Impasse (20 page)

The flow of passengers had slowed. A woman with small children and too many bags was exiting. Still no Stu.
For God's sake!
Katherine checked the flight number for the tenth time. Then suddenly the hallway was empty. She waited until crew began to emerge. She hailed a woman in a navy skirt and jacket with a gold pin in the shape of wings slightly askew on her chest.

“Are there any more passengers?”

“No. Are you waiting for a child?”

“No.” Katherine smiled. A smile made people more likely to help, and the woman was going off duty. Complainers were avoided. Polite and persistent worked best. “I'm missing a husband.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“A little of both.”

The flight attended chuckled. “Let me get you to someone who can help.”

Her charm worked like a charm. Navy Suit escorted her straight to the front of the line, where the male gate agent took over and ran Stu's name.

“He didn't board,” the man said.

“In Seattle?”

“In Fairbanks.”

“No. He would have called.”

“I can't explain that,” the agent said, decidedly less friendly than the attendant, despite the fact that he was on the clock. He returned Katherine's blank look, signaling that he'd done all he could and there were other customers waiting. He clearly wasn't happy that Navy Suit had brought her to the front of the line. Katherine's voice went up an octave, less polite, more persistent.

“Well, where is he? Can't you track him?”

“Ma'am, we can't find someone who didn't get on our plane. It's not like we lost a bag.”

“No, you lost my husband.”

“Maybe he lost himself.”

 

CHAPTER 24

“Hello?” A deep voice rumbled in Stu's head.

I'm dead. And that's God. He's going to tell me that nonbelievers don't get in
.
Shit.

“Who the hell's in here?” the voice asked, its rich bass filling the tiny cabin.

The voice is in the cabin. Not in my head.
Stu was, at first, relieved that it wasn't God, who likely wouldn't reference the devil's homeland in a simple occupation inquiry. Then an even more encouraging thought struck him. He tried to sit up. “Ivan?”

“No. But be cool. I ain't looking to cause trouble.”

There was a figure in the doorway—actually, just a head peeking around the corner. Stu tried to talk again, but he could only make a sick croaking sound.

“Look, just put it down, fella,” the head was saying.

At first Stu didn't know what the talking head was talking about. Then he realized that he was holding the rifle. It wasn't pointed at the head. It was askew in his hands, as though he'd been experimenting with its orientation. He let go, and the .30-06 thumped to the dirt floor.

“Are you okay, buddy?”

No.
Stu looked up with pleading eyes. A full figure emerged behind the head, and a man stood in the doorway.

“If you've got your heart set on finishing it, I'll leave you to it. But if you need help, just say so.”

Help
.
That is what I need!
He could nod; he did nod. At least he thought he did. But the man didn't acknowledge it; instead he darted in to grab the rifle. Then he was gone.

Stu wondered if he'd ever been there at all. Perhaps it
was
God, and he left when he saw who was on death's doorstep—Stuart Stark, the unbeliever.
That Pastor Richards ratted me out. I knew it!
Or else the man was just a rifle thief. Either way, he was gone now. Stu drifted.

Then the man was back. It might have been a minute or an hour. Tough to tell. He was pouring water into Stu's mouth.

“Swallow slowly. I don't need you chucking on me again. And here's a cracker for starters. Damn, it stinks in here.”

Stu didn't remember “chucking,” and wasn't sure exactly what it was. He allowed himself to be fed, first crackers and water, then a juice mix and dried fruit of some sort—he couldn't really taste it. He was weak and had to chew twenty or thirty times before he could choke it down with a mouthful of liquid.

Then he slept.

It was difficult to tell how long he'd been out. It was night, so it had to be somewhere between four and sixteen hours.
Or twenty-eight and forty.
Could he have slept an entire day? Possibly. Not likely. The man crouched beside a tidy fire, which blazed away in the pit, not too hot, not too weak.

“Ahh, finally it lives,” the man said in the cheerless voice of someone who'd been terribly inconvenienced.

