Authors: Lance Horton
Shadow Dragon (36 page)
The Hummer bounced and lurched, rocks and chunks of slushy ice banging against the undercarriage as they made their way along the last mile of Hungry Horse Reservoir’s West Road. It had been a rough trip. Where the road hadn’t been covered in snow, it had been rutted and pockmarked. Banks of dirty snow lined both sides of the road where plows had cleared the way, but recent snows and strong wind had undone the work and created drifts that reached across the road in places while others had been covered with patches of black ice hidden among the shadows of the tall evergreens.
In the backseat, Sheriff Greyhawk looked out the window, the dreary, leaden skies reflecting the color of his eyes and the feeling in his soul. As he had feared, there had been a noticeable lack of wildlife visible during the ride. There was normally an abundance of deer and elk crossing the road and bounding into the woods this time of year, but all he had seen were a few birds and small squirrels.
He remembered the conversation in his grandmother’s trailer. He had dismissed it as the senseless ramblings of an old woman, but now it appeared she had been right all along. As he recalled the moment, it was as if the inside of the truck became stuffy with the musty smell of urine and the cloying scent of incense. He became dizzy, a strange feeling washing over him. The hairs on the nape of his neck stood on end. He could hear the soft rattling of the bead curtain behind him and her raspy voice as clearly as if he were there now.
“Coyote came to me in a dream,” she said. “He came to tell me the monsters have returned to the mountain.”
He could see her lying there, the deep lines creasing her weathered face, her dark, piercing eyes boring into his.
You must become Coyote, Little Hawk. But beware, for unlike the hawk, the coyote cannot fly.
What had she meant by that?
he wondered. Now, as they were heading into the mountains, her ominous statements seemed vitally important. He wished he could speak with her again and ask her to explain, but the time for that had already passed.
Ahead, the ranger station came into view. At the southern end of Hungry Horse Reservoir, Spotted Bear Ranger Station was some fifty-five miles from the dam. It consisted of the main building, a large, single-story log cabin that housed the visitor’s center and the Forest Service offices, with a couple of small storage and support buildings behind, including the barn-shaped cookhouse, the diesel-generator shed, and a half-dozen cabins operated by the US Forest Service during the summer months. Next to the visitor’s center rose the new, forty-foot-tall lookout tower that was being built to oversee the site and to house new radio and cellular relay equipment. A small forest of antennas, miniature satellite dishes, and lightning rods sprouted from the roof of the tower.
They pulled around back and parked beside a pea-green-colored Forest Service Suburban with an empty trailer behind it. Two large snowmobiles sat beside the truck.
George checked his watch. It was already after 9:30, and they still had a long way to go. Kyle had done a good job driving, pushing the pace at every opportunity while not endangering their safety. It was doubtful they could have gotten there much faster. Even so, it had taken them over an hour and a half.
Whether from wrung-out emotions, anxiety, or simple exhaustion, a pall seemed to hang over the group. Hardly anyone had spoken during the ride. The somber mood lingered as George opened the back hatch to gather part of the gear. What little communication there was came in short, clipped sentences.
They followed a pair of footsteps in the snow that led around to the front. Next to the walk in front of the visitor’s center stood a covered directory with a Plexiglas display case that contained a faded map of the Spotted Bear Ranger District, which ran from the southern end of Hungry Horse Reservoir far into the Bob Marshall Wilderness. A flyer stapled next to the map indicated that the station was “closed for the season.”
The front room of the cabin served as the main office area and visitor’s center for the station. The interior looked like a display for a hunting lodge. All along the wall just below the ceiling’s exposed beams were numerous mounted animals, including a mountain lion, big horn sheep, mountain goat, and the head of a giant moose with its massive rack of antlers. Two wooden counters ran across the room with an aisle between them that ran down the hall to the back. The wall behind the counter was covered with large geographical survey maps of the area.
The steady thump of boot heels on the hardwood floor could be heard as someone made their way up to the front.
“Morning, sheriff,” the man said as he appeared.
“Morning, Hank,” the sheriff replied. “Thanks for meeting us on such short notice.”
“No problem,” Hank said. “Saved me from having to listen to the wife nag me about her ‘honey-dos’ all day.”
George introduced Carrie. Kyle and Hank, who had met during the briefings after the first murders, exchanged greetings.
Hank stuck his hand in his pocket. “Here’s the keys,” he said, tossing them to George. “The two big ones are for the snowmobiles. The little silver ones are for the padlocks on the gate and Silvertip and Pentagon cabins.”
Hank then reached beneath the counter and pulled out a pair of two-way radios. “These are good for about eight to ten miles from here, depending on the weather and your location,” he said. “They’re fully charged, and I checked ’em both to make sure they’re working. Wish I could give you a little better range, but that’s the best we can do ’til the new tower is complete.”
“Thank you,” the sheriff said. He handed one of the radios to Kyle.
“The snowmobiles are out back, all gassed up and ready. There’s a bathroom in back you can use to change.”
Taking turns in the bathroom, they each stripped out of their regular clothes and put on their thermals, snowsuits, and insulated boots.
While Kyle and Carrie were in back changing, Hank looked at George. “You sure you don’t want me to go with you?” he asked.
“Thanks but no,” George said. “It’s better that you stay here. If we’re not back by tomorrow night—”
“I’ll come get you,” Hank interrupted.
“No,” George said. “That would be pointless. If we’re not back, call Clayton and Special Agent Marasco. Tell them where we went. They’ll know what to do.”
After Kyle and Carrie had changed, they said goodbye to Hank, and then headed back outside. On their way back to the Hummer, Carrie asked, “Wouldn’t it be good to have Hank with us? I mean, he is a ranger. Who would know the area better than him?”
George looked sideways at her. “I know where we are going,” he said. After I left the reservation, I worked for a trail boss for several years. I know this forest well.”
