Psyc 03_The Call of the Mild (21 page)

If it had been Gwendolyn, perhaps Gus wouldn’t have reacted so strongly. But Jade exuded an ethereal vulnerability, and he couldn’t stop imagining her lying dead in Peter Pan’s hands as he begged the audience to clap if they believed in fairies.

Shawn was right next to Gus as they hurtled around the bend in the trail. When they got around it, they both stopped dead, shocked at what lay before them.

For the last few miles, the trail had hugged the side of the mountain on their left, and dropped off sharply to the right. But now the left side opened up into a wide meadow. A clear stream ran through it, and wildflowers bloomed yellow and red for as far as they could see.

The sight that stopped Shawn and Gus was what had been erected in the center of the meadow. Four tents, each striped in a different color, stood facing one another across a quad. Between them, a long table was set with a service fit for the White House—linen tablecloth, bone china, fine crystal, and sterling silver. A professional range had been set up a short distance away from the tents, and two young men in black slacks and white shirts stood by, while a woman in her mid-twenties, dressed the same way, unboxed a dozen bottles of wine.

Jade was standing, stunned, at the edge of the encampment. She let out another scream of joy. The other lawyers, who had taken their places around the table, ignored her.

“How did they get all this up there?” Gus knew there were other questions that were probably more pressing, but the surreal sight pushed them all out of his head.

“It’s really amazing how much you can fit in one of those helicopters when they’re not crammed full of egos,” Shawn said. “Hungry?”

Gus hadn’t thought he was. But now the air was filled with the delicate scents of sorrel soup and roast lamb, and suddenly he was starving. He started to move towards the table when a thought hit him.

“Our packs,” he said. “We’ve got to go back for them.”

“We’ll go back later,” Shawn said. “The food will be all gone.”

“It’ll be dark later. And in the morning we can’t take a chance that we’ll have to go back when the others are pressing on ahead.”

“So we’ll leave them,” Shawn said. “If they’re serving us meals like this along the way, why should we schlep all that dried stuff?”

“Maybe that’s exactly what Rushton wants us to think,” Gus said. “This is all a trick to get us to leave our packs behind, and then there’s no food for the next four days.”

“If he wanted us to starve, why would he put food in our packs in the first place?”

“I don’t know,” Gus said. “I don’t really understand anything about this trip. But I know I’ll feel better if I have my pack with me.”

Gus could practically see the little angel and tiny devil debating on Shawn’s shoulders. After a moment, Shawn nodded regretfully. “Let’s get the packs.”

Gus took one last longing look at the dinner table, then turned back to the trail. And walked into a wall.

At least that’s what it looked like up close. Gus stepped back quickly and realized it was his pack. His pack and Shawn’s. Standing behind it was an enormous figure that seemed to have been woven out of wiry red hair. The hair covered its head and flowed around its shoulders; it poured off his face in a long beard and mustache. The creature wore an old flannel shirt and filthy shorts that might once have been khaki, but now were mostly loose threads. Giant tufts of red hair poked through the holes in the creature’s clothes and around the straps of its sandals.

“Don’t trash my mountain,” the figure said, and threw the packs at their feet.

Now that he had a clear view, Gus could see that the creature was not Bigfoot, or the Abominable Snowman, or Gossamer, the tennis-shoe-wearing monster from the Bugs Bunny cartoons. It was a man. Aside from the species, however, Gus could tell almost nothing about him. All else was hidden by the hair.

“Sorry. We were just going back for those,” Shawn said. “Thanks for bringing them to us.”

“Don’t trash my mountain,” the man said again, and then he was gone back up the trail.

“Amazing that big a guy can move so fast,” Shawn said. “Of course, if he’s all hair, maybe he just blew away.”

Gus hoisted his pack and slung it over his shoulder, his muscles screaming in pain as the weight settled down on them again. A quick glance suggested that Shawn was feeling the same agony.

“I suppose we could just leave them here,” Gus said. “We’ll be able to find them in the morning.”

“Do you think that counts as trashing the mountain?”

