The Associate

8

By the time the call came, the money was waiting inside a gym bag and Martin had reached a decision. Gene had the receiver pressed to his ear before the second ring. Martin heard him say, "I understand" and "Yes," then, "Is my wife-" and knew by the way Gene's features crumbled that they had hung up on him without letting him talk to Melissa or assuring him that she was all right.

"Gene?" Martin asked softly.

Arnold stared at the phone.

"What did they say?"

"There's a side road off the highway." He sounded dazed. "It's near the bridge that crosses the McPherson River where they have the picnic grounds."

"I know it."

The McPherson River was twenty miles from Desert Grove in a deep canyon. The Park Service had developed a picturesque area near it. Rafters set out from a small park with a picnic area. Last summer, Martin and Patty had rafted that river with Gene and Melissa.

"Tonight, as soon as it gets dark, I'm supposed to drive up the road for a mile and park the car near the trail to the river. They want me to walk down to the river and follow the trail until it curves around the cliff side. I'm supposed to leave the money there and drive home."

"What then?"

"They didn't say."

It was a strange plan. The trail from the road to the picnic area was the only way in or out. On the other hand, at night, the location was pretty isolated and the kidnapper would see anyone who tried to follow Gene.

"I'm going to take them the money," Martin said.

Gene looked startled. "Forget that. I was crazy to ask you before."

"Someone has to wait here in case Melissa comes home."

"I can't ask you to do this for me."

"You're a good friend, Gene. And I'm not asking for your permission."

Gene started to argue, but the determination he saw on Martin's face stopped him.

"Thank you," he whispered. "I'll never forget this."

It was cold in the desert that night, and Martin was wearing jeans and a windbreaker to fight the chill. The bag of money bumped against his legs as he descended toward the river. Tucked in his waistband was a licensed .45-caliber automatic. A hunting knife hung from his belt in a scabbard. Martin had a simple plan. He would kneecap the person who came for the money, then torture him until he told Martin where to find Melissa Arnold and named everyone involved in the kidnappings.

In sunlight, this was a beautiful spot-high red cliffs, carefully cultivated greenery at the jump-off spot, and the always soothing shush of the rapidly flowing water. At night, with the possibility of a killer lurking in the dark, the spot lost a lot of its glamour.

There was no light except the stars and a half-moon, so Martin moved slowly. It was about a quarter mile until the cliff jutted out where the river turned. The first rapids, a gentle class two, was a short distance past the bend. The trail narrowed where the river curved. A little ways on it dwindled to a footpath. Martin walked past the curve of the rock and looked around. There was scrub brush and not much else except for the high cliff wall. If someone was lurking behind one of the many outcroppings of rock, he wouldn't be able to see them. Martin left the money then walked back along the path and hid in the shadows.

Nothing happened for forty minutes. Then Martin heard a muffled footfall. Clouds suddenly moved across the moon and Martin could barely make out the person bent over the gym bag. He tried for a better look and dislodged a rock. In the stillness the tumbling stone sounded like a stack of bottles shattering in a supermarket aisle. The kidnapper turned and Martin went for his gun. While he was leveling the .45 he heard the crack of a gunshot and felt searing pain in his left shoulder. Martin staggered a few paces, then fell. His head struck the ground. Struggling to stay conscious, Martin fired a shot to discourage the kidnapper from coming over to finish him off.

Two more shots rang out and Martin crawled for cover. Something splashed in the water. Martin peered around the rock. Two muzzle flashes lit up a small raft as it floated rapidly downriver. Martin came up shooting, but the raft was around the bend in the river and out of sight. His shoulder felt like it was on fire. He became nauseated and his legs gave way. Adding to his misery was the knowledge that his incompetence may have cost Melissa Arnold her life.

Martin stumbled up the trail, which seemed impossibly steep and long. After what seemed like hours, he reached his car. He had to fight to stay conscious during the drive to Gene Arnold's house and he let himself collapse on the car horn as soon as he came to a stop in the front yard. Gene was at his side in moments, blanching at the extent of Martin's bleeding as he pulled his friend from the car. With a grunt, he slung Martin's good arm across his shoulder and supported him as they crossed the yard. When they were inside, Gene called the hospital. Then he called the sheriff.