Glass shattered behind him. Walt turned in the spray and squeezed off two shots, expecting to see Coats, but it was the bear’s giant mitt that swiped at him through the broken window, five grotesque claws tearing through Walt’s shoulder and into his muscle. Walt fell into the dead cow, starting it swinging, slipped in the slime on the floor and scrambled quickly to his feet. By the time he did, there was no sign of the bear, only two splintered holes in the log wall where his wild shots had landed.
The chain holding the swinging dead cow creaked like a clock slowly winding down.
He briefly lifted the goggles, wishing he could do without them, but the difference was astonishing: the shed held only a faint glow of moonlight. Back in the world of green and black, he moved cautiously toward the tractor, stepping toward the center of the room to avoid a pile of clutter.
He stood there, panting from the rush of the bear attack, his shoulder throbbing, working the goggles left to right, searching out the hidden recesses and hiding places while anticipating a surprise attack.
Behind him, the swinging cow slowly twisted and spun as its metronomic ticktocking wound down. Unseen by Walt, the crude knife slice running down the center of the gutted animal twitched open and a human hand slipped out. Then another, this one bearing a bloodied meat hook. The gap widened to reveal the feverish face of Roy Coats.
Walt heard the icy crack of the cow carcass opening and spun.
The meat hook sank into his right hand. His gun dropped. His body followed the sinking weight of the hook as he screamed. The goggles bounced off his head. He crashed onto the dirt floor, his bruised chest sending shock waves of pain racing through his body.
Coats struggled to free the hook, but it had penetrated the meat of Walt’s hand and did not come loose. The two men were briefly connected by the hook, Coats unwilling to let it go, Walt unable to shake it loose. Walt, on his knees, punched out with his left hand and hit something spongy. The man wailed and released the meat hook.
Walt grabbed hold of the hook, gritted his teeth, and pulled it free. With his left hand, he sank the hook into Coats’s chest just as the man raised his head. His left arm was not nearly as strong or coordinated as his right, and, though the hook hit Coats, it did little more than graze him.
Walt punched the man’s leg in the same spot again and then kicked up, as Coats craned forward. He caught the man’s chin and heard the cracking of teeth.
Coats somehow had the hook now. He swung out at Walt, who scrambled back-one swipe, two-narrowly missing him. Walt collided with a pile of junk, and here came the hook again. He blocked it with a length of pipe seized from the pile. The hook came free.
Walt smashed the pipe into the man’s ankle and Coats screamed again.
The shack shook; it sounded like an earthquake.
Walt saw the gun: five feet to his left.
He dove for it.
Coats threw a knee into Walt’s face, stumbled forward and inadvertently kicked the gun away. It disappeared in the darkness into a pile of debris along the wall. Walt scrambled to his knees, swinging the pipe and connecting again. Then he pulled himself to his feet.
Coats backed up, away from the pipe, his right leg dragging awkwardly.
Walt staggered forward, barely conscious, his right arm and hand useless.
Coats snagged a fallen shovel and swung it madly into Walt’s left side. The blow knocked Walt into the hanging cow and he spun to fend off the next attack. The shovel glanced off the frozen cadaver.
The door broke from its hinges and crashed to the floor-first a rectangle of moonlight, which was then blotted out by the massive presence that filled it. The bear charged the first thing it saw: Roy Coats.
The shovel was lifted high but fell to the floor, handle first, the blow never delivered.
Walt heard the tear of clothing, followed quickly by the bubbling slobber of Coats attempting to cry out. But his cheek was no longer part of his face and his left eye was missing.
Walt knew better than to run for the door: he didn’t want the bear substituting him for his present target.
Hands on the cow, he realized where to hide and pulled himself into the frozen womb, the sounds of terror continuing in a relentless stream until Roy Coats was silenced forever and the bear wandered off and out.
69
AS FIFTEEN OF THE BACKUP DEPUTIES SEARCHED FOR MARK Aker, he stumbled into camp of his own accord.
Walt’s wounds were being tended to in the cabin as word arrived.
“Sheriff!” Brandon said from the doorway in a voice so urgent that Walt jumped up as one of his team attended his hand.
Brandon led Walt around to the side of the cabin and whispered, “He was just… standing there.”
Mark Aker was, in fact, standing between the shed and the woodpile in two feet of snow, an animal draped over his shoulders and held by its feet around his neck. A dog, Walt saw on closer inspection.
“I approached,” Brandon informed him, “but he stepped back, saying your name over and over. He’s in shock, or worse.”
“Mark,” Walt called out. “It’s me.”
“Sheriff Walt Fleming,” Aker called out again, as if he hadn’t heard. He took another step back.
“Your flashlight,” Walt said to Brandon. “Shine it on me.”
As the light struck Walt, revealing a scarred and battered man, Aker started walking toward him. Walt held a hand out, stopping Brandon from meeting him. Mark was clearly in shock or had hypothermia, skittish and unpredictable.
Aker fell to his knees, a few feet from Walt. At least, that was what Walt thought. In fact, Aker had only gone to his knees to unload the dog. With the dog now in his arms he stood, with difficulty, and passed it to Brandon.
He turned and faced Walt. “What took you so long?”
“The cabin’s warm. We have a medic.” Walt motioned toward the cabin.
“Coats?”
“Dead.”
“You found the test tube?” Aker was moving toward the cabin now. Brandon stood there holding the dog, wondering what to do with it.
“I could have used a note along with it,” Walt said.
“Needed to buy myself time.” His voice was distant. Walt realized they were losing him.
As they led him inside the cabin, Aker began to shiver uncontrollably in waves that bordered on seizures. The medic began an IV, as they undressed him and wrapped him in wool blankets. Forty minutes later, he and Walt were Life Flighted out and flown to Boise for medical attention. Aker slipped into unconsciousness on the way and could not be revived. He remained in a coma for three days when, miraculously-or so the doctors said-he sat up, fully alert.
Walt never left the man’s bedside, running his office and writing reports from room 317.
It wasn’t until Aker regained consciousness that they were finally able to contact his family, all of whom had been holed up in a Holiday Inn in Ogden, Utah, on Aker’s orders.
They might have arrived sooner, had the press gotten hold of the story, but not a sentence had been-or would be-written about the events of the past weeks. A task force of federal agencies had descended upon all concerned to debrief Walt and his team, requiring their signatures on nondisclosure agreements.
The rights of a few for the good of the many, Walt thought.
A cover story was invented for Mark Aker that involved his family’s desire for privacy and his father’s fictional heart condition. The efficiency and thoroughness of the government surprised everyone involved; even Danny Cutter had been silenced by its efforts, not an easy task.
THREE WEEKS LATER, the first rumors began to circulate around the valley. Walt declined comment but knew the stories had helped with his reelection.
On a wintry Halloween night in Hailey, limping and unable to use his right hand, he accompanied Gail escorting the girls as they went house to house in town. While the girls waited in line at a busy house, Gail spoke to him for the first time since “Hello.”