Death Canyon (23 page)

In Jan's mind, this experiment was based on similar assumptions.
He was disappointed that he hadn't made the connection earlier, for he could have been a much richer man by less risky means. “Energy,” he said aloud for the umpteenth time in recent weeks. He shook his head and chortled as he walked back to his desk to watch the numbers.

Now he knew the payoff wouldn't be quite as much as expected. They had conveniently shared that news with him yesterday. Still, if the experiment proved unsuccessful and the major payoff never occurred, they guaranteed ten million dollars and a clean police record. “As long as the drills get deep enough,” they told him. Not a bad take for one job. Nonetheless, the idea of working for politicians made the seasoned criminal wary. The only real upside was the immunity.

The men in charge were shortsighted, Jan thought. Even a criminal like him could understand that this project needed more planning and research. Nobody had really understood until now how bad it could get; they were too caught up in its potential.

And it all started with those fucking cops shooting down Argus. My boy in the wheelchair with the hideous face.

And Jake fucking Trent.

Jake woke up with a start. His head felt like a pressure cooker ready to explode. To remedy this, he started the coffee, downed a glass of water, and got in the shower. When he finished, he poured the coffee, black, into a plastic to-go mug, grabbed two ibuprofens from the cabinet, and headed for the door.

His stomach grumbled as he pulled off the road to fill up on gas. It occurred to Jake that he had neglected dinner, which surely didn't help the hangover. While the gas was pumping, he jogged inside to the convenience store to find a bite to eat. He bought a handful of granola bars and two bottles of water. On the way out the door he also picked up the local freebie newspaper.

Glancing at the paper, which he had laid on the hood of the vehicle, a headline leaped to his eye: “Development Site Vandalized.” Jake read quickly.

Police are interested in “any and all leads” from the public, Jackson Police Chief Roger Terrell said last evening, stressing that the force is treating the vandalism as an act of “aggression and terror, rather than meaningless destruction.”

When asked what factors went into his determination of the nature of the vandalism, Terrell refused to elaborate, citing the ongoing investigation.

Jake read on. The construction site had been thoroughly sabotaged—replete with booby traps made of barbed wire and threats scrawled into the yellow paint of its back-end loaders and bulldozers. Someone had even burned out the interior of a pickup truck.

It still didn't quite add up to Jake. It was clear that someone wanted the building at the milk ranch to stop. Someone had it in for the Parrana family.

But who? And what the hell does it have to do with me? And J.P.?

He thought briefly of Noelle—thought of calling her but decided against it. There were more important things to do. Besides, Jake knew he would never forgive himself if he put her in danger.

The tank was full. Jake started the long drive back to the camp near Yellowstone to investigate for himself. He hoped the chief and the police had already come and gone.

*  *  *

The Shaman was long gone from Camp Bodhi by now. He'd left immediately after Sam called. He didn't fill his followers in totally, but he told them a raid was coming. They knew what to do, this scenario had been practiced. They dispersed randomly, mostly north. The Shaman went south, toward Jackson; he still had business
to do. He'd registered at a cheap motel under a fake name, and that was where he sat now, perched on the bed's edge. The TV was on but he ignored it.

The Shaman's name was Makter, but even that was somewhat of a farce.

He'd assumed his middle name as his first name a few decades back to avoid some enemies. He'd been messing around with a dancer from the Phillies' Club. A girl from a connected family. One night he beat her up pretty good and she went crying to Daddy. That was all it took—the wrath of an overprotective Sicilian patriarch became focused on one thing: killing the asshole who hurt his baby girl.

Makter had wanted to kill the whole family, but the risk was just too high. Someone would ultimately find him and make him pay, and he knew it. He changed his name but vowed to go back for the father and daughter eventually.

I want the fat fuck to watch his daughter die.

Thinking on it now excited him. He closed his eyes and pictured the scene. Like his mother lying in his dreams, a woman was motionless in a pool of her own blood.

When I get out of this fucking wilderness, I'll take care of it.

His fists were numb from being clenched, and the pinprick tingling brought him back to reality. Earlier that day, Makter had heard the reports about the sabotage efforts in Jackson. He was disappointed that the attack was so weakly executed—more aesthetic than damaging—but it didn't matter much.

What mattered more was that his spy, Sam, was out of the picture. This would make things a little more difficult.
Who would keep tabs on Trent?
The police had seized the Impala the night before and Sam was God knows where.

To make matters worse, the police now knew that Jake wasn't the culprit behind the hit and run. That didn't matter much to Makter, but Jan would be furious.

Makter and Jan had seen eye to eye at first. They both wanted Jake out of their hair, now and forever. Since he was poisoned, though, the thought of Jake's imprisonment didn't satisfy Makter. That poison,
whatever the hell it was,
had planted a rage inside him. He wanted blood.

Of course, Jan said that wasn't necessary.

Weak, frightened Jan. A little boy in a man's body.

*  *  *

Noelle was awake early that morning, too. She cringed as she recalled the prior night.

What did I even want from him?
It wasn't like her to be so bold.

She thought of calling him, clearing things up, but changed her mind. If he needed her he would call. Besides, she wanted to go to the morgue to look at the Frenchman's body.

Before she left, she called the hospital and asked to be transferred downstairs to the morgue. Smith answered.

“Hello?” he said in a hurried voice.

“This is Noelle Klimpton from the NPS. I'd like to come in and look at your bear attack victim if I could.”

“Yeah, uhhh, fine. Hurry though. The body is leaving with the family this afternoon. You'll have to let yourself in through reception; I'm leaving for Pinedale. Suicide. Sad, sad. Real messy.”

Noelle thanked him and let him off the phone.
Weirdo.
She got dressed and drove toward town. As she did, a gentle quake shook the car.

The women at the reception desk were expecting Noelle. One of
them led her down the stairs to the cool basement and waved her through the doors before turning back. Noelle opened the push doors to the morgue and walked inside. The room reeked of chemicals.

Something moved in a dark corner of the space. Noelle froze. The bright lights elsewhere in the lab made it difficult for her eyes to adjust to the dark place that delivered the noise. She couldn't see a thing. She sensed a large, human-sized shape there but couldn't be sure. Suddenly a bright LED ray shined directly into her eyes. The beam of light blinded her. Panic gripped her.

“Holy . . .” The man's voice faded to calm. “Whoa, you scared me there, miss! I thought Smith left. Should you be down here? Excuse my language.” The man hadn't even let an expletive escape his lips.

Noelle hoped her own fear wasn't quite as apparent as she took a deep breath. “Er . . . yeah. It's okay. I spoke with Smith earlier; he gave me permission to take a look at a body. What are
you
doing down here?”

The man switched off his headlamp and stepped into the light. He was in his late sixties. “Working on these halogens. Whole row has been out for two weeks. I can't figure it out. It's not the bulbs or the power source . . .”

Noelle looked up at the steel fixtures with their chrome reflectors, understanding now. Before she could speak again the man glanced at his watch and excused himself for a coffee break.

“Be back in a few.”

She shook off the remaining chills and moved farther into the room. Approaching the wall of drawers, she checked for the red name tag that meant there was a body inside. Empty, empty, empty. Only one compartment was in use.

Noelle grabbed the cold chrome handle on the drawer and pulled it open to find a black zippered bag. Before opening it, she
put on a pair of latex gloves that she grabbed from Smith's desk. She took a deep breath and slid the zipper down.

The sight and smells weren't as grotesque as she expected. The man looked like one of those plastic corpses from a science exhibit and the only scent was that of the chemicals. Noelle took the top part of the bag that was still obscuring her view of the body and tucked it under in a few spots, under his head, his shoulders, and his heels.

There was a long Y-shaped cut starting at either shoulder, converging at the sternum, and ending shortly below and left of the belly button. The incision had not yet been stitched shut. Noelle could see that the victim's organs were inside, but contained in a plastic bag. Reinserted for burial, she assumed.