Stu found he could sit up. More important, he could speak, though his mouth felt warm and muddy, and his breath tasted like rancid milk. “Are you the rescue pilot?” he asked, thinking it a fair and obvious question.

“Rescue? Ha!”

That doesn't sound good.
The man offered no further explanation.

“Well, thank you for helping me,” Stu said. “I was in pretty rough shape.”

“Still are. But this talking and the sitting thing is a good sign for you. You want your gun back?”

“It's not mine. But yes.”

“If you need to finish what you started, I can give it to you and leave you in peace.”

“Finish what?”

“You were about to blow your own head off.”

“No, I wasn't.”

“Well I'm no psychologist or expert on human behavior, but yes, you were. You had the damned barrel in your mouth.”

My mouth. The business end.
Stu remembered it like a dream, rotating the firearm with a dull fascination until his lips were wrapped around it. “I was delirious. I didn't know what I was doing.” He frowned. “What else did I do?”

The man laughed, although there was nothing funny as far as Stu could tell. “You promised me fifty grand for saving your life. From the look of your gear, you're loaded.”

“Sorry, I can't honor that. The law is pretty clear about contracts made under duress. And Good Samaritan laws usually prohibit making financial demands during life-or-death situations.”

“Huh. Sounds like you're recovering. You also sound like a damned lawyer.”

Stu's annoyed silence confirmed it.

“Aww, crap, you're probably going to sue me for saving your ass. I've heard you guys do that.”

“I won't sue you.”

“Willing to put that in writing?” He gave Stu a solemn pause, then laughed. “Here, eat and drink some more.”

Stu scooped a trail mix of nuts, granola, and chocolate bits from the stranger's substantial hand. He was
burly
, a word Stu found intimidating and usually reserved for men like Reggie Dugan. This man deserved the term too. He had rounded shoulders and stout legs. He even had a wide beard that squared off his face. He could have been a lumberjack or football lineman, perhaps a Harley-Davidson rider.
Or a young Santa handing out trail mix.
His clothes were well worn, but looked warm, and a bone-handled hatchet hung from his thick utility belt. The cap on his head was white fur and handmade, maybe homemade. His nose was crooked, and when he smiled, Stu saw that he was missing a tooth, which made him seem burlier than ever.

“I still feel like hell.”

“You will for a few days. What have you been eating and drinking?”

“Edible grasses and water. Squirrel.”

“Whatever grass it is, stop. It's obviously not as edible as you think. Squirrel's probably okay.”

“I'm not planning more meals here.”

“I don't know your plans.”

“What's your name? I should thank you.…”

“Blake.”

“Blake what?”

“Just Blake.”

“Well, thanks, Blake. You saved my life.”

“Good deed for the day.”

“You're so cavalier about it. Do you go around finding dying people all the time?”

“No, I go around trapping, which is where I'm going tomorrow.”

“You have a plane?”

“Nope. I got dropped in at Fur Lake. Hiked to here. I use this old place as a layover at the beginning of my rounds.” He looked at the hole in the roof. “At least I did. What the hell are you doing here?”

“Floatplane. I was supposed to spend a week here. Should have been picked up days ago, but the pilot didn't come back. He might have crashed.”

“Could be. That happens more up here than in the lower forty-eight, you know.”

“I've heard,” Stu grumbled. “But back to the issue. You can call out, right?”

“From here. No.”

“Then can you take me to the nearest town?”

“You want me to pack you up in a fireman's carry and hike hundreds of miles back to civilization?”

Stu spluttered, frustrated. “Or leave me some supplies and send someone back. I have money. I can pay you for your trouble.”

“You don't get it. There is no nearest town. You're way out here. There's nothing.”

“And you're leaving tomorrow?”

“Right.”

Stu felt his savior slipping away. It was eerily like reading the Butz appeal opinion and beginning to sense that he was losing the case prior to the punch line. The thought of enduring another day horrified him.

