Death Canyon (20 page)

Before long they tore through another dust cloud that had nearly settled to the ground from the fast-moving wheels of the prior vehicle. They were making progress on the chief and whatever he was chasing.

“What do you think it is?”

Jake only shook his head to answer.

The scenery smeared past them out the windows.

“Maybe we shouldn't follow. We might be getting too involved in all this.” It wasn't that Noelle was no longer curious about what was going on, but rather that she was becoming afraid. The look she noticed on Jake's face after Terrell had hit him was even more obvious now. It was resolve.

Jake spoke without moving his eyes from the road. “After what just happened, I've got to find out what's going on.” His right hand left the steering wheel for just a second to rub his jaw.

“Let's just call the cops, or whoever, I mean. Internal affairs, right? You know this sort of thing. He can't just hit you like that!”

“In a town this small, there's no sense in it. They'll back him up no matter what.”

With that, Jake pressed the accelerator again, coming out of an S curve. Noelle looked him over. All she saw was calm.
Resolve.

*  *  *

The chief was pushing the car to its limit. These were the moments when Terrell prayed that no wildlife wandered into the road. The sun was lowering in the sky and there were countless blind curves on the highway. A swerve to avoid an elk or mule deer would send his cruiser into the river or, worse, head-on into the cliffs to his right. He rounded the most dramatic of the bends with his cruiser straddling the centerline, tires squealing. Centrifugal force was trying to peel the sedan from the road and toss it in the river.

Terrell was worn-out and far from sharp. There was so much going on in Jackson that he could barely keep up with it all. He was half-tempted to call in the state and let them handle it. His instincts wanted him to catch the perpetrator, but his body and
mind were tired. He looked at his gas gauge; the tank was full. He wished that he himself were running on a full tank.

As he rounded the next corner, he saw a sedan ahead of him. He squinted and shielded his eyes from the sun to make sure. The Impala was only a hundred yards in front, moving at the speed limit but appearing to Terrell as if it was standing still.
I'm gonna get my man.

Terrell stood on the brakes not only to avoid hitting the car but to be sure that he wouldn't spook the driver into fleeing. The driver seemed to have no idea that he was being pursued. Terrell turned on his lights and motioned with his hand for the driver to pull the Impala over, acting nonchalantly and hoping not to give himself away. He wanted it to look like a run-of-the-mill traffic stop.

The perpetrator eased the Impala onto the shoulder, making sure to leave all four wheels on the asphalt surface. Terrell approached the vehicle. His right hand was resting on his pistol. He shared a millisecond of eye contact with the driver. Something wasn't right.

The Impala took off. Gravel from its tires pelted the hood of the police car. Terrell ran back to his cruiser to continue the chase south.

“C'mon!” Terrell shouted aloud, slamming his palms against the steering wheel. He took the radio into his hand but thought again before he called the dispatcher. He had to know what was going on around Jackson.

If he handed over the pursuit to Idaho state troopers and the man driving the Impala was somehow involved in the recent events, there was a good chance the dots would never get connected. He laid the handset back in its cradle. Something sinister was going on, and he had to get to the bottom of it.

*  *  *

Ahead of him, Sam was calling the Shaman again. The road had become flat and straight. The Impala's speedometer read 88 miles per hour.

“Sam?” The Shaman's tone was aggravated.

“I'm in trouble,” Sam replied. “Someone must have seen what I did. The cops are after me.”

“How many?” The Shaman's tone betrayed a sudden concern.

“One so far. He came up on me with speed and then slammed on the brakes. Acted like it was a normal traffic stop, but I could tell something was up. He looked nervous—hand on his gun.” Sam was starting to enjoy this.

The Shaman didn't seem impressed. “Did he see your face?!”

“I don't know—um, I don't think so.” Sam hoped this was the answer the Shaman wanted to hear. He thought back to the brief moment when he made eye contact with the officer through the car's window.

“Good. You need to lose the cops—that is essential.” The word
essential
came through the wire as a hiss. “Where are you?”

