Devil's Pass (16 page)

Staring at the grizzly, holding his breath, Webb felt along the rifle until his fingers hit the safety. He glanced down. The safety was still on.

He clicked it off.

That slight sound was all it took.

The grizzly roared and lunged again, so close now that Webb saw saliva spraying from its jaws.

On his knees, Webb lifted and fired. Once. He tried again, but the trigger didn't move. Not enough time to hit the pump action and reload, as George had taught him.

Webb knew he was dead.

Still on his knees, all he could do was jam the butt of the rifle into the ground and cower beneath it. It was about as much protection as an umbrella.

The grizzly fell, its full weight on the tip of rifle, landing on it like it was a spear.

Webb rolled to one side as a huge paw slammed down and hit his shoulder. But that was it. Nothing else. No mauling, no slashing. No jaws snapping shut on his skull. Just an overwhelming stench.

The bear was silent.

As the rifle toppled sideways, so did the grizzly.

Dead.

Huddled in a ball, Webb only managed to say one word. “Crap.”

He stood up and saw part of the grizzly's chest torn open.

One bullet. One very lucky bullet. He'd hit the grizzly with his first and only shot, and even as it died, the bear's momentum and power had almost been enough to kill Webb.

Beside him, Brent groaned again. “Water.”

Webb struggled to focus on the situation.

Brent needed immediate medical help. No way could Webb carry him. That meant he'd have to bring the others to this spot.

They'd find another body buried under a rock pile and ask too many questions about it. They'd ask him what had led him there. They'd try to identify the body, and sooner or later they'd link Webb to his grandfather and learn that his grandfather had sent him here, and then they'd reach the obvious conclusion. At some point David McLean had been in the Northwest Territories, and at some point David McLean had put a knife into the ribs of a man and buried him just off the Canol Trail. There could be no other reason David McLean had not once mentioned the Northwest Territories in all his travel stories. The entire world would know that his grandfather was a murderer.

Then why had his grandfather gone to all the trouble to send Webb to this spot?

Each of these requests, these tasks
, his grandfather had said from beyond the grave,
has been specifically
selected for you to fulfill. All of the things you will need
to complete your task will be provided—money, tickets,
guides—everything…It is so sad that I will not be there
to watch you all grow into the incredible men I know
you will be. But I don't need to be there to know that
will happen. I am so certain of that. As certain as I am
that I will be there with you as you complete my last
requests, as you continue your life journeys.

Remembering those words, Webb felt like his grandfather was right beside him. If Webb was to grow into an incredible man, then Webb couldn't make the journey by hiding a secret like this.

Webb had always trusted his grandfather. He wasn't going to stop now.

Webb took the rifle and pointed it at the sky. He cocked and fired it, the thunder of the shot reverberating around him. He cocked and fired again. Then a third time.

Three shots. The universal signal for help.

Webb set down the rifle. He took off his jacket and used it to make a pillow beneath Brent's head.

Then Webb headed down the path to the river.

Brent needed water. Webb would get it by soaking his shirt in the river and squeezing the water into Brent's mouth.

Webb gave a tight smile. He was doing this because Brent was alive. As for the other long-dead body and his grandfather's long-buried secret?

Let the dead take care of the dead.

PART

THREE

MONSTERS

Under the bed

What's in my head

That I can't see

You walk the halls

I hear your steps

You haunt my dreams

You're running for me

You're running for me

I'm coming for you

You're running for me

You're running for me

I'm coming for you

Monsters

Taking out Monsters

One by one

Two by two

Turn the tables on you

Taking out my Monsters tonight

Here on my skin

The fathers' sins

Leave a scar

That you can trace

Can you erase

The devil's mark

Nowhere to hide

Won't let you hide

Drag you into the light

Not afraid to fight

This is do or die

Say your prayers tonight

Monsters

Taking out Monsters

One by one

Two by two

Turn the tables on you

Taking out my Monsters tonight

THIRTY-FOUR

NOW

Webb jumped out of the back of a pickup truck with his guitar case strapped to his back, and gave a big thumbs-up to the farmer who had given him a ride down the highway.

The old farmer gave a slight dignified nod, and left Webb at the only traffic light in the town of Eagleville, Tennessee.

Five days had passed since he'd been at Devil's Pass. When Webb had flown out of Toronto the day before, it had been a soggy, chilly day, wet leaves falling to the ground and sticking, unmoved by gusts of wind.

In Tennessee, the sky was cloudless and the air pressed warmth upon him.

Webb took in his surroundings, thinking of the beautiful, harsh desolation of the Northwest Arctic and comparing it to the comfort of the old buildings around him.

There was a post office across the street. And a town hall, built with logs, with rocking chairs on the front porch. More importantly, there was a cafe called the Main Street Cafe, right beside a barbershop.

Webb was hungry.

He stepped inside, and the smile on the face of the waitress was as warm as the air outside. “Honey, git you a tea?”

“I'd like something a little cooler than that,” Webb said. “I'm thirsty.”

She stared at him, puzzled for a moment, Then grinned. “Honey, I kin tell you ain't from around here. Minnesota?”

“Canada.”

“Same thing, honey,” she said. “Any tea you git here is nice and cool. You want hot tea, you have to order hot tea.”

“Thanks,” Webb said. He looked at the menu. It said
Meat and three
.

“Meat and three what?” he asked.

“You order a meat, honey. Then you get your choice of three sides.”