“Not as much as setting up a four-star restaurant in this meadow.” This assertion came from a fourth server, who offered them a warm smile and two printed menu cards. He had curly black hair and a smile bigger than all outdoors, which was pretty big, given the context. “Hi, my name is Cody, and I’ll be your server tonight. That man has been hanging around here all day shouting obscenities at us. We finally bought him off with a case of Pinot Noir. But don’t worry—there’s plenty left.”

“Do you think he’s dangerous?” Gus said.

“My usual gig is in Venice,” Cody said. “He’s nothing compared to the homeless guys living on the beach. Just seems fanatical about keeping the mountains clean—and who can blame him?”

“He could start with himself,” Shawn said.

“Believe me, we offered him a shower along with the wine,” Cody said.

“There are showers here?” Gus said.

“We’ve got a sauna,” Cody said. He pointed at the female server, who was standing over Balowsky waiting for him to drain his glass so she could refill it. “And Maggie is a certified massage technician, if you’re feeling sore. I personally recommend her scalp treatment. I think she’s bringing back my hair.”

Gus and Shawn must have looked puzzled, because Cody leaned over to show them the bald spot on the center of his scalp. “My agent said I should just shave my head, but I think that rules me out for leading man roles.”

“I can see how that would be a problem,” Shawn said.

“But my acting career is the last thing in the world you two should be worrying about now,” Cody said.

“Don’t worry, it is,” Shawn said.

“I’d love to wash my hands before dinner,” Gus said.

“The bathing pavilion is right over there.” Cody pointed at a red-and-white-striped tent. “May I take your bags?”

“You may take them and keep them,” Shawn said.

Cody pointed across the meadow, where the rest of the packs were neatly lined up. “I’ll put them over there. We’ll start serving dinner as soon as you’re seated.”

As Cody bent down to pick up the packs, he gave Gus another look at the bald spot, then carried the bags over to the others and went to help the other male server pour soup into bowls.

“You heard what Cody said,” Shawn said. “We don’t want to keep the lawyers waiting.”

“You go join them,” Gus said. “I’ll be right there. Maybe you can get Mathis to confess and we can all go home after dinner.”

As Shawn went towards the dining table, Gus headed off to the red-and-white-striped tent and pushed the flap open. It was like stepping into the spa at the Four Seasons—marble countertops, brass fixtures, and toiletries with the fanciest labels Gus had ever seen. But all that luxury paled in comparison to the scalding-hot water that gushed out of the faucet when Gus turned the tap. He lathered his hands with a jasmine-scented wash and then attacked his face with the matching defoliating scrub. Drying himself off with a plush towel of Egyptian cotton, he luxuriated in the sense of cleanliness. No matter how good dinner had smelled, he was beginning to regret passing on the hot shower. Maybe later.

Feeling more refreshed than he’d dreamed possible, Gus stepped out of the bath tent and started towards the dining table. The lawyers were involved in an argument over some obscure point of law—among the snatches that drifted over in the breeze Gus heard the words ‘usucaption,’ ‘usufructuary,’ and ‘ultra vires’—and server Maggie was back standing over Balowsky with a fresh bottle as he drained the dregs from another glass. A portly chef Gus hadn’t noticed before bent over the oven, pulling out a saddle of lamb.

Gus’ sense of well-being began to drain away as he realized that for all the noise coming from the table, there were only four people sitting there. Mathis was nowhere to be seen.

Neither was Shawn.

Gus made a conscious effort to slow his heart rate before it started accelerating. This was probably a good thing. Shawn had undoubtedly seen an opening and taken Mathis aside to trick a confession out of him. Then he’d saunter back to the packs, flip on one of the emergency beacons, and they’d both enjoy this fabulous dinner while they waited for the helicopter to come.

That sounded like a brilliant plan. There was only one problem with it. It wasn’t Shawn. There was simply no way that Shawn could bring himself to solve a case like this without an audience. If Shawn was going to expose Mathis, he’d do it in front of the other lawyers. Or at the very least wait until Gus was back to see it.

So where was he?

Gus scanned every inch of the meadow. Cody and the other male servers were polishing the plates before dinner service. The chef was carving the roast. Server Maggie was refilling Balowsky’s glass.

