The Gorge

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

According to the maps that Jim Castle had recovered from The Rook’s backpack, only one major trail wound along the northern shore of the Unegama River. With daylight, he was better able to orient himself, and upon reaching the river’s edge he was faced with a decision. Ace Goodall and his companion either had forded the river to reach the trail system on the other side, or had followed the water downstream. If they had crossed, Castle would have little chance of finding them, because the trails branched off toward a number of peaks and scenic overlooks. The pair (and he now fully believed Ace had a partner, willing or not-after all, why else would he carry a condom?) could evade detection for days or weeks on the south side of the river.

Castle placed his bet on Goodall’s desperation. No doubt The Rook would have said desperation didn’t fit the assessment, not after all the cold-blooded attacks the man had committed. But The Rook’s education and behavioral interpretations hadn’t done him a bit of good. After all, The Rook had been plucked into the sky by a creature that Freud wouldn’t have acknowledged in any mortal nightmare, much less in the real world. Castle was coming to believe the real world no longer existed; in his exhaustion, the Unegama and the surrounding cliffs and forest had become an illusory landscape that had little use for humans and their philosophy.

Goodall would head downstream, seeking the straightest and surest escape route. Despite the Biblical clues the mass murderer had dropped during his eighteen-month reign of terror, the Bama Bomber wasn’t seeking persecution, and clearly wasn’t ready to lie down spread-eagled and allow the nails to be driven into his palms and feet. No, Goodall’s survival instinct was as strong as that of any rodent or cockroach. The Rook’s textbooks had no chapters that spoke in plain language, but Castle was sure the bomber was as shallow as the lowest car thief or child molester.

Take the easier, softer way, the path of least resistance.

Shit, Castle had been doing it for years. He could have been a senior agent by now, behind a desk somewhere and building political capital, remaining neutral until a group from either political party got a hammerlock. Then he could have slid into their envelope, turned up in the right filing cabinet, and then sat around polishing his brass and assigning blame for the rest of his career. Now, he had no one to blame but himself, because Goodall had tricked him and nature had yanked his underwear into the crack of his ass, he had a hangover without the benefit of Scotch, and he was pulling a blind tail on one of the country’s ten most wanted.

“Hello?”

Castle was so deep into his own ruminations that he thought at first the voice was that of The Rook, who had been a disconcerting presence in his head for the last few hours. “Shut up, Rook.”

“Oh, no. He’s one of them, Pete.”

The Rook speaking in a female voice? Castle looked up from the damp, stone-pocked sand of the shore. A man and a woman stood among the gold-dappled shrubs of the forest edge. Castle had his Glock raised before he realized the man wasn’t Goodall.

“Hey,” the man, Pete, said. “Don’t shoot. We don’t have anything to steal.”

Castle gave them a subtle, trained scrutiny. The man was paunchy and balding, not the kind to be in the wilderness at all, much less parked by the river with no gear. The woman was clearly annoyed at something. Probably a number of things. Castle had a stock appraisal of women with tiny upper lips and pinched eyes, and his decision to avoid them had so far always been proven correct. Sometimes belatedly. She reminded him of his first wife.

He hadn’t realized he’d been carrying the Glock in his fist. Too late to pretend to be just another hiker, but no need to blow his cover yet. He tucked his weapon behind his back. “You folks okay?”

Pete kept his eye on the arm that held the gun. “So far. But we have nothing left to steal.”

“Who would be dumb enough to rob people in the middle of nowhere?”

Pete and Jenny exchanged glances. “You’re not with them?” the woman asked.

“I’m not with anybody.” Because a mythical monster carried off my partner last night.

“We’d feel better if you put that away,” Pete said. “If you don’t mind, that is.”

“What is it with hikers and guns?” the woman whined. “Christ, it’s not like there’s anything to shoot out here besides squirrels.”

“Seen anything strange?” Like maybe a man-sized flying thing that had no wings?

Pete opened his mouth but the woman beat him to it. “If by ‘strange,’ you mean having a gun stuck in our faces and our canoe taken away, yeah. If that doesn’t count, then we’re just sitting here waiting for the bus.”

