had rekindled the campfire for breakfast. He’d dipped into the medicine bag and found peace, as he had on so many mornings.

  He’d been sitting on the stump for two hours. He’d seen Bowie Whitlock slip into the woods, then Dove Krueger following him a few minutes later. A distant woodpecker nailed a staccato breakfast, the wilderness equivalent of a barnyard rooster. After that, he’d lapsed into meditation, the way he imagined his ancestors had done before their vision quests.

  But Farrengalli was now in his face, loud, asinine, raw as nature and twice as ugly.

  “Excuse me?” Raintree said.

  “You’re, like, up with the fucking birds, dude.”

  “I thought we were getting an early start.”

  Farrengalli blinked at the ragged, red dawn. “Yeah. Where’s that fucking Whitlock, anyway?”

  The way Farrengalli had been drinking from his flask last night, Raintree was surprised to see the man had no sign of a hangover. If anything, flushed cheeks and a pained expression seemed to fit Farrengalli, as if waking up in anger were the only reason to bother opening his eyes at all.

  “Got any extra water?” Farrengalli said. “I’m thirsty as a mother whore.”

  “Whitlock said to ration.”

  “Well, the river looks clean enough.”

  The river was probably clean enough two hundred years ago, when his ancestors had hunted the watering holes for elk and deer. No, not all his ancestors. He was only half Cherokee, and he was pretty sure his bloodline had been tainted with Choctaw and Shawnee, other tribes that had been driven West and lumped together. “I wouldn’t advise it, unless you’re going to boil it first.”

  “Hey, Red Man, afraid to drink a little bear piss? Probably put some hair on your pecker. Or you rather drink’um firewater?”

  So much for peace. Raintree closed his eyes and concentrated on the whisper of soft feathers through his central nervous system. Good medicine.

  Farrengalli spat a dry chunk of mucus into the fire. “I’m making coffee. Might as well get the old blood system jumpstarted while I’m waiting around for these clowns. Hey, where’s the chick?” Farrengalli undulated his hands in the shape of feminine curves. “You know, the hot squaw?”

  Raintree said nothing. He listened again to the birds and their timeless songs of morning, wondering what messages they were sharing. At the edge of the clearing, Travis Lane and C.A. McKay were busy breaking down their tents. Dove Krueger’s tent stood with its front flap open, empty. Whitlock’s gear was already packed, except for one of the Muskrats, which lay in a sleek bundle near the campfire.

  “You don’t talk much, do you?”

  You more than make up for the two of us, he wanted to say, but Farrengalli was right. Raintree spread out the raft he’d been carrying, attaching the hand-operated air pump to the outer valve. Travis Lane hurried over, already sweating though the air was not humid.

  “Do you know how to connect it?” Lane said. “Make sure you inflate the inner and outer layers to the same pressure.”

  “Him smart Injun,” Farrengalli said.

  Raintree screwed the pump to the valve stem and began working the handle. The raft swelled like a blister. The outer layer was blue, the inner canary yellow. There were no seats, just three sets of nylon belts lined on the rubberized deck. A series of hardened vinyl loops ran along the outer rim of the raft, and held nylon cord that could be used for tying off the raft and securing gear. Raintree had inflated the raft during the orientation session, but in its intended habitat, he could better appreciate the ingenuity of the design.

  “Thirty-two pounds,” Lane said, excited for the first time since the journey began. “Now fill the inner layer.”

  Raintree was connecting the pump to the second stem when Whitlock emerged from the woods and approached them.

  “Where you been?” Farrengalli said, glancing at an imaginary wristwatch. “The fish are biting and your friends here were about to shove off without you.”

  “I was reconnoitering downstream,” Whitlock said. “Only a fool launches without knowing what’s waiting ahead.”

  “You look like a fairy in that wet suit,” Farrengalli said.

  “Hey, Farrengalli, don’t knock the SealSkinz,” Lane said. “That’s space-age design right there. Remember, you’re on ProVentures’s dime right now.”

  “Right, Boss.” He turned to Raintree. “I got a feeling this is going to be a case of ‘Too many chiefs and not enough Injuns.’ Har-haw-haw.”

  Raintree winced at the man’s braying, exagerrated laugh, but kept his attention on the pump’s pressure gauge. When the pressure levels of the two chambers matched, Raintree packed away the pump while Lane tested the raft with his boot. Whitlock brought out the paddles and extended and tightened the telescoping handles.

  “Hey, sweetmeat, where you been?” Farrengalli hollered.

  C.A. McKay, now wearing his SealSkinz and backpack, hollered back, “I know I’m pretty sweet, but this is strictly for the ladies.”

  “Get over it, Golden Boy. I wasn’t talking to you.”

  “And the ladies don’t want it, anyway,” Dove Krueger said.