She pointed to the menu. “See there. Grits, maybe. Okra. But I'll tell you what. That creamed corn? Today people bin telling me it's like the cook put his foot in it.”

“Probably won't order it then,” Webb said.

She laughed. “That means he done a good job. Gave it everything he got. If you haven't eaten at a meat and three, I'd go with pulled pork, then creamed corn, sweet potato pie and taters.”

“Sure,” Webb said. On his return to Toronto from Devil's Pass, Webb had called the lawyer, John Devine, to report what had happened. Webb had learned from Devine that he was to make his way to Eagleville, a small town south and east of Nashville.

“Honey,” the waitress said, pointing at the guitar, “you planning on making it big here?”

“I just travel with it,” Webb said, thinking the waitress would never believe where the Gibson had been a few days earlier. “Maybe you can help me. I'm looking for Ruby Gavin.”

“You kin?”

“I'm glad I can,” Webb said. “Thanks. Just need directions.”

More laughter from the waitress. “What I mean is, are you Ruby's kin? Kinfolk?”

“Just delivering something,” Webb said.

THIRTY-FIVE

Ruby's small white house was only a couple of blocks down the road from the Main Street Cafe.

She lived near the Eagleville United Methodist Church. The paint on the house was faded, and vines crawled up the railing of the front porch. A woman Webb assumed was Ruby was sitting in a rocking chair, waving at him.

“Honey, you look just like how Shirley described you,” Ruby said. “Was the pulled pork any good today?”

Webb nodded, not surprised that the waitress had called ahead, given that Eagleville only had one traffic light and, so far, everybody called him honey.

As he got closer, he saw fine wrinkles all across Ruby's face. She had to be well over seventy. She was a slight woman, wearing a long dress with a pattern of pink flowers on it. A set of wire-rimmed glasses sat at the tip of her nose. She had a pitcher of iced tea on a table beside her and some glasses.

There was also a white and orange FedEx package beside her.

“Jim Webb?” she asked. “I've been expecting you.”

“It was the waitress at the Main Street, right?”

“She did call,” Ruby admitted. “But this morning I received another phone call. From a lawyer fellow up in Canada named Devine. Said I'd be getting a FedEx package and asked if I'd give it to a long-haired kid named Jim Webb when he showed up later today.”

She tapped the box. “It's all yours.”

She laughed. “First FedEx I've ever had delivered here, and turned out it was for someone else. Life's funny, isn't it?”

Webb nodded.

“And,” she said, “life's curious. I've been sitting here all day, wondering why someone I don't know would show up from Canada to collect a FedEx, when I see on the label that it came from the same place you just left.”

“Well,” Webb said, “I don't have an explanation for the FedEx. But I do have a reason for visiting.”

Webb was nervous. He'd been thinking this through for a while, wondering how it might go, wondering how to start. So he sat down and told her about walking the Canol Trail, about the grizzly, and about Brent. How a helicopter had airlifted Brent back to Norman Wells, and how he'd been in serious condition but ended up making it just fine, except for the hundreds of stitches it had taken to pull him together.

She leaned in and soaked up every word as he told her his tale, but when he finished he still hadn't told her the most important part.

Webb tried a few times and couldn't find a way to say it.

Finally she said, “It's fine. Just say what you need to say.”

What came out then, despite all his rehearsing, was only a few words. “I found something that might mean a lot to you.”

He set the small ceramic pendant on the table. And the military dog tag with the name Harlowe Gavin.

She leaned forward. She ignored the dog tag and peered at the ceramic pendant for a few moments, then sat back.

Webb wondered if he needed to tell her what it was, but then he saw tears filling her eyes.

“Oh, Lord,” she finally said in a near whisper. Then she was quiet for a while.

She drew a deep breath, as if she was pulling in strength, and turned to Webb. “Every day since I was eight years old, I've thought about that heart. Every day. I made it for him in school. Smoothed out the clay. I can still smell it, you know. It was damp and covered in cloth and the teacher used a cheese cutter to slice off a piece and handed it to me.”

Webb didn't know how clay smelled when it was damp, but he nodded.

“I wanted it to be perfect. For Father's Day. I used a knife to cut the heart shape, and the end of a wire to draw in my initials on one side, and
I love
you forever, Daddy
on the other side. Then I painted it with colored glazes, and my teacher put it in the kiln. When it came out, I knew that it was going to last forever too. I gave it to my daddy, and he was so proud of it, he bought a gold chain and strung it around his neck. I was proud too, seeing him in a uniform, knowing he had the necklace underneath it.

He was a pilot in the war and then he was sent north to help with an army project, and he never came back. I never stopped hoping I'd see him walk down the street toward our house.”

She was quiet for a while, lost in memory.

Webb knew better than to break the silence.

“Folks said he deserted the air force,” she said. “Said maybe he found another woman. They can be cruel like that, you know, thinking it won't reach a little girl's ears. But I never believed it. Not my daddy.”

She turned on Webb, suddenly fierce. “He wouldn't run away on me. And don't you tell me different.”

Webb shook his head. “I won't. Someone killed him.”

“Oh, Lord,” she said again. Then she wept openly. When she regained her composure, she said, “I can die happy now I know my daddy didn't run away on me.”

Then she leaned forward, intensity glittering in her eyes. “Tell me who murdered my daddy.”

THIRTY-SIX

“My grandfather, David McLean, was a pilot in the same squadron as your father,” Webb began. “There were four of them, good friends. You probably have the same photo as Jake Rundell.”