Nowhere to Run (18 page)

“I thought I had, too,” he said. “But she got to me because I was thinking along the same lines.”

“Only because you’re in a hospital bed and you’re confused by what McLanahan told you,” Marybeth said. “You’ll think differently when you’re recovered.”

“I hope so.”

She paused. Then: “I hope you don’t think you need to go back up there after them. The sheriff down in Baggs will catch them. They’ll eventually find them and bring them to justice. You don’t have to make this a personal quest.”

He nodded, but he didn’t mean it.

She kissed him goodnight and ignored the nurse filling the doorway and looking at her watch as a means of advising them visiting hours were over.

Before she left the room, he said, “Thank you for what you said.”

She smiled painfully and said she’d be back in the morning.

 

AT 3:15 A.M., Joe slid his legs out from under the blankets and eased out of the bed. His leg wounds were tightly bound, but the movement caused sharp needle-like pains that zapped up into his abdomen and belly. He paused at the doorway to get his breath back and pulled on a pair of boxers so his buttocks weren’t bare out of the back of the duck-covered cotton gown.

The hallway was quiet and dimly lit. The nurse station was to his right, so he padded left in his open-backed hospital slippers. Hugging the wall so he couldn’t be seen by the night nurse, he slid along the slick block wall to the end of the hallway and the elevators. Two floors up was ICU.

George Pickett was in room 621. Joe paused before going in and tried to gather strength and resolve. He had no idea what he would find inside.

He eased into the room and stood with his back to the wall near the door, out of sight in case a nurse or aide walked by and glanced in.

Dim blue-white neon lights lit George on his bed. Dozens of tubes curled up and away from his body into the gloom. Bags of clear liquid hung over him. It was as if his father were a long-forgotten potato gone to root in a dark pantry.

Joe shuffled closer. His father looked like a skeleton wrapped in loose latex, as if his yellow skin could slough off of the bones into a pile on the linoleum if he were jostled. Joe froze in mid-breath when George’s eyes shot open and his father’s head turned on his pillow toward him.

“Dad?”

George said, “What I could really use right now, son, is a drink.” His voice was reedy and dry.

“Hello, Dad. How are you doing?”

“Give me a drink.”

Joe reached out for the water bottle on the tray table and his father’s face folded in on itself in a grotesque scowl. “Not that! I said I wanted a drink!”

“Ah,” Joe said.

His father’s rheumy eyes looked at something above and to the left of Joe, but the scowl remained.

“I can’t,” Joe said.

“Who the hell are you, anyway?”

“Joe.”

“That’s me,” he said, feeling his heart break.

“You’re my son, but you won’t give me a drink?” George rasped. “Then what the hell good are you?”

And with that, he died.

Joe heard an alarm burr at the nurse station, and he stepped back and aside as an emergency team rushed into the room and surrounded George’s body, which seemed to have deflated even more. Despite the chatter of the attendants, he could hear the pneumatic
cack-cack-cack
of his father’s death rattle, and he couldn’t shake the thought that his dad was getting in one last laugh.

DAVE FARKUS HAD SPENT MOST OF HIS ADULT LIFE WORKING hard to avoid hard work. His philosophy was to save himself for pursuits he favored—hunting, fishing, poker, snowmobiling, mountain man rendezvous reenactments, and blasting through the mountains on his 4 x 4 ATV.

Avoiding hard work required discipline and a complete awareness of his surroundings, as well as an intuitive sense of when to be in the wrong place when extra time or effort was demanded. Like golf or fly-fishing, it was a lifelong pursuit that he knew he might never perfect but he could certainly continue to improve. When his soon-to-be-ex-wife, Ardith, suggested bitterly he consider writing a pamphlet on the techniques he employed to maintain his lifestyle, Farkus told her it would be too much work.

Before everyone had been laid off from the natural-gas pipeline company, he’d been supremely skillful at the art of slipping into the men’s room or taking a break moments before the shift supervisor entered the shop to outline new assignments or ask for volunteers for a big new job. When dirty and grueling tasks were demanded, like sandblasting old valves or replacing blown motors in pump units, Farkus expertly anticipated when the jobs would have to take place, due to his intimate knowledge of the industry and workplace, and would schedule a dentist appointment or mandatory drug test for that day.