  Farrengalli let out his braying laugh again, silencing the birds.

  Dove’s hair was wet and she had obviously washed it. She, too, was dressed in a SealSkinz, and Raintree had to admit it did wonderful things for her figure. Like the others, she had worn sparse, loose clothing while hiking, and lightweight fabrics were the smart choice when you had to pack them back out at the end of the run. Her SealSkinz left delicious little to the ima
gination, and it was the kind of little that was the most fun. Raintree wouldn’t be surprised if she were the cover model in the Back2Nature Magazine when the special Muskrat edition hit the stands. In a bikini, holding a paddle in a suggestive manner, sitting astride the Muskrat with her tanned legs spread.

  She’s not your vision. Keep your mind clean and open or you’ll miss the sign when it flies in front of your face.

  He wondered why the word “flies” had popped into his head. Ravens, he knew, were the largest of the crow family and a common ceremonial symbol among the Cherokee. The tribe even had a legend of the Raven Mocker, a spirit that changed forms and deceived people. Eagles, hawks, falcons, herons, owls, and other birds of prey had found their place in tribal lore, though many of the species were now extinct in the Appalachians. His vision was just as likely to be of a bear, fox, or maybe even a mountain lion. Though there was no reason for the creature to be of either air or Earth. Perhaps it would be a trout, a frog, maybe even a salamander. No reason to think his spirit mirror, what some Northwestern tribes called the “totem,” would be a noble one. He’d suffered little nobility in his life, aside from the single-minded dedication that had lifted him to the heights of world-class wrestling. But was it true nobility if it was inspired by weakness, a sense of worthlessness, an inferiority complex fueled by bloodline?

  Either way, he couldn’t deny Dove’s appeal. But he could ignore it.

  “Let’s get this show on the road, folks,” Whitlock said, pumping up the second raft. “We should make it to Babel Tower by late afternoon and we can set up camp there.”

  Babel Tower. A sacred site for the Cherokee, which they had called Attacoa. How like the White Man to impose its own religious name on the mountain.

  “We’re not going to stop on the way?” McKay said.

  “What do you think this is, a ride at Disneyland?” Farrengalli said. “You’re a long way from California. And Paree, too.”

  “Fuck off, Farrengalli. I’ve had enough of your mouth.”

  Farrengalli dropped his backpack and leaped across the fire to McKay, moving so swiftly that Raintree barely had time to register the action before Farrengalli had McKay by the shoulders, shaking the cyclist so hard his head wobbled. Whitlock moved almost as fast as Farrengalli, stepping between the two struggling men and driving his forearms against their chests. “Cool it,” the tour guide said.

  McKay backed away, but Farrengalli lunged at him, throwing Whitlock off balance. “I don’t have to take that shit from a sweet boy like you.”

  Whitlock got Farrengalli in a bear hug. “Easy, easy.”

  Raintree debated helping Whitlock, but decided it was too early in the game to choose sides. Travis Lane stood with clenched fists, anguish curdling his face. Farrengalli jerked free of the restraint hold and spun, squaring off with Whitlock.

  “Bring it on,” Farrengalli shouted, spittle flying from his lips as his eyes danced from face to face. “Any of you. All of you.”

  Whitlock raised his arms and showed his open palms in a gesture of surrender. “Don’t blow it, Vincent. We’ve all got a lot riding on this, especially you.”

  “You don’t know what the fuck’s riding what.”

  “Mr. Farrengalli, the company won’t be pleased if this test run fails before the Muskrat even gets wet,” Lane said. “Don’t forget the bonuses.”

  Dove Krueger approached him, calm, her mouth twisted. “Remember what we talked about before?” she said to him, just loud enough that Raintree could hear. “You’re the real story.”

  Farrengalli rubbed at his face, then stepped toward the fire and kicked one of the smoldering logs. “Just everybody stay off my back, okay?” He stormed off to collect his gear.

  McKay’s shoulders sagged. “Honeymoon’s over, I guess.”

  “We’re still on schedule,” Lane said. “We all knew this would be stressful. We’re in good hands, right, Mr. Whitlock?”

  Whitlock ignored him. He said to Dove, “What did you mean, he’s the real story?”

  “An ego thing. Nothing you’d understand.”

  Whitlock blinked, muttered something under his breath that Raintree couldn’t hear over the hissing rush of water. Raintree finished inflating the raft, listening to the harsh gasp of the hand pump.

  “Okay, people,” Bowie shouted. “Let’s rock ‘n’ roll. Dove, kill the fire. McKay, finish pumping up the second raft. Lane, secure the gear in Raintree’s raft. Farrengalli…”

  The Italian turned his back, fumbled with the front of his shorts, and moments later his urine arced into the dying campfire. “Hey, Dove, you heard the man,” he said as stinking steam arose with a hiss. “Come give me a hand with this hose.”