“Oh,” was all she said.
They opened the back gate to gather the rest of their gear. George took the two Remington 870 shotguns out of the cases and began loading them. Each had extended magazines that would hold eight shells. Finished with the first one, he handed it to Kyle and loaded the second one. He then took out the Glock, slapped in a clip, and handed it to Carrie along with an extra clip. They filled the zippered pockets on each or their snowsuits with spare ammo. The rest was distributed among the three packs.
“Jesus,” Kyle muttered. “I hope to hell we don’t need all this.”
“I do too,” George said, but the words of his grandmother kept running through his head.
Once finished, George helped Kyle and Carrie shoulder their packs to make sure they were well balanced and adjusted properly. Because there were only two snowmobiles, George would drive one and Kyle the other, with Carrie riding behind him. The sheriff took Kyle’s pack from him and strapped it along with the shotguns to the back of his snowmobile.
Kyle seated himself on the vehicle, and George gave him a few short instructions on its operation. “Got it,” Kyle said, pulling down his ski goggles. “Don’t worry,” he called over his shoulder to Carrie as he started it up. “I used to ride an ATV on our ranch when I was a kid. I only turned it over on myself twice.”
“I feel safer already,” she said as she pulled on her goggles.
George shrugged into his pack and started the snowmobile. He looked up, checking the sky one last time before donning the tinted goggles. Banks of low clouds were scudding quickly overhead and appeared to be thickening. To the northwest, the skies above the snow-covered peaks looked dark and angry.
George looked at Kyle and pointed to the sky. “We must hurry,” he shouted. “A storm is coming.”
Myles Bennett winced in pain with each trudging step. He could barely lift his legs anymore. His toes felt as if they had been smashed with a sledgehammer. He wasn’t sure he could keep going, but somehow, he did, like a machine on automatic, his legs moving without thought, one foot in front of the other. His lower back had knotted up, nearly spasming from the strain of having to help keep Ramirez upright. Javier had held his own at first, but he had slowly begun to slip into a state of delirium, stumbling and weaving and requiring more and more assistance the farther they went.
Myles felt as if he had been cast into hell—only hell had frozen over—and he was being forced to march for all eternity while wearing snowshoes and carrying the weight of the world on his back. The otherworldly feeling was only heightened by the helmet, which blocked out all sounds other than his own whimpering, gasping breath and the incessant ramblings of Ramirez coming over the radio. “
Por nosotros pecadores, ahora y en la hora de nuestra muerte. Santa María,
Madre de Dios, ruega por nosotros—
”
Ramirez said it over and over, a sort of litany with various deviations that included occasional cries of “
El Chupacabra es aqui!
” Myles didn’t understand Spanish, but he understood enough to get the gist of it, and it wasn’t good. He wished Ramirez would stop. He was terrified enough on his own without Ramirez adding to it.
When he felt he could go no farther, Myles finally stopped to rest. He found a spot just off the narrow trail where a large boulder leaned against a tree. He led Javier over and sat him down and then collapsed beside him like a turtle on its back.
After he rested for only a precious few moments, Myles realized that Ramirez had stopped praying. “Javier?” he asked over the radio.
“Yeah.” His reply sounded thick, groggy.
“Just checking.”
With extreme effort, Myles sat up. After he pulled off his helmet, he rolled over and slipped off the pack. He opened it and dug around until he found the first-aid kit. As he took out the kit, he saw the case containing the tranquilizer darts.
Now was his chance. Javier seemed to be worsening. There was no way the two of them were going to make it before dark. He could simply stick Javier in the neck with one of the darts, and he would be paralyzed before he could draw his gun. Then Myles could go on alone and send back help. In reality, though, Myles knew there was little chance that anyone could make it back before dark. He would essentially be signing Javier’s death certificate. But if he didn’t, he might as well sign one for both of them.
Leaning over, he removed Javier’s helmet. Ramirez lay back against the rock, his eyes closed.
Myles lifted Javier’s right eyelid. He squinted and tried to look away. “Damn, doc,” he groaned.
Myles reached into the pack and took out a small package of smelling salts from the first-aid kit. Myles had a PhD in biological engineering, not medicine, so he wasn’t actually a doctor in the manner most people thought. He had never taken the Hippocratic Oath. Even so, he couldn’t bring himself to abandon the young man, no matter how small his chance of survival was.
He cracked open the ammonia capsule and waved it under Javier’s nose. At first, there was no response, but then the young man’s head suddenly jerked to one side, his eyes open wide.
“Sorry,” Myles said.
“No, it’s all right,” Ramirez said.
Myles thought he sounded a little better, but that could have just been wishful thinking. They each drank a little of the water then. As Myles was putting it back in the pack, Ramirez suddenly spoke. “I’m dying, aren’t I, doc?”
Myles paused, caught off guard by Javier’s apparent lucidity and by his own hesitancy to answer the question. “I don’t know,” he finally said.
“Do me a favor, will you?”
“What’s that?”
Ramirez pulled open one of the Velcro pockets and removed his rosary beads. He held them out to Myles. “Make sure these get back to my daughter.”
Myles didn’t know what to say. “I … I can’t. I mean, you can return them yourself. We’re going to make it.”
“But if I don’t, take these to her. Let my wife know what happened.”
Myles suddenly felt ill. He hadn’t even considered the fact that Javier might have a family. And what about the others? What about Busey and Johnson and Dietrich and even Ainsworth? What about their families? Who would tell them what had happened to their loved ones. Suddenly, everything he had worked so long and so hard for, everything he had sacrificed for the program all just felt … wrong.
How had it gotten to this point?
he wondered.
How had it all gotten so far out of control?
He looked at the small silver cross dangling before him. His hand was shaking as he took the beads.