Death Canyon (15 page)

“I am sure you are not surprised to hear, though, that modern religion—in fact, all religions since the pagans—has overcomplicated the issue. The world itself, you see, cannot end. She is eternal. The question becomes then, how are the righteous rewarded and the vile punished? The answer is easy: it happens every single day. The event—or, more accurately, a series of millions of events—occurs every time a boat is overturned in a squall or a town is destroyed by an earthquake.

“ ‘Survival of the fittest' is often cited as a simple model for our reality. This idiom is close to getting it right—it would be on point if it were changed to ‘survival of the most devout.' You see, Nature
is a killer, but she kills only when she has been wronged. Those that challenge Nature and doubt her omnipotence are crushed by her. Culling events take place every day and this is
our
eschatology.

“Our most holy mission, then, is to remind the world that despite advances in industry and science—even in survival techniques and equipment—they must respect Nature. In this way alone, the groundwork will be laid for true cooperation with Nature. Human ingenuity has allowed us to trespass against Nature—a man who is snakebit can now simply be given an antivenin. This, however, is the ultimate sin. We are reversing the will of the being that created us.”

The Shaman now paused for a moment. “Our job, as protectors of this earth and humble servants of Nature, is to facilitate her will. For this reason, I am hereby creating a new division of our family of soldiers.” Sam had never heard the man use the word
soldier
—a word that held such solemn connotations. “I invite you, as competent and honest followers, to join the Revelators.”

Moved by the Shaman's words, Sam felt anxious to fulfill his will. Still, he had questions regarding the formation of this new and seemingly violent team.

What exactly is he asking of us? How are four people supposed to change common thought about the world?

The Shaman walked toward the door, sensing their apprehension. “You don't have to decide at this moment,” he said, “and there is no formal invocation. If you are interested in helping us change the world, we will proudly include you in one of our missions. Think on it.”

“Thank you, Shaman,” Sam said with a slight grin pulling at his lips. The opportunity to work closely with the Shaman stirred excitement within him.

The door was now open and the man and woman quickly understood
that they were to leave. When Sam moved for the door, the Shaman shook his head, asking him to stay behind.

“Have a seat.”

Sam did as the Shaman asked and sat down with the two men in the center of the cabin. A short time of silence prompted him to make eye contact with them, but they were looking at each other silently. Finally, the Shaman spoke.

“I've heard that you joined us from quite a ways off, Sam,” he started informally. Sam nodded. “We're happy to have you and impressed with your dedication. Crossing an ocean to aid us in our mission is admirable, and I think such an act . . .” He paused for a short moment, thinking of what to say next. “It reenforces the gravity and urgency of the situation facing us. Is it true that you are living under an assumed identity here in the States?”

Sam nodded. He had arranged for it through a contact before he left London.

“Given your incredible motivation to help us—to help the whole world—I have decided to invite you to participate in an operation of great importance. This task does not require much of you. In fact, it is a simple task, but the
importance
of your success is incredibly high. If you accept my request, you will undertake to act as one of the key cogs of the most significant mission this organization, or any other organization that calls itself a friend of the earth, has ever accomplished.

“Your assignment involves the fundamental purpose of our new branch. Your job will be to help us inform the world that their abuse of Mother Nature will no longer be tolerated, that they are not and have never been the sole inhabitants of this world, and if they continue to take advantage of the being that provides for them without showing due respect, they will suffer.”

When he finished this statement, the Shaman looked angry, and shades of violence showed on his face. Another moment of silence nearly prompted Sam to ask for more specifics—for some real idea of what was actually being asked of him. To ask, though, would have been considered disrespectful, so Sam was relieved when the Shaman spoke.

“What I ask that you do, Sam, is simply to observe a person. The mission, in a sense, is a reconnaissance mission. Your one and only duty will be to observe, noting all of your observations in a notebook, so that you don't forget any details. The details are very important. Every day, you will provide us with a phone report of your observations.”

The Shaman paused for a second, then said: “That's it—you will not be asked or required to do any more. You will not be informed of the relevance of your task unless you wish to be so informed. You will only be provided with information equivalent to the amount of trust that we place in you. Our level of trust, of course, will be dictated by your own devotion to the cause. In the glove box of your vehicle you'll find a notebook with a few addresses. These locations are the places you must watch. Start tomorrow. For tonight, help sabotage the site if you'd like.”

Sam smiled, but finally, the longer, unmistakable silence came that meant Sam was supposed to respond. He cleared his throat nervously and spoke briefly, agreeing to do as the Shaman asked. He was still not clear on the details, but Sam expected those would come soon enough. The proposition still made him uncomfortable—the Shaman's words were serious; he spoke of suffering explicitly, and even worse, he conveyed implicitly to Sam that he intended to punish those with whom he disagreed. It seemed that the Shaman was not eager to share the details of the plan with Sam, and even if he was to offer
up such information, Sam wondered whether he wanted to know. He left the cabin, however, without voicing these concerns to either the Shaman or the banker. He did not want his loyalty doubted.

*  *  *

Shortly after Sam left, the banker was dismissed from the room. He walked out into the ramshackle camp, a spiral-shaped village of old tents and lean-tos with well-worn pathways connecting them. The cabin where the meeting was held was the largest structure, situated in the center of the spiral. Outside their homes, the team members were busy preparing to honor their leader's request, which made Ryder feel proud of himself and of the organization—they were finally becoming a real army, no longer asking for change but now compelling it.

Soon, these team members, proselytes and votaries alike, would make it impossible for the plot of land in Jackson Hole to be developed, and over time, the Revelators would coerce all developers,
all those who abused the earth
 . . .
all people,
to pursue a more righteous path in the name of Mother Nature.