“South of the valley. Going west into Idaho.”

This seemed to please the Shaman. “Good. Stay off the highways, head to the back roads. Get some distance on your tail . . . out of his sight, and make an abrupt turn. Try to lose him. Don't ditch the car and try to escape on foot, no matter what. We need that car. Call me when you can.”

The Shaman hung up just as Sam heard the hum of the helicopter.
Shit!
Losing the chopper would be tough. Sam would have to head for thickly forested areas to obscure the pilot's view.

Sam slowed the Impala to the speed limit as he approached the
Idaho line. He had to abandon the main road and if he did it too fast, he would risk a rollover.

He crossed the border and arrived at a series of forest service roads that broke off the highway like dusty veins. Their names read like a zoological dictionary: Little Elk, Osprey, Bear Lake.

Dead ends?

Sam had to be patient. At the first road sign indicating a network of roads or a destination, he would turn. Then he could be sure he wouldn't end up cornered in the mountains.

The rolling hills, hummocks, and creek bottoms were getting greener as summer set in and they glistened from the recent rain. Sam looked out the window and time slowed down for a second. Despite the spring, his mind's eye still picked out the remnants of a long winter. The landscape made him feel abandoned.

On the side of the highway was a herd of grazing deer. They looked up when he buzzed by and then immediately resumed eating. Despite all the chaos inside and around Sam, the natural world was quietly going on as usual. He longed to be out of the car, watching from the roadside and free to carry on with his life once he got his fill of the spectacle.

A sign snapped him out of his daydream. “Small Springs Recreation Area: Saddle River Junction—1.4; Small Springs Trailhead—9.5; Victor, ID—29.” Sam turned right into the network of forest service roads. He headed north.

*  *  *

Terrell was second-guessing his decision not to involve the Idaho police. Backup officers would be helpful if the perpetrator tried to use this web of back roads to his advantage. It would take only one intersection for him to be spread too thin.

Dispatch called again and again asking for the chief's location, but he ignored it. Next, the woman at dispatch addressed the chopper. “What is your location?” Terrell glanced into the sky around him but saw nothing.

“Idaho border near Small Springs. Returning to Jackson helipad. We are low on fuel and out of jurisdiction. Over.” Terrell recognized the voice as that of his deputy chief. The rest of the department obviously hadn't overlooked the jurisdiction issue. Terrell was in charge at the station, but that didn't mean his decisions were above review. He would have to deal with this when he got back.

“Copy. Please report to us immediately upon return. The chief is incommunicado.”

What am I thinking?

He was letting his curiosity about the murders and Jake Trent get the best of him.

*  *  *

At the mouth of Small Springs road, Noelle shouted, “Skid marks!”

“Got it.”

Jake pulled a quick U-turn and followed the road north. With all-wheel drive and a beefy suspension, he was confident in his vehicle's ability to gain ground on the back roads.

Within a few moments, the three vehicles were in an unlikely traffic jam. Stream crossings and rocks had slowed the progress of the lead vehicle. Now within a fifty-meter stretch, the procession moved forward at less than twenty miles per hour.

“Who the hell is driving that car?” Jake said aloud.

Noelle had no answer, so she stayed quiet.

“What sense does it make? Is it someone from Parrana?”

“The developer?” Noelle asked.

“I don't know. It just doesn't add up to me.”

“The chief knows we're here.” She pointed to Terrell's cruiser, which was now only a few meters in front of them. “Maybe he's involved?”

“Maybe.” He contemplated for a moment.

The slow speed sparked more conversation between Jake and Noelle. They tried to sum up the facts. Noelle recalled the woman's description of the bear attack that killed her husband. Shortly before his demise, the man had attempted to scare off the attacker. He'd used words. In both French and English. This troubled Noelle once more.

“All the death . . .” Noelle muttered, probing. “Is there a serial killer in Jackson?” She looked at Jake, trying to gauge his reaction to her question. “Maybe someone at Parrana just wants to make your life hell?”