That left the tents. There were three of them besides the one he’d just left. Gus crept over to the nearest tent, a blue-and-white-striped pavilion, and peered in. There were three low beds on the ground, complete with feather beds and down comforters. Three fluffy cotton robes hung from hooks, and there were men’s pajamas laid out on a low table. But there was no one inside. Gus moved quickly to the green-and-white-striped tent. Two more beds, two more robes, and two sheer nightgowns on hooks. Clearly this tent was intended for Gwendolyn and Jade, although Gus suspected that they might both prefer sleeping alone on rocks to rooming together, no matter how splendid the accommodation. The yellow-and-white-striped tent at the other end of the camp also contained two beds and two sets of men’s pajamas.

There was no one inside.

Gus came out of the tent and checked the dining table, hoping that Shawn and Mathis had reappeared there while he was checking the sleeping quarters. They hadn’t.

Moving around the yellow pavilion, Gus discovered that there was one other tent he hadn’t noticed before. No surprise there—unlike the grand sleeping quarters, this was a small, olive drab lean-to, probably the cheapest shelter you could find at any army surplus store. Gus approached it nervously. It was just about the right size to hide a body. He lifted the flap and peered in. And his heart stopped.

The tent was dark and close. Something lay sprawled on the ground. In the dim light it looked like a body. Gus forced himself to reach in and touch it. The form sank under his fingers.

Gus almost let out a laugh in relief. It wasn’t a body. It was just a few spare pillows that had tumbled down from a stack on the left side of the tent. Gus had fallen for the same trick he’d used on his parents when he wanted to sneak out with Shawn when they were kids—he’d arrange his pillows under the covers on his bed so that when his parents looked in on him they’d see what they’d think was a sleeping boy. The only difference was that his parents had never fallen for this subterfuge—apparently a good mother could tell the difference between the child she’d borne and a cotton rectangle filled with foam—and Gus just had.

He pushed the pillows out of the way and checked the rest of the tent’s contents. There were coolers filled with eggs and oranges, not doubt to be scrambled and juiced in the morning, a sack of potatoes, bags of whole-bean coffee, several restaurant-sized cans of ketchup, what looked like an entire pig’s worth of bacon and a second swine of sausage, and pink bakery boxes filled with croissants, brioche, and Danishes. Gus didn’t know what seemed more surprising to him—that they had brought enough food to feed the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, or that they’d flown in the pastries pre-made, instead of baking them fresh.

There were more crates stacked behind the breakfast supplies, but Gus didn’t bother to check through them. None of them was big enough to hold a body. He crawled back out of the lean-to and let the flap fall shut behind him.

There was still no sign of Shawn or Mathis at the dining table. Gus forced himself to keep calm. Mathis wouldn’t do anything obvious. He couldn’t. He’d have to figure that Gus knew everything Shawn did. Even if he managed to get rid of Shawn and make it look like an accident—for the first time since the helicopter landed, Gus replayed that old dream image of his best friend’s body broken and bloody at the bottom of a cliff—he couldn’t possibly hope to get rid of Gus the same way.

Whatever Mathis was up to, Gus had to figure it out fast. The sun was dropping behind the peak of the mountain, and the shadows had disappeared. There was probably another fifteen or twenty minutes before it got too dark to see, but that wasn’t a lot of time. The servers were already moving around the camp lighting oil lamps. Once the sunlight was gone, so was any chance of finding Shawn.

There was one way out. The emergency beacons. He could use one of them, send out the signal for help. Whoever showed up would be prepared to find people lost in the wilderness. It would be career suicide, but Shawn would have to find that preferable to actual homicide.

No need for that extreme measure just yet, though. Gus would give it a few more minutes, wait at least until it was dark. And if he’d heard nothing from Shawn by then, he’d do it.

Gus was moving towards the backpacks to position himself near the beacons when he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye.

He wheeled around towards the motion and saw Shawn walking away from him at the far end of meadow. He was about to call out, to wave his hands over his head and jump and scream to let Shawn know he was heading in the wrong direction. Until he noticed two small details that had escaped him in the first blush of excitement: