Death Canyon (19 page)

“Okay. What do you want from me? Why did you call?”

“I thought you should know, sir. And also . . .” His voice trailed off. “I didn't know what to do. I was afraid,” he said meekly.

The Shaman sighed and sarcastically thanked Sam for calling. If he were actually depending on Sam's commitment to the cause, he would be concerned. But Sam was just a pawn, a cover. The Shaman laughed at what Sam perceived as a horrible deed.

What does this kid know about true evil? About darkness—a completely consuming nightmare rolling alongside reality in your own head? Pussy! Kid does have principles, though. Just hit a guy with a car to save a totally fucked world!

The Shaman laughed harder now. These kids were impressive in their own right—he could use more people like them in his own business.

The Shaman divided his followers into a two-part hierarchy: proselytes and votaries, and one could move up at Camp Bodhi only by completing a task deemed worthy by the Shaman himself. One of the proselytes had already sacrificed his life for the cause. He had longed to become a votary and the Shaman gave him his wish.

Too bad he died in vain
. The Shaman laughed out loud again.

During his short life, the proselyte had had very little to live for. He was a sufferer of what laypersons called Ondine's curse. The loss of the subconscious instinct to breathe.

Now that is some dark shit. We could've got along, he and I.

The disease necessitated that a mechanical nerve stimulator be surgically placed in the man's neck and chest when he was an infant—the purpose of which was to stimulate breathing during sleep, when the man's body would otherwise forget to breathe.

Alcohol, as it does to any system in the human body, impaired
the man's nervous system even further, rendering the stimulator inadequate.

This worked out well for the Shaman and his plan; the man had been easily killed—though not quite as easily as one might think—and the desperate, pitiful soul had died a meaningful death, in his own eyes at least. Even though the decision to die for the cause seemed easy for the man, the Shaman was impressed with the man's self-sacrifice.

But the man's willingness to die did much more to the Shaman than merely impress him. It enthralled him. The man's last struggling breath had sent shivers down his spine. It was difficult for the Shaman to keep his composure in front of Ryder in that final moment. He did his best to appear cheerless, but inside his hardened shell he felt a desire to clench his fists in front of him, push his chest upward and outward, and howl like a wolf.

He'd felt an uncontrollable desire to release the burning pleasure that built within him while he killed the boy. He imagined it a violent, sadistic orgasm, but it never came to be. He didn't want to compromise his hold over Ryder by coming off as insensitive, so he restrained himself.

While he walked back to the car, though, the energy from the act was still coursing through his veins. His muscles and ligaments were rigid. Adrenaline had taken over his entire existence. His mind and body wanted more. He looked at Ryder. The electricity shooting through him was affecting his eyesight; the man appeared to him like a thin, bloodred neon sign.
Another sacrifice wouldn't hurt the cause,
he thought, somewhat logically.
Fucking tear him apart!
a voice not his own hissed from within.

Luckily, Ryder had spoken to him at that exact moment and interrupted the spiral of violence silently spinning in his head. On
the ride back to the compound, the desire came and went, assaulting his mind like waves eroding a beach.

During the rushes of violence that poured over him every few minutes, he imagined the pleasure that would come from another killing. He knew that feeling well. It was the only thing he lived for now. It was the feeling of total and complete control over another human being.

Fuck money and status, who needs it when you can play God for free?

Ryder wasn't the ideal victim, though, and the Shaman knew that. He was a committed follower of the cause, as evidenced by his actions that night. There would be other chances.

In the cabin now, the Shaman realized he was still gripping the phone. His knuckles were white and his teeth clenched again. He made a quick phone call.

“Send her in,” he said, and then put the phone back in its place.

Only a few seconds later a young woman slipped through the door. She was wearing a long, loose-fitting skirt, moccasins, and a scant buckskin bikini top that she had made herself. She didn't smile at all.

The Shaman approached her. He could smell the earth and body odor on her. “You're disgusting,” he said. The girl only looked down at the ground, trembling.

