Nowhere to Run

20

“How many more of these are there?” Smith asked, gesturing toward the perfectly round lake in the bottom of the alpine cirque. Vertical rock walls rose sharply on three sides of the water, and the fourth side was sloped and grassy. A trout nosed the surface and concentric rings rippled out across the still water until it finally flattened again.

“There’s at least two more cirques,” Farkus said. “They kind of stair-step their way down the mountain. The cirques trap the snowmelt so it can’t flow anywhere. We used to fish these lakes.”

The sky had cleared and morning was warming up. They’d been riding for five hours on the western side of the mountains, rimming the series of spectacular cirques Farkus had surprised himself by knowing about. He’d fudged his knowledge a little, because he hadn’t visited the area since way back in high school with some friends who’d backpacked up from the valley floor to fish the mountain lakes. He’d been drunk approximately the whole time, so his recollections were vague and imprecise. He remembered falling off a rock into one of the lakes while drinking a half a bottle of sloe gin. The water was bone-chilling. His lone trip up here was years before the Forest Service had shut down access roads into the area, but at last he had an idea where he was. He knew that if they kept traveling in a westerly direction, they’d eventually hit the creek and trailhead where he’d originally met Joe Pickett.

Farkus had actually become useful to Parnell, Smith, and Campbell. Plus, his tales of the Wendigo had helped distract Smith and Campbell, he could tell. Of course, he’d just made up the part about Wendigos being able to see in the dark, but they’d never know that. Smith and Campbell now seemed jumpy. Farkus could tell Parnell had picked up on that, too, and he no doubt feared a loss of control over his team.

For the first time since they’d stopped him and forced him out of his truck two days before, Farkus felt he might just have a chance after all. Since he knew vaguely where he was now and his companions were becoming less vigilant by the hour, he might be able to escape.

Problem was, it was this area where the game warden was headed to investigate the stolen elk. Which meant this is where Joe Pickett had encountered the Grim Brothers.

Parnell’s tracking device chirped. He read the display and announced they were practically on top of their target.

“How close?” Smith asked.

“Half a mile, maybe. Over the next ridge, I’d guess. We’ve been closing the gap all morning.”

“Are they still going the other way?”

“No,” Parnell said. “He’s coming at us right now.”

Smith drew his AR-15 rifle out of his saddle scabbard and laid it across the pommel of his saddle. Campbell checked the loads of his rifle, even though Farkus had seen him do it at least twice before.

“So,” Farkus said to Parnell, “are you gonna finally tell me what this is all about?”

“No.”

Farkus felt a knot build in his stomach as they got close to the ridge. Whoever they were after, if Parnell’s equipment was reliable, was just over the other side. Parnell had veered from the established trail into a thick stand of gnarled pine trees. When they were in the cover, Parnell dismounted, and Smith and Campbell did the same. For a brief moment, Farkus considered kicking the horse and riding away while the three of them were down. But which direction? If he went back the way they’d come, he’d be in the open for a hundred yards and a well-placed shot could pick him off, borrowed body armor or not. And if he thundered over the rim, he might ride straight into the Grim Brothers.

He sighed and dismounted with the rest of them.

Parnell motioned for them to come close and listen. He whispered, “Let’s get our weapons ready and tie up the horses here so they can’t see them. When we’re locked and loaded, we’ll crawl through the trees to the edge of the ridge and scope it down. Remember, those boys have body armor, too. So go for headshots.”

Farkus said, “They do?”

“At least that’s what we were told.”

Then: “Smith, you ready?”

Smith nodded once.

“Campbell?”

“Yes, sir.”

He turned to Farkus. “You stay here and don’t even think of trying to get away like you were a minute ago. If you try to run, I’ll shoot you so fast you’ll be dead before you hit the ground.”

Farkus swallowed and looked away.

“So,” Smith said to Parnell, “you’re thinking they’re down in this cirque?”

“That’s what I think,” Parnell whispered.

“Let’s not miss,” Smith said to the others. “The last thing we need is a wounded Cline brother coming after us.”

Farkus said, “Cline? I thought their name was Grim?”

“Shut up, Dave,” Parnell said, shooting Smith a punishing look.

Farkus stood off to the side with the horses, thinking Cline? Where had he heard that name? Something about Michigan.

When Parnell’s tracker chirped again, he read it and appeared startled. His scalp twitched above his forehead even though his face was a mask.

“What?” Smith asked.

“He’s on top of us,” Parnell whispered. “He’s coming up the rim right at us. He’s running up the side of the cirque.”

Farkus quickly dropped down to his hands and knees, wishing he could make himself even less of a target.

Parnell and Smith raised the barrels of their AR-15s, pointing them through the trees toward the lip of the rim. Campbell quickly slung his scoped rifle over his shoulder, because his scoped weapon wasn’t useful at close range, pulled his Sig Sauer, and steadied it out in front of him with two hands.

Farkus heard the rapid thumping of footfalls and saw a flash of spindly movement from the other side of the rim and then a full set of antlers. The big five-point buck mule deer with a satellite phone wired to its antlers came lurching up over the side in a dead run.

Parnell and Smith turned it into hamburger.