Omar sighed a deep sigh, climbed into the helicopter, and held the door open with a foot. He began flipping switches and from the center of the machine a high whine began slowly setting the rotors in motion. He started to place the headphones over his ears but stopped, leaned sideways through the still open door, and shouted to be heard over the increasing roar of the big engine, “You tell that Indian, if he comes out of here alone?”
I waited.
“I will see him dead.”
I lowered my head, held the Weatherby in both hands, and quickly dropped over the ridge. The deep hues of the helicopter’s exterior reflected the lakes; it quickly rose from the rocks and veered toward the center of the valley as a few pieces of the trimmed lodgepole pines scattered and dropped to the ground. A strong blast of the oncoming storm caught the chopper broadside, sending it in a cascading pitch that threatened to drop it in the lake below. Omar deflected the wind pattern and converted the stall into a rolling turn that carried it across the valley. I continued to watch for the next minute as he made the grade and slipped through the pass and down the mountainside toward the safety of Durant International far below. I walked the rest of the way down the hill and met Henry at the ridge. “Neiman Marcus decided not to honor our frequent flier miles.”
“That is what we get for flying coach.” He handed me an abbreviated version of my pack. “The tops disconnect from the rest to make a fanny pack. We both have two bottles of water and a little food, but that is all.”
“A jug of wine and thou…” He didn’t say anything but turned and started off down the banks of the western lake toward the trail that would eventually lead us out. A haze had begun enveloping the hills where the trail disappeared. The fog of low-flying clouds had begun eating the mountains, and we were headed down its throat. I wasn’t quite sure why I was feeling as good as I was. Maybe it was because I had perceived a challenge and had accepted it, or maybe it was because I didn’t see any other options. But I felt good and decided not to ruin it with too much recrimination. I caught up and pulled alongside of him. “He can’t be too far, since he left all his stuff at the lake.”
“Or he is dead.”
“I wish you’d stop saying that.”
He turned his head slightly toward me as he walked. “Would you go out this way fishing and leave all your supplies at the lake?”
“He’s not the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree.”
“Maybe.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
I notice that he had tied some tubular webbing from the packs to the shotgun, making a sling, which he now pulled up higher on his shoulder. “Do you remember what George Esper looks like?”
I thought for a moment. “Yep.”
“I remember what Cody Pritchard looked like, I remember what Bryan Keller looks like, and I have a pretty good image of what Jacob Esper looked like, but whenever I think of George, I cannot seem to bring the image into focus.”
I thought about the pictures, the ones I kept in the Little Bird file, the ones I had cut from the Durant High School yearbook. I had studied them enough over the past few years that I should have been able to tell you every significant feature of George Esper’s face, but I couldn’t. I shook my head. “Look, maybe we’re getting worked up about nothing. Maybe he’s just waiting for his brother.”
He started down the trail and called over his shoulder, “He will be waiting for a long time.”
We climbed the hillside in the Forest Service’s zigzag pattern that led to a granite outcropping where the run-off from the lakes escaped to the rocks below. The wind picked up again, and the cold air found every inch of uncovered skin on my hands, ears, and neck. I looked down the valley and at the trail we would be using as the snow began overtaking everything within a quarter mile. In two minutes, it would be to us. Henry had stopped too, to pull up the government-issue parka hood and to look back at the lakes. I pushed his shoulder. “Considering the situation, why don’t you talk about something happy?”
I watched as he tied the drawstring at his neck. “I thought I was.” He shifted the shotgun from his shoulder and cradled it in his arms, first looking down the trail at the approaching wall of snow, then off to the distant lakes. His eyes softened at the view, and he seemed sad. “These… young men, when they did what they did to my niece? For me, they no longer existed. For good or bad, they were gone.” His eyes returned to mine. “Do you understand?” His eyes stayed with mine. “It is the best I can afford them.”
I waited a moment, but it seemed as if he wanted me to say something. “All right.”
He smiled and once again threw the makeshift strap of the shotgun over his shoulder. “It is far from that, but it will have to do.” He continued to smile, then flipped the flaps down on his fingerless gloves and twisted his fingers into the mitts. The smile warmed me even as the flakes began stinging my face. He threw a paw up and thumped my shoulder twice. “Anyway… Revenge is a dish best served cold.” With this, he turned and walked into the low-flying clouds and the maelstrom of snow that had reached us.
I listened as the drums began a low rhythm and watched as the broad shoulders picked their way carefully down the trail. The world began to turn white, and the Bear disappeared.
12
Even in the snow-muffled air and the distance between us, I heard the gunshot.
We had been battling our way through the wind and the snow; it was an early storm, so the flakes were as big as silver dollars and, with the force of the wind, hit with the same impact. Henry and I had worked our way over the slight rise and outcropping, staying to the right as the trail followed the general path of the stream, and had moved past Mirror Lake with no results. The water continued to run fast from the hanging valley and you could hear it when the wind died down, which it did but with lessening regularity. The blizzard had arrived, visibility had dropped to about twenty feet, and you couldn’t see much of anything except the creek.
The Forest Service path remained visible as it wound its way along the stream basin but, in another hour, the depression that made up the trail would be filled with the fast accumulating snow. I took a small measure of solace in the fact that the part that led to the West Tensleep parking lot was not only tree covered but downhill, and we didn’t have that far to go before we would get to that section. But the farther we got, the farther my heart sank with the thought that George Esper was not going to be found. I had already summoned up the image of George’s bones, scattered by all the little animals by springtime, their bleached white contrasting sharply with the green of the fresh, high-meadow grass. I watched as Henry’s image faded in and out of the white swarm of the blowing snow. Every time he disappeared, I quickened my step a bit, wanting comfort from the dark shape that stayed just ahead of me.
Was the killer here? The last two murders had been within easy reach of roads, of quick access and egress, so I didn’t think so. But what about the boot prints? It was a popular boot in a very popular size, and the possibility that George, Jacob, and some guy from Casper wore the same shoe wasn’t out of the question. I had just about convinced myself that it was coincidence when I heard the shot. It was not the report of the Remington I knew Henry was carrying.
It was close, close enough that I thought I might have seen the muzzle flash. Hearing the sound of a gunshot when you’re not expecting it is like sticking your finger in a light socket, but hearing this gunshot was more like sticking that finger into a fuse box. I know I jumped, because I had to catch myself from slipping on the freezing ground and falling into the icy water.
I wasn’t aware that I had started running or how fast I covered the distance between us, but the next thing I saw were two distinct figures in the swirling haze of snow. One was seated in the path with his feet before him and was slouched forward, and the other was standing over the first and held something in his hands. With the keening of the wind, they didn’t hear me coming even though I’m sure that the pounding of my feet and my ragged breathing alone was enough to get the dead to roll over. For some reason, I hadn’t unslung the rifle during my run but was just now slipping it from my shoulder and gripping it with both hands.