*  *  *

The Shaman, alone now, was suddenly struck by an ugly mood. He clenched his teeth, wiggling his upper and lower jaws firmly against each other so he could feel them move slightly at their roots from the force. The Revelators were meant to bolster his power over his contingent, but he got the feeling it left them somewhat confused.

The boy, Sam, had annoyed him, internally debating whether he should heed his new leader's requests, but too insecure to question him. This anxiety and weakness reminded the Shaman of the way
he imagined others saw him as a child—bitter and full of criticism. But meek. Passive-aggressive.

The speech, the camp, and even the clothes he wore, it was all a ruse, but his followers and his power over them were real. He, their Shaman, could command them to do anything, and they would listen. The feeling was intoxicating.

The original Shaman, of course, was dead. The
new
Shaman had arranged a meeting with him in private and crudely slit his throat with an old box cutter.

It hadn't been easy, either; the real Shaman had put up quite a fight. As he lay there bleeding out with his assailant leaning over him, he still fought. All the killer felt at first was a pinch, like a bee sting. He looked down to see the dead man holding a leather pouch in his left hand and a bamboo skewer in his right.

The effects kicked in quickly and the newly crowned Shaman stumbled to his car. He wiped the blood from himself and went to the emergency room as fast as he could, but by the time he got to the reception desk he could barely stand up.

For three days he slept in the hospital, suffering hideous night terrors. When he was conscious, the doctor came in firing questions.

“Have you been in Central or South America recently? Africa? How were you poisoned?”

He fell back into unconsciousness before he could answer. When he awoke again, the doctor was still there, standing over his bed with a group of nurses wearing face masks. The bright lights burned his eyes.

“You're lucky to be alive, you know. We need to know how and where you came into contact with whatever caused this. It's extremely important.”

The doctor was suspicious, and the patient, despite the lingering fog of the poison, could tell.

“Answer me!” the doctor shouted.

The new Shaman sat up in the bed. “I need a shower,” he said. “Then we'll talk.”

He refused assistance, assuring the group he could shower on his own. When the doctor left, he slipped out through a back stairwell. He was free.

The new Shaman returned to the crime scene and burned the body in an incinerator some two thousand miles from Jackson Hole. He slowly grew healthy, but he was sure he could still feel the effects of the poison within him. It put him on edge, made him tense and angry. Angrier than usual.

What the hell was in that dart?! Some voodoo bullshit! He fucking cursed me! Stupid hippie!

He had killed quite a few men in his life, but the effects of killing the Shaman had stuck with him like no other. After that day, everything in his life was darker. Whether it was the poison or a curse or something else, he couldn't be sure. All he knew was that while he was never a saint by any stretch of the mark, he now felt even more like a devil.

None of his followers knew anything about the murder. Not even those who had met the real Shaman before his untimely death. For a while, the real Shaman was traveling. Then he was imprisoned in France for five years. Those who knew the real Shaman best barely knew him at all and so this new leader easily took his identity. He had cut his hair and lost some weight, but this was their Shaman. They had no doubt.

The wait for visitation hours seemed like an eternity. Noelle had left her cabin with plenty of time to get to the facility by 9 a.m. She sped and arrived ten minutes early. Working for the government had its perks, not the least of which was near total immunity to traffic citations. Her excitement had apparently manifested itself visibly when she got to the hospital's reception area.

“No visitors yet,” the nurse retorted somewhat harshly when Noelle tried to check in.

“Oh, sorry. I thought it was visiting hours.”

The woman looked at her watch. “Eight fifty-three. Morning visiting hours are nine to eleven thirty.” She pointed to a plaque that said the same. “Any other questions?”

Noelle's zeal for her investigation had grown overnight. She'd tossed and turned, pondering the fake bear tooth and what it could
possibly mean. Now she leafed through magazines anxiously, awaiting the opportunity to speak with the only surviving witness of the attack.

Although Noelle was excited by the prospect of the unfolding mystery, the hospital waiting room sickened her in a way that she could only barely ignore. The gravity of death couldn't be avoided in a hospital. Here, close calls and miracles were less and less likely, and death, the only
real
fact of life, often prevailed.

Noelle kept her mind focused on her task, but she still pondered the legitimacy of her self-directed mission. On one hand, she felt in control, as if she was on to something here, about to do something right. On the other, she was starting to feel a bit guilty and even embarrassed.

What the hell am I doing here, questioning a critically injured woman because I have some stupid hunch? I should leave and go back to work.

Just talking with the woman, though, a Mrs. Adelaine Giroux, according to Noelle's coworkers at the park, could do no harm. She hoped the woman was in good enough health to provide some answers. She also hoped the language barrier wouldn't prevent her from comprehending those answers.

*  *  *

Jake was just waking up, but he hadn't slept in because of fatigue. More because his subconscious was trying to wish away the reality of the problems he would face when he awoke.

At least I'm out of custody,
was his first conscious thought. He brushed his teeth quickly and made a pot of coffee while listening to the news on KMTN, the Mountain. There was hardly any local news that day, mainly a few national stories that didn't interest Jake. They didn't sound like they would interest anybody, actually.

He'd half-expected to hear news about another mysterious death in the area. This was from his years in Philly—when his thought process was darker, more suspicious. A thought process that had reestablished itself in the last few days, much to his surprise.

Before long, as if his feet had a mind of their own, Jake was on his way to St. John's hospital. He had no idea that Noelle was already there.

To help unravel the river murder, Jake wanted to understand what really happened at the Gosling Lake bear attack. Maybe it was a long shot, but the truth about the bear attack might be enough to lead the police down a path that didn't point to Jake.