With the quickness of a cougar, he picked her up and dropped her onto the old table that served as his desk. He unzipped his fly and threw her skirt up over her head so he couldn't see her face. She groaned as he forced his way inside her.

*  *  *

When Noelle emerged from the tavern, she found Chief Terrell standing next to Jake with a sour look on his face. Terrell attempted a pity smile, intending to convey a “nice to see you, sorry about this” message without saying a word. It didn't seem genuine.

Jake wasn't wearing handcuffs, which was good, but the chief was holding the keys to Jake's vehicle in his hand. This was not good. Noelle looked over to Jake, who didn't look afraid or concerned, just moderately annoyed. His head was held high, looking straight at Noelle. Noelle looked right back and nodded, hoping he would understand that she had procured the information they needed. She got the feeling that if anyone could understand such a vague message, he could.

“What's the deal, Chief?” For the first time in front of Jake, Noelle showed a bit of attitude—a self-confident defiance almost palpable enough to make Jake cringe. He admired her courage and shared her sentiment but knew that a heavy-handed approach to cops was rarely effective.

The chief wasn't smiling anymore. “You know I can't tell you that. Now, I'm going to ask you to drive Mr. Trent's car back into town if he allows it. I'd like to transport him in the car with me to the station.” Jake nodded to Noelle, indicating that she should do as the chief suggested.

Noelle knew why the chief wanted to take Jake in his cruiser, and it wasn't because he considered Jake a flight risk. Instead, the officer wanted to keep the two separate so they could not corroborate their stories and come up with a bulletproof alibi. Classic police tactic.

Noelle watched as the cruiser flung gravel as it left the lot.

What the hell is going on?

*  *  *

Meanwhile, in the backseat of the police cruiser, Jake was frantically trying to assess what kind of trouble he was in now. When Terrell asked him why he was down in the canyon that afternoon, he was surprised.

How the hell did Terrell find out we were down here?

He said the first thing that came to his mind. “We were having a drink, Roger, at the tavern. Is that illegal?”

“Don't give me a hard time, Jake. Dammit!” the chief shouted. The outburst surprised Jake, but the chief gathered himself quickly. He spoke more quietly now. “I'm trying to do my job and I'm dealing with quite a few difficult questions myself. I'd appreciate your cooperation.” The chief seemed exhausted.

“We were having a drink, Roger. What more can I tell you?” Jake repeated. He wasn't trying to act defiantly but wasn't quite ready to admit that he and Noelle were snooping around the investigation until he got some more information from the chief.

“How many cars do you own?”

What on earth is he getting at?

“Just this one . . .” Jake nodded back and to the side, indicating the vehicle Noelle was driving. He realized Terrell could not see the gesture. “The silver SUV, why?”

“Do you own a recent-model Chevrolet Impala? Are you sure you only own the SUV?” The chief got to the point. “Some of the construction guys saw an unfamiliar car down at Parrana's Dairy Ranch. Said the driver was snooping around on private property. It's registered under your name.”

“I wouldn't forget buying a car, Roger. Boat, yes. Rickety old Winnebago, yes. No Chevy. When did this happen? We've been here for an hour or so,” Jake lied.

“The site is only twelve miles off, by my count.” The Chief
ignored Jake's question and asked another of his own. “Are you aware of any other vehicles being registered in your name here in Teton County?”

“I'm not, Roger, and I find it very unlikely that a car could be registered in my name without me knowing. Wouldn't you? What's going on?” The irritation that Jake felt during his first apprehension was quickly returning with a multiplier effect.

“Okay, Jake. We'll finish this when we get to the station.” The chief pulled his sunglasses down from his head and over his eyes and made an effort to appear more focused on driving back to the station. The conversation was over for now. There was excited police chatter coming over the radio, but Jake couldn't hear well enough to understand the codes.

Without warning, Terrell muttered something else and crossed two lanes of traffic. He came to a skidding halt in a turnout perched high above the river. With the car still running, he went out the driver's door and came quickly around to the back. Then he roughly pulled Jake from the cruiser.

