He winced. The smell of fresh blood and exposed stomach contents was acrid. Shards of flesh were ripped from clean white bones and the pile reminded him of the aftermath of a Thanksgiving turkey.
Trying not to look at the mutilation directly, he kept his head to the side while he rolled the body over. The underside was not as torn up. In the back pocket of the trousers he found a wallet. Inside was an EasyPayXpress Unlimited MetroCard for the New York subway system, $480 in cash, assorted credit and business cards, family photos of a very large and dark-haired clan, and a New York State driver’s license identifying the victim as Anthony Joseph D’Amato.
D’Amato’s clothes had largely been torn away and they’d bunched beneath his back. Cody rooted through the shredded clothing and felt something crackle. It was the familiar and fantastically welcome sound of crinkling cellophane, and Cody dropped manically to his knees and ripped at the bundle with both hands.
Within a slit and blood-spattered double Ziploc bag was a crushed, half-empty pack of Marlboro Lights.
“D’Amato,” Cody said, “bless you for being a secret smoker.”
It was obvious one of the grizzlies had swiped the plastic bag with claws that sliced through the cigarettes to the skin below. Cody rooted through the pack, breathing in the sweet smell of powdered tobacco, and found three intact cigarettes. The longest one had a small smear of red on the side of it.
He looked at it for a second and conceded that yes, he was smoking a dead man’s last bloodstained cigarettes.
He lit up and sat back and inhaled, looking around for the bears, half expecting them to come barreling out of the forest like demons to rip his throat out while his defenses were down.
And he wasn’t sure it would be the worst way to go because at least it would be epic and quick.
He left the body of D’Amato on the trail until he could figure out what to do with it. He had no rope to hang it, and it would be a matter of time before the bears came back. His camera was gone with Gipper.
Cody bushwhacked through the brush in the general direction his horse had run. As he shouldered through tree trunks and stepped over downed timber while smoking his cigarette, he felt it was getting lighter. He walked toward the light and within ten minutes stepped out of the trees into a small grassy clearing.
The satellite phone had a signal. He punched the number for the cell phone Larry had said to call. Reception was clear and he heard it ring on the other end. Four, five, six rings. No voice mail prompt. Cody let it ring, figuring Larry would eventually hear it and pick up.
While he waited he slowly pivoted in the meadow so he could keep his eyes out in every direction. He held the AR-15 muzzle down in his right hand. The safety was off. There were no signs of bears, or wolves, or his horse, or whomever had killed Tristan Glode, Russell, and D’Amato. And before them, the string of recovering alcoholics including Hank Winters.
Two minutes later, Cody was surprised when he heard a click through his earpiece. Someone was on the other end.
“Larry?” Cody said.
Breathing.
“Larry, is that you?”
No other background sound. Just rhythmic breathing. Cody checked the display on his phone to make sure he dialed the correct number. He had. A phone rang somewhere in the background. It was a familiar ring.
“Who is this? Can you hear me?”
The breathing quieted and there was silence but the line was still open. Cody recognized the action as when someone places their hand over the microphone to muffle sound.
“Speak to me,” Cody said. “Say something. I’m calling on official police business. This is an emergency.”
After a beat, the line was disconnected.
Battling doubts and tendrils of cold fear rising up from his lower stomach, he punched in the numbers again. He did it deliberately, making sure he didn’t misdial.
The recorded message said the number was no longer available.
Cody lowered his handset and stared into the sky. It hadn’t been Larry, he was sure of it. And it hadn’t been a stranger answering an unfamiliar phone, like if Larry had inadvertently left the phone unattended on his desk or at a restaurant.
Whoever answered kept quiet until Cody identified himself. Until Cody had spoken, revealing himself. As if he’d been waiting for the call for quite some time.
And the ring in the background-before it was muffled-was as familiar to him as the sound of his alarm clock. He knew it because it was how the obsolete phones rang in the Lewis and Clark County Sheriff’s Department headquarters.
Deep in the timber, in the direction of the trail, he heard a branch snap.
Cody kept the satellite phone on and clipped it back on his belt. He squinted toward the wall of trees to the east where the sound had come from.
There was the click of steel on rock, a distinctive sound. Then the snort of a horse.
Gipper?
Wrong direction, Cody said to himself while raising the AR-15. He wished he had his gear because he very much wanted to replace the short magazine in his rifle with a thirty-rounder.
He heard the squeak of leather and another footfall. His mouth went dry.
A horse was coming. Maybe more than one. It was approaching in a deliberate manner that meant someone was in the saddle.
He lowered himself into a shooter’s stance and took a deep breath.
33
As Jed approached Camp Two walking his horse behind him, the conversations stopped abruptly.
“My horse went lame,” he said. “I didn’t get very far on him before he pulled up hurt.”
“So you didn’t find them?” Knox asked, distressed.
“Didn’t get that far,” Jed said.
“Jesus,” Knox cried to the others, “is anything going to go right at some point?”
Jed knew he had to extricate himself and turn their attention to other matters. He thought, Get out ahead of the situation and take over in the lead again.
He was heartened that no one actually confronted him as he entered the camp. Although Dakota, Rachel Mina, and the girl Gracie seemed to view him with challenge and fear-fear was okay, challenge wasn’t-none of them said a word. Which meant they were ceding control of the situation to him, at least a little. He shot a glance at the dad. Angry fathers could be a force to themselves. He hadn’t expected Ted Sullivan to take him on and the man didn’t.
Whatever they’d been saying about him was suddenly off-limits now that he’d shown up. It used to bother him a little when he’d overhear his clients criticizing him or the decisions he made, but it didn’t anymore as long as it didn’t evolve into open revolt, which it never had. Jed understood how groups worked. A bunch of strangers thrown together sought common ground, and that common ground was often the outfitter who’d brought them together. He was the common denominator among clients of different social strata and interests. So in order to converse, they’d have to find something to either celebrate or bitch about, and that usually turned out to be him, one way or another.
Jed said to everyone, “Look, folks, I know you’re all worried about what’s going on. It’s crazy to have lost those people, and I’m damned sorry it happened. I’m also damned sorry I took off after them on a horse with a bad wheel.” He gestured toward his bay.
“What I need to ask you folks,” he said, “is to remain calm. Please remain calm. I can kind of tell there are all sorts of conspiracy tales flying around and all sorts of speculation. That’s natural. But you’re here in this fine camp with plenty of food and comfort. There’s no reason to be worried about anything.”