He found the trail again, pulled the night goggles on, adjusted his gloves, no longer worried about Nyland fixing laser gun sights on him, no risk of that with this snowfall and twilight. The trail dipped and descended, left the rock and became trough-shaped after dark, curved like a chute ahead with the new snow layering it.
He spotted a footprint and adrenaline kicked in, then more boot prints nearly filled with snow and he knew Nyland was somewhere up ahead. He passed a wooden sign, Red Peaks Trail, crouched behind a rock, used his flashlight to study the map, drank water, ate, and made a call to Shauf. With the locator she confirmed he was on the correct trail.
“Any sign of him?”
“Footprints. I’m taking it slow, not trying to catch him, just keep track of him.”
He signed off with her and started again, hiking in heavier snow but less wind. He’d gauged the whole hike across and through Desolation as eight hours and had been up here a couple. His hands and feet were cold, though everything else was fine. Cheeks a little numb. He squatted and checked marks on the trail, risked the flashlight again, and the marks didn’t read as footprints. An hour later he made another call to Shauf and huddled under a granite shelf trying to warm up, telling Shauf he’d lost the footprints but figured he had no choice but to continue hiking across toward Tahoe. He fired the gas stove, let it boil a cup of water in the shelter of a rock cleft, wrapped bare hands around the flame, cleaned the goggles, and stared out into the storm again. Where are you?
When he started again he stumbled, kicking rocks newly covered by snow, losing the trail, losing time finding it again, using Shauf and the satellites to locate himself. The wind kept working the cold in, and each mile came hard. Then not long after midnight the snow lessened and there were breaks in the clouds, ragged tears, starlight on the new snow and darkness again. It became easier to keep the goggles operable. As he hiked toward Velma Lakes he knew either he had a break in the storm or it was ending, and he checked with Shauf, who was monitoring air traffic weather. She told him that Doppler radar showed the worst was over, which heartened him, took some of the leadenness out of his legs. He figured the expenditure of adrenaline and the cold gnawing away at him accounted for the unusual tiredness. He cleaned the goggles again and saw the outline of terrain farther ahead, saw no sign of Nyland.
At 1:30 he ate more of his food, the almonds, another candy bar, a slug of water. He sloughed ahead through snow drifted six inches deep in the low sections of trail. Anyone walking ahead would leave tracks, and periodically he stopped, leaned on a rock, and studied the terrain behind. He switched the Gore-Tex hood for a cap because he didn’t like the way the fabric affected his hearing, the constant rustling.
Then he heard a hound bay and looked for a place to hide, left the trail and found rocks. He heard the hound again and with the wind couldn’t place the direction, then realized it was from behind and that Nyland could be following his tracks, not knowing who he was. He crossed the trail, stepped among red firs growing closely together, stepping on patches of needles the snow hadn’t reached, using the needles as stepping-stones to avoid leaving tracks. He pulled his gun and wrapped his other hand around the small flashlight.
With his belly against a rock he lay and waited, then heard Nyland quieting his dog, the hound whining and snuffling, Nyland hesitating, stopping on the trail, still not quite to where the trail passed below Marquez’s position. The dog had picked up a scent. Now he heard Nyland’s boots sloughing through the snow and the dog running ahead. He waited for Nyland to pass by and then got ready to come over the rock and slide down behind Nyland onto the trail. Do it. It’s not going to get any easier. He drew a deep breath and went, clicked the flashlight on as he came down on the trail.
“Don’t move! I’ve got a gun on you, Nyland. Don’t move!” But Nyland went into motion, spinning, and then coming at Marquez. Marquez had time to shoot him but didn’t pull the trigger, and Nyland tackled him. Marquez lost his gun as he went down and the hound ripped at his pant leg. Nyland was strong, fighting hard, and was trying to get a gun out. He managed to pull it out and then it discharged, missing both of them.
Marquez struggled to get the gun Nyland held, pinning the arm that held it while Nyland clubbed at Marquez’s head with his other hand. But now Marquez gripped the gun and twisted. Nyland’s trigger finger was trapped, and it made a dry snapping noise as bone broke. The gun fell into snow and Nyland grunted in pain, tried to retrieve the gun, and Marquez brought an elbow down on his face, crushing the lens of his goggles. The next blow shattered Nyland’s nose.
“Stop moving and lay still,” Marquez said, gasping for breath, forcing the words out as he got ready to hit him again. Nyland surged, and Marquez had to hit him hard one more time, this last with the butt of Nyland’s gun. He handcuffed him, the hound barking inches from his face. He searched Nyland for weapons, took yet another gun off him and a cell phone, he recovered his own gun and rested, holding the gun and flashlight beam on Nyland, deciding as he caught his breath how to do this, hike him out or wait for morning and help.
Nyland bled from the nose. The broken finger pointed sideways, and Marquez moved the flashlight back to his face.
“You’re going to hike out, so suck it up. Unlike Petroni you’re alive.”
“I didn’t kill fucking Petroni.”
“You’re a good man, Nyland, just misunderstood. You’re going to walk ahead of me, but don’t get up until I tell you to.”
He went through Nyland’s pack before placing it in the trail where it could easily be found in the morning.
“I can’t see,” Nyland said as Marquez got him to his feet.
“I’ll shine a light through your legs. If you fall, stand up and start walking again. If you run, I’ll shoot you.”
Marquez had tied the thin rope he’d found in Nyland’s pack to one of Nyland’s ankles, figured if Nyland ran he’d bring him down by jerking his leg out from under him and dragging him. Keeping Nyland twenty feet ahead, they started walking, the thin rope sliding along the snow behind, the hound sticking near Nyland. A mile into it Nyland started playing games, staggering, pretending to trip, shuffling his boots through the snow, exaggerating his difficulty walking. Marquez said nothing to any of it.
They moved slowly, but they moved, and sometime after daylight Marquez knew they’d reached the Eagle Lake Trail. An hour in he had Nyland stop and kneel on the trail while he called Shauf.
“I’ve got him. I’m walking him out.”
“Okay, got your position, I’ll notify everybody.”
He hung up with her and listened to Nyland spit blood and mucus. He gave him some water, sat on a rock nearby and listened to the rhythm on his breathing, decided Nyland was fine to keep walking. But before telling him to get to his feet again he tweaked him.
“Who killed Petroni?”
“I don’t know.”
“Bullshit. Was it Durham?”
“I don’t know. I hardly see Durham. I haven’t seen him in three weeks.”
“Who milks the caged bears?”
“I don’t know anything about caged bears.”
“Sophie has turned on you, but battered women can be like that. She led the detectives to where you hid the rifle in the sales office, and now they’ve got a murder warrant. She’s turning state’s witness. You’re going to be the fall guy for Durham and whoever else.”
“I don’t want to hear your shit. Walk me out.”
“Where were you headed? Is Durham waiting up ahead? If I was him and you could testify against me, I might be waiting up ahead. Of course, with all the police, I don’t know. But I sure wouldn’t want you to get a chance to plea-bargain.”
They started down the trail again and nothing was said for another hour. When they took the next rest Marquez could tell Nyland was getting ready to try something, and then he asked for his night goggles back.