“Hey, Roger! What the hell?” Jake yelled as he tried to regain his balance after being pushed against the rear quarter panel of the car.

Terrell's stereotypical gold-framed aviators were still sitting on his nose. The look he gave Jake suggested that the questions about Terrell's intentions were about to be answered.

*  *  *

Noelle continued past the police cruiser and parked Jake's car on the shoulder just as soon as she was out of view.

What are they doing?

She walked quickly south, toward Jake and Terrell, then stopped
on a small rise next to the road sparsely populated with sagebrush and crouched down to watch.

The sun peeked out for a moment. What Noelle saw next shocked her. After what looked like a heated exchange, the chief was letting Jake free. He led Jake around to the far side of the car, where the duo was obscured from the view of passersby. Then, Chief Terrell wound up and struck Jake violently in the face. The blow sent Jake to the ground in a heap.

Jesus Christ!

Noelle was standing over Jake when he came to a few seconds after the punch. He looked woozy and not quite ready to stand. Despite Noelle's warning, he tried to get to his feet immediately. Jake stumbled a few steps down the roadside turnout.

Terrell had hit him square on the jaw—a clean knockout. The man knew how to throw a punch. His right fist had come up and across, nailing Jake on the lower left side of his chin. Jake's head had spun forcefully from one side to the other, and when the muscles and tendons in his neck stopped that spin, his brain continued the momentum, charging through the cerebrospinal fluid and bumping into his skull at the back of his head.

Noelle could see Jake was embarrassed and generally out of sorts from the attack.

“It's okay. Relax.”

“He surprised me,” Jake said in a soft, muffled voice. He spit out blood. “I wasn't expecting that at all.” He laughed now, feeling a bit more stable.

“Of course, what could you have done?” Noelle replied in a seemingly forced encouraging tone.

He didn't say a word, but Noelle saw something in his eyes.

“What happened?” she asked.

Rain was falling hard on them now.

“He's losing it.” Jake mustered a laugh. “I heard something about a car pursuit on the radio. He ditched me here and headed out. But not before showing his true feelings for me. Which way did he go?”

“He took off south. Quite a head of steam, too,” Noelle responded.

A rare bolt of cloud-to-ground lightning hit a butte nearby. Its thunder was deafening.

Just before he left Trent on the roadside, Terrell had heard the call: a 10–57 on the highway less than a mile from his location.
Hit and run.

“10–80. In progress. Possible stolen vehicle. In pursuit.” He was shouting into his radio's handset. “Does the EMT need assistance with the victim or can I pursue the perp?”

“Victim loaded and in transit to St. John's. Proceed in pursuit. Unknown condition. Perp is south of you by several miles by now.”

“Local plates?”

“Registered to Jake Trent, sir. Late-model Impala.”

“Shit!”

“Go again for dispatch? Did not copy.”

The chief slammed the hand piece into its cradle.

What the hell?!

Terrell already regretted hitting Jake.

A Teton County search-and-rescue helicopter had been summoned to track the perpetrator's vehicle and was en route from the helipad.

The chief had to find out who was driving around hitting people in a car registered to Jake Trent.

Just need to get a visual on the suspect before he gets to the intersection
.

Terrell floored it. The intersection, a T, was coming up shortly. It was a junction where the highway dead-ended and split into an east–west route, the westerly path crossing into Idaho. If neither Terrell nor the helicopter could catch sight of the car before it reached that point, the chances of a successful arrest would be cut in half.

More important, if the driver fled to Idaho, Terrell knew there would be complications. He would have to coordinate a pursuit changeover to the Idaho State Police. Depending on the location of the closest state officer, the perpetrator could have time to escape.

*  *  *

Jake and Noelle waved their hands in front of their mouths to try to keep the damp dust out of their lungs. They looked at each other. Although it didn't need to be said, Jake voiced his reaction in a raspy command. “Let's go.” The pair got in the vehicle and Jake punched the gas, opening the throttle to the SUV's big V-8.