Noelle looked closely at the puncture wounds. No signs of scratching or tearing, just pencil-girthed holes punched into the chest cavity. Turning the body on its side, Noelle felt around the man's back for wounds but found none. That probably ruled out a bite. She was rethinking the possibilities when the broken light flickered for a second and then came on brightly.

“What the hell?” Noelle was a little startled. Her nerves still hadn't settled since her surprise run-in with the hospital's engineer. On the exam table directly under the recently repaired light was the engineer's tool belt.

“No way,” Noelle said in a whisper. She walked over to the tools, grabbed one, and then went back to the desk for another glove. She slid the shaft of the screwdriver into the forefinger compartment of the glove to keep it sterile. Plus, it seemed disrespectful not to. Then she lined up the screwdriver with one of the puncture wounds. The shank slid through with just a little force.

Noelle checked the other wounds too. “No way,” she said again, aloud.

She set down the tool and looked closer at the penetration points. Around the wounds were halos of bruised skin, three-quarters of an inch, perhaps. She placed the screwdriver in the wound again. The hard plastic lip where the shaft met the handle perfectly matched the size of the bruise.

The bruising must have increased slowly after the man's death!
she thought.
There's no other way the coroner could have missed this.

Noelle zipped the bag and quickly closed the drawer. She put the screwdriver back in its place and tossed the rubber gloves on the way out. As she went up the stairs, taking two at a time, she passed the engineer.

“Light's fixed!” she said between breaths.

“I figured—they just told me that last fixture was on a different fuse. Hey, why are you in such a hurry?”

Noelle didn't say anything. She ran to the car, started the engine, and picked up her mobile. She had to call Jake.

To her dismay, his phone rang without answer. Noelle couldn't leave a message; the news was just too big. She sped north.

*  *  *

The camp was still a ghost town like it had been the day before. Jake surveyed the cabins, lean-tos, and old canvas tents. No sign of anyone. The Impala was gone, likely towed back to Jackson. Jake stayed still and observed for a moment, as if just breathing the air and looking around might yield some clue. The cool wind lent an extra dose of loneliness.

Strange, really. Like a commune or something.

His tactic yielded nothing else, so Jake started looking around inside the structures. After scrounging around in three empty tents and the main cabin, a lean-to gave him some hope.

Bingo.

Stuffed into the nook between two lodgepole supports, Jake found a thin book. He pushed aside some of the smaller branches making up the wind stop and pulled it out. The shoddy wall fell outward as he did so.

The book was ratty and faded from the elements but the title was easy to read. It said,
Avalanches: Causes, Prevention, and Rescue.
Jake leafed through it, looking for anything that might provide him with more information on the camp and its deserters. The receipt for the book, purchased at the Montana State University bookstore, was folded into the middle of chapter 7, which was titled “Wet-Slab Avalanches.”

His heartbeat increased and he looked around the camp. Still deserted. Jake sat down on a worn log that must have been used as a bench by the previous occupants.

Back to the book. Jake flipped to the beginning of the marked chapter and started there. On some pages he found highlighted words, and on others notes scrawled in the margins. The focus of the reader was clearly on the triggers of wet-slab avalanches rather than prevention and rescue: “occur in spring during rainy and/or warm periods,” “unlikely to be triggered by skiers,” “except in periods of high rainfall, occur most often in the afternoon on sun-exposed aspects,” and “slow-moving but extremely destructive.”

“Shit!” Jake closed the book and jogged to his vehicle with it in his hand. The book hadn't revealed everything—why or how the Maelstrom avalanche had been started, for example—but it revealed enough. Jake was almost certain now: the avalanche on Maelstrom wasn't an accident at all.

He knew what he had to do next. He had to try to get in contact
with Mr. Ricker, the survivor of the Maelstrom slide. Jake had a gut feeling that Ricker wouldn't be easy to find.