“You're going to leave me?”

“Unless you're going my way and I can't shake you.”

“I'm overdue. Someone will come for me if I can make it another few days. I just got sick. I wasn't thinking straight. I ate a black slug.”

“You need to boil those first.”

“You'd really leave me? I don't have supplies.”

“Well, why the hell not?” Blake grumbled. “And is that my fault?”

“There was a mix-up. I was supposed to have food and pots and pans waiting for me here at the cabin. Somebody must have cleaned it out. Please don't make me beg.”

“God, no. Don't do that.”

“Sorry. I'm not myself.”

“And don't apologize. If you screwed up, own up to it, but don't squirm around. Be a goddamned man.” Blake harrumphed and rummaged through his rather large backpack. “I'll give you what I got, but beyond trail mix and dried apples, I mostly trap and hunt. So there ain't much. My base cabin's got the basics, but that's a week's hike up the trapline from here.”

Stu perked up.
A real cabin. With real food.
“I'll go with you,” he said suddenly.

“You'll what?”

“I'll hike with you to the other cabin.”

“You couldn't hike to the latrine right now.”

“You said you weren't leaving until tomorrow.”

“And you said people was coming for you.”

“I don't know that for sure.”

Blake looked Stu up and down. “You can't keep up in the shape you're in.”

“I'll try.”

“You'll have to try harder than you have been.”

“I will.”

The sigh that Blake emitted testified to his skepticism. “I believe a man should be able to do what he wants, so I won't stop you. But I won't stop
for
you either. You've got two days to get your strength up. You'll need it. Then I'm going.”

“Great. I can't thank you enough.” Stu didn't relish the idea of hiking in his condition, but Blake had done wonders in just one day. With two more, he'd be himself again.
Whether that's good enough remains to be seen.

“Don't thank me yet. I ain't that social. We travel together and you'll probably end up hating my guts.”

“How soon can I make contact with the outside world? I have important business at home that demands my attention. And my wife is probably going crazy.”

“When the trappin' is done.”

Stu groaned, but he didn't want to complain when Blake was willing to save his life. “Okay. How long is that? Two or three weeks?”

“Six months.”

 

CHAPTER 25

It took two days to declare Stu officially missing, and another two to get a plane out searching for him. At least they knew where to look. Katherine turned the logistics over to Clay, who immediately flew to Fairbanks to try to help. But nothing helped. Clay went to Dugan's cabin personally in a wilderness search-and-rescue plane with a state trooper, but they found it as empty as the pilot from the tour company had reported it to be. The fireplace and bed appeared used. The trooper took pictures and sent them to Katherine. It was large and modern place with a propane stove and animal heads on the wall, as Stu had guessed, but there was not much else to see. In fact, the absence of evidence was the most striking thing about the place.

The broader search would take longer. Stu was well equipped and, according to the trooper, could be anywhere within a seven-day hike. But Katherine knew they wouldn't find her meticulous husband out hiking around. He would have been at the rendezvous point at exactly the appointed time with his bags lined up, checking the clock on his phone every few minutes.

Unless something happened.

Clay called from Fairbanks and offered to stay for the aerial search, but Katherine told him he might as well come home and leave it to the professionals. He would just be in the way, she said. Besides, she needed him in town. She could feel her world shifting. It was disorienting, and when she hung up the phone, she felt like she'd just stood up after drinking too much, or had just stepped off a merry-go-round.

Katherine arrived to pick up Clay at Logan, standing in exactly the spot she had waited for Stu. It gave her a queasy feeling, but this time the man she was waiting for appeared. She'd picked out black pants and a white blouse for herself, flattering but conservative. Comfortable shoes. It was not the time to be alluring, but she still looked good. Clay strode through security and embraced her, giving her a long, comforting hug.

“You're going to be okay,” he said, his voice smooth and calm. “No matter what's happened. I promise. But you need to be ready to adjust your life. Just in case. Okay?”