  “You know where you can stick it, jerk,” she replied.

  Farrengalli’s laughter echoed off the trees and boulders. Raintree figured the man’s mood swings would lead to a few more confrontations before the trip was over. But that was Whitlock’s problem. Raintree had only one problem, the one inside his head, where the medicine swam, where crows flew and deer raced and mice scurried and snakes slithered, and nowhere, nowhere in the only-fuckin’-natural world, was there a place for him.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Castle found the discarded backpack just after sunrise.

  It lay about ten yards off the trail amid scuffled leaves. The bac kpack held an empty cardboard toilet paper tube, a quart-sized zip loc k baggie that held some granola crumbs, and a dog-eared novel by someb ody named Charlaine Harris. Judging from the pastel colors on the cove r, Castle figured the book belonged to the girl. He couldn’t imagine G oodall reading much of anything besides survival manuals and the Bible.

  Except his own headlines, he heard The Rook’s voice say in his head.

  The zippered section of the backpack contained a sealed condom, a can opener, and a pack of matches from the Bull’s Eye Bar amp; Grill in S tone Mountain, Georgia. Goodall had been careful in his first bomb att ack, leaving few clues despite the heavy concentration of agents assig ned to the case. Some believed if Goodall had been content with that o ne blow for perceived justice and had slipped back into the remote wil ds of the upper Midwest, his identity would still be a mystery. Instea d, he had grown increasingly reckless, and now that he’d been discover ed, he had nothing to lose.

  He never had nothing to lose in the first place, said The Rook’s voice.

  “Look,” Castle said, feeling stupid for talking to himself. “He le ft this here for me to find. He doesn’t care that I’m after him.”

  Oh, he does care. Remember the assessment. Everything’s a cry for attention with him.

  “Oh, yeah, if you’re so smart, why did your ass get hauled off by some weird bat-winged creature that doesn’t exist?”

  I respect your experience, partner, and you’re about the squarest man I’ve ever met. If I were your shrink, I’d lie down on the couch an d let you do the analyzing, then gladly pay the bill later. But ri ght now you can’t trust your own head. You haven’t had a wink of sleep, you’re delirious, you’re hungry, and three weeks in the wilderness c an do strange things to anybody.

  Above, the treetops veered in an autumnal spin of rust, gold, and dying green.

  “Fuck,” Castle said. “I’m talking to myself.”

  It’s okay to talk to yourself, came The Rook’s voice-that same combination of sidekick pep and college-professor smugness that plagued some behavior science guys and pissed off the SWAT types. After all, this is your show.

  “That doesn’t bother me so much,” Castle said. “The thing that bothers me is you’re probably dead.”

  You’re probably right.

  “What the hell happened to you?”

  You know as much as I do.

  “That’s a stretch. You’ve got three degrees, as you like to keep reminding me. I’m just a dummy with a narrow set of skills that happen to come in handy if you ever need to kill a man. Oh, and I have clumsy feet.”

  They didn’t teach about monsters
in college.

  “I don’t believe in monsters.”

  Audible sigh here. You can’t lie to me. I’m inside your head, remember?

  “Reckon so.”

  You’ve always believed in monsters.

  “What on Earth would the Bama Bomber be doing with a condom?”

  Maybe he likes to make funny animal balloon shapes. I’ll bet he does a great poodle.

  “You’re not taking this seriously.”

  Why should I? I’m probably dead, remember?

  Castle peered down the trail. He couldn’t see the river, but he could hear it and sense its power behind the wall of trees. He tossed down the backpack. “I’m talking to myself.”

  I don’t know, just postulating a theory here, but I’m betting the monsters only come out at night. So you can relax a little. You have about eleven good hours of daylight left.

  “I’ll get him for you.”

  No, you’ll get him for you. I’m just a figment of your imagination and therefore have no influence on your behavior.

  “Whatever. Just shut the fuck up, will you?”

  Castle scolded his tired legs into action and descended to the river.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “My feet are tired, Ace.”

  Ace’s feet were kind of tired, too, and it didn’t help that his boots had gotten wet. He could picture his toes, pale and shriveled as maggots on a griddle, skin peeling from his heels. As a member of the Dakota Sons of the Cross, he’d camped in the sub-zero winters of the Grand Tetons. The number-one rule of survival was to keep your socks dry. Food was no problem, not when you could stomach bark, leaves, and berries. You could melt snow in the mountains, or built an igloo, or dig into a stump and find sleeping grubs. You could always eat the corpses of your traveling companions if necessary. God wouldn’t hold a grudge over a thing like that.

  Wet and tired feet were another matter altogether. But that didn’t mean you had to bitch about it. “We just rested a half hour ago,” he said.