It was easier to game the system in his new job working for the county. Bureaucracy was made for shirking, and he felt kind of stupid it had taken so many years to settle into his true calling. Today, for example, he’d gotten a tip that all the bus drivers would have to go into the garage and assist a contract cleaning crew on a top-to-bottom scrubbing of the vehicles. Which is why he’d taken a personal day to go over the mountains to try to spot-weld his marriage back together instead.

Dave Farkus always figured there would be high-intensity brown-noses who would take on the tough jobs and want to be heroes. He let them. Part of his philosophy was that it was as important to have slackers as to have go-getters within every work crew. For balance.

Additionally, in the thirty years since he’d graduated from high school (barely), he’d made it a point to avoid anything to do with horses, like ranch work. Horses were unpredictable, prone to break down, and involved after-hours maintenance. So after three hours of riding up into the timber nose-to-tail with the four men and their horses, he said, “So, if we find whatever it is you’re looking for, will you let me go home?”

Which made the red-haired rider in black, named M. Whitney Parnell, according to the nametag on his rifle scabbard, snort and exchange looks with Smith. Farkus gathered from observation that Parnell was in charge of the whole operation. Smith, and the two camo-clad men, the tall thin one with the nose named Campbell and the blond man named Capellen, were subservient to Parnell.

Parnell rode out ahead, followed by Smith. It was necessary to ride single-file because the trail was narrow and trees hemmed in both sides. Farkus rode a fat sorrel horse in the middle. Behind him were Campbell, Capellen, and the two packhorses.

“You see,” Farkus explained, “I’m just thinking my role here is to help you out because I know these mountains and you don’t, but if in the end you’re not going to let me go, well, you know what I’m saying. Where’s my motivation, you know?”

This time, Smith snorted derisively and touched the butt of his rifle.
“Here’s your motivation
.
”

Farkus craned around in his saddle to see if the riders behind him were more sympathetic. Campbell simply glared at him, his face a mask of contempt. Capellen, though, looked miserable. His face was bone-china white and his eyes were rimmed with red. He clutched the saddle horn with both hands as if to remain mounted.

“Capellen looks bad,” Farkus said.

“He’s just fine,” Campbell said through gritted teeth. “Turn around.”

“He looks sick or injured to me,” Farkus said. It was obvious Campbell and Capellen stuck together, just as Parnell and Smith were a team. What had brought them all together besides McCue? he wondered.

“Besides,” Farkus said, turning back around, “shouldn’t you let me know what we’re after? I can’t help guide if I don’t know what we’re hunting for.”

What Farkus didn’t tell them was that he had no idea where they were.

Parnell said, “We’ll tell you what you need to know when you need to know it and not before. I should have been more explicit and said if you came with us that you’d need to keep your mouth shut and stay out of the way. I didn’t figure it was necessary at the time because we have the guns and gear and all you’ve got is that stupid expression on your face. I guess I thought the additional conditions would be obvious and implied.”

Farkus grunted. Said, “You can’t blame a guy for wondering about his fate.”

“Dave,” Parnell said, not even turning in the saddle, “you’re a loser from Bumfuck, Wyoming. You have no fate. So shut up.”

“Yeah,” Smith echoed. “Shut up, Dave.”

From behind him, Campbell said, “If you keep yapping, I’m going to put a bullet into your head.”

Farkus looked over his shoulder, grinning uncomfortably, hoping for a hint that Campbell was kidding, that he was chiding him with insults the way men do with each other.

Instead, Campbell reached down and patted the butt of his AR-15 and mouthed,
“Bang.”