“Impossible to say for now. Whatever it is, I bet this guy in the Impala knows something about it.”

“Maybe not, though. You're just saying that 'cause it's a small town.” In her mind, Noelle again confronted the possibility that Jake was the murderer. Now she was alone with him in his vehicle. In the middle of nowhere.

“Yeah, small town,” Jake responded, again without turning toward her. He was distracted. Noelle frowned slightly.

Could he still be involved in all this somehow?
Out of the corner of her eye, she glanced around the cabin of the SUV.

What the hell?
On the floor in the backseat was a small folding hunting knife. Noelle looked at Jake, trying to get a read on him. His eyes revealed nothing.

Could he have used the knife on the Frenchwoman and her husband?

She forced the notion out of her head. Neither one spoke as they wound through miles of back roads.

*  *  *

If Sam felt penned in when he was fleeing through the open landscape that cradled the highway in its wide valleys and rolling hills, now he was claustrophobic.

He was moving at painfully slow speeds through thick forests and creek bottoms. He had a half a tank of gas, two tails, and no real plan for his escape. At least the helicopter was gone. He tried to call the Shaman for advice but his cell had no signal.

Sam had been warned about roads like this. They left the valleys and followed rivers and streams to their headwaters in the mountains or simply ended in the middle of nowhere. Signage was unreliable. Some went on for a hundred miles before they reached anyplace of significance.

He became even more nervous and started to doubt the accuracy of the sign that promised the town of Victor was only twenty-nine miles away.

Haven't I gone that far already? What if I misread the sign? This isn't fun anymore!

Finally, Sam saw a sign that showed he was getting close to the next highway, Route 87. Four miles or so and he would be out of this entrapping corridor of foliage. Freedom. The chase had been going on for nearly two hours.

Thank God!

In the slow frog water next to the creek on his right, a large blue heron waded. In a pinch, the bird could fly off, never to be seen again by its pursuers. Sam wished he could somehow change beings with the animal, freeing himself from this mess. He swiped his hand down over his face. He was sweating.

The bird flew off.

The cars turned left onto the highway, which immediately curved right again, heading north and then slightly east. Sam accelerated, taking confidence from the intensifying hum of the engine and the open landscape, now revving to higher rpms. They were only about fifty miles south of Yellowstone. The rain had stopped and the orange afternoon was finally fading into evening's dim glow.

The others were farther behind him now.

Sam had a destination in mind. He was leading the chase back to the tent camp.
Strength in numbers.
He was unfamiliar with the region and really didn't have a choice. He figured once he got there, the Shaman and others would be able to help.

A dozen miles later, Sam exited the highway, drove along a windy secondary for a few miles, and then abruptly turned left into the entrance of the encampment. The access was inconspicuous. It was disguised as a private driveway complete with a mailbox and an eight-by-eleven No Trespassing sign.

Camp Bodhi was set up around the central cabin where the Shaman had addressed the votaries and Sam—the sole proselyte invited—earlier that day. A dirt drive circled the cabin in a quarter-mile loop. Along the outside edge of the crude road sat the tents and other structures where the followers lived, votaries on the inner circle, proselytes farther out.

There on the eastern boundary, surrounded by willows, was a creek, which the community used for water and, to some extent, ingress and egress. An old aluminum canoe rested upside down on the bank.

Sam led his pursuers around the loop slowly. His eyes searched the grounds for someone who might help. Nothing. There was nobody there. No vehicles were parked around the loop and Sam didn't see a single person among the makeshift cabins. Losing
his nerve, he swerved the car into the sages in front of the Shaman's cabin.

Where the hell is everyone?
His heart was racing.

*  *  *

“This doesn't feel right, does it?” Jake said, half to himself and half to Noelle.

“It's strange, no doubt. Sabotage?” Noelle answered. “What is this place anyway? It's like a compound.”

Jake shrugged. “We're close to the park,” he said, referring to Yellowstone. He dropped back from the leading vehicles, proceeding more cautiously now.