 

THEY CONTINUED CLIMBING. Farkus recognized a couple of the mountain parks from previous elk hunts, but he knew if they kept riding west, he’d soon run out of country with which he was familiar. The fact was that Farkus had always hunted with the same philosophy he used at work. He was happy to let his buddies pore over maps and determine where they’d hunt and develop the strategy for the day. Farkus would just go along. He’d never actually guided hunters in these mountains, as he’d let on earlier. Rather, he’d always volunteered to be the man behind the log looking out on a meadow while his buddies walked the timber to spook out the animals. Just as he’d always take on the role of holding the leg of the elk that was being field-dressed so he wouldn’t have to get down into the gore.

He didn’t dare let on that while he’d found Cottonwood Creek once, he’d thought it was Elkhair Creek and his buddies had come and found him before he spent the night lost. Or that the location of Bandit Creek was a complete mystery to him.

And at the clipped pace they were riding, they’d be near the summit by nightfall. He’d never been to the summit of the mountains before. His butt hurt and his knees ached from bending them unnaturally around the belly of his sorrel so his boots would fit into the stirrups. He was hungry and the beer buzz he had going earlier was being replaced by a dull headache. The fat sorrel labored more than the other horses, probably the reason they’d held her in reserve.

The slow realization came over him that he’d likely not see his pickup or Ardith or the Dixon Club or another twelve-pack of Keystone Light ever again. This foray into the Sierra Madre might cost him everything.

Farkus looked furtively over his shoulder, making it a point not to establish eye contact with Campbell. Capellen was still with them, but had drifted farther back. Capellen was leaning forward in his saddle with his head down and looked to be in great pain. As Farkus watched, Capellen listed to the side and vomited up a thin yellow-green stream into the high grass.

“Excuse me,” Farkus said, trying to get Parnell’s attention.

“Shut up, Dave,” Smith and Capellen said in unison from in front and in back of him.

 

THE MEN DIDN’T TALK, except to make random observations that were answered by grunts from the others.

“It’s cooling down a little,” said Capellen.

Campbell said, “This is a live-game trail, judging by the fresh deer scat.”

“That’s elk,” Farkus corrected, surprised the man hadn’t ever seen elk shit before. “The pellets are twice the size of deer.”

“Oh.”

Smith walked his horse out of the line and let everyone pass him. “Gotta piss,” he said. “Go ahead. I’ll catch up.”

Farkus used the opportunity of the temporary opening ahead of him to nudge his horse and catch up with Parnell and get the man’s attention without including any of the others.

“Let me get this straight,” Farkus said. “You guys aren’t with the sheriff’s team that came up here from the other side a few days ago and you’re not with the state cops.”

“Correct.”

“Feds?”

“Not hardly.”

“You’re operating on your own, then?”

“Correct.”

“So who are you with?” Farkus asked. “Who is McCue? Does this have to do with what that game warden said happened to him? I was the last one to see him before he went up. Did you know that? I was fishing down on the creek way over on the other side when I seen the game warden saddling up. I told him my theory. Do you want to hear it?”

Parnell said, “You’re talking too much.”

“Ever hear of a Wendigo?”

“Of course,” Parnell said. “I’m from the UP.”

“The Union Pacific?”

From behind him, Campbell drew his handgun and jacked a cartridge into the chamber and barked, “
Shut the fuck up
, Dave.”

Farkus shut up. Pork-bellied cumulus clouds floated across the sky like foam bobbing on the surface of a river. When they crossed the sun and doused it, the temperature cooled instantaneously and he shivered. The air and atmosphere were both thin at this altitude, and temperature fluctuations were almost comically extreme.

Then he realized what was wrong with Capellen. “He’s got altitude sickness. I recognize it. It always happens above eight thousand feet. I helped guide a couple of hunters from Florida a few years back and one of them got it bad and spent the entire week in his tent. It hits guys from flatland states like Michigan.”

“What can be done for it?” Smith asked Farkus.

“Keep him drinking water, for one thing. But really the only thing that will cure him is to get off the mountain. I’d be happy to ride with him back to camp—”

“Nice try.”

Parnell said, “We aren’t leaving him, and we aren’t going back.”

So Capellen rode in agony, moaning, complaining that he had the worst headache he’d ever had in his life and that he was so dizzy they might have to tie him to his saddle to keep him from falling off.