“Will you stop with the mouth a minute?” Pete said to her. “If he wanted to hurt us, he would have done it already.”

Which wasn’t necessarily true. Castle had worked support on a California case in which the killer had befriended a family at a campground, spent several days sightseeing with them, shared a barbecue of hot wings, and then had cleaved the four of them into pieces with a hatchet. Most psychos didn’t want to kill strangers. That wasn’t much fun. Exceptions like Ace were driven by other motives, and The Rook could have recited a laundry list of them if he were still around. But he wasn’t.

Castle eased the gun under his armpit, into the shoulder holster. “Didn’t mean to scare you. It pays to be paranoid, that’s all.”

“You’re looking for him, aren’t you?” Jenny said.

Castle nodded. “Who was with him?”

“A girl,” Pete said. “A looker. Lean legs, decent tan, like she was on spring break from college.”

“She wasn’t that pretty,” Jenny said. “You didn’t look above her chest.”

“Stop with the mouth. This man’s a cop. I can smell them a mile away.”

“Why were you scared, then? He’s a little closer than a mile and you stink so bad you can’t smell nothing much.”

“Stop with it.”

Jenny was reminding Castle more and more of his ex-wife. He cut in. “You said he took the canoe?”

“About an hour ago.”

Castle glanced at his wristwatch. It was nearly 11 a.m. If Goodall and his companion had any paddling skill at all, they were probably two or three miles downriver by now. “Do you have a trail map?”

“No,” Pete said. “We thought we were sticking to the river.”

He didn’t have much chance of catching up with Goodall. Guiding the couple to safety would take the rest of the day, but at least it would be a form of public service. He hadn’t served much of anybody since entering the Unegama Wilderness Area, and had one big red mark in his ledger. And he should probably warn them that a weird gray flying monster might grab them.

But monsters aren’t real. They’re just shadows under the bed. And it looks like they’re plenty scared enough already.

Castle set down his backpack, knelt, and rummaged until he found one of the maps. He gave it to Pete, but Jenny promptly snatched it away. “You couldn’t find your ass with both hands and a flashlight,” she said.

“There’s only one major trail on the north side,” Castle said, looking at a point between them, where a large balsam pine towered over the rocky outcropping, its gnarled roots gripping the soil of the bank as if afraid of being set adrift. “Do you have a compass?”

Pete shook his head, and Jenny ran out her lower lip as if wondering what else he’d forgotten. She unfolded the map and said, “Straight north on foot and we’ll be in Atlantic City just in time to retire.”

“You can’t miss the trail. The sun’s heading west, so stay ninety degrees from its path across the sky and you’ll be okay.”

Pete cast a dubious glance overhead. “But the sun’s nearly straight up.”

Castle pointed north. “Just go that way, then.”

“‘Go that way,’ he says, Mr. Big Shot Cop,” Jenny said. “And if we don’t, are you going to write us a ticket?”

“Stop with it,” Pete said.

“I’m sorry, but I have to go,” Castle said. It was always possible that Goodall could have had an accident or spilled the canoe. If his traveling companion were a fraction as annoying as Jenny, then the Bama Bomber might have a short fuse already. Or had pushed her overboard.

“Thanks for the map,” Pete said. “This guy who robbed us? Is he big trouble?”

“Let’s just say, with any luck, you might be called as a witness in one of the biggest federal trials since the DC snipers. Assuming we all make it out of here alive.”

“The man’s an optimist,” Jenny said to Pete. “You should pay attention, you might learn something.”

Castle was already heading downstream, following the shore, watching the slick, wet stones at his feet, when he wondered if he should warn the couple about giant flying creatures with dishrag wings that could swoop down and carry them away. Nope. That was nuts.

Not “nuts,” said The Rook, who was apparently determined to ride mental shotgun for the duration of the journey. You’re just a person of psychological difference. A momentary case of schism, a delusional-disorder poster child, a shrink’s wet dream. Nothing to worry about.

“I’m beginning to worry about you,” Castle replied aloud. “Because you sound crazier than I am. And you’re probably dead.”

Why would you go and hold a little thing like that against me?

“Because I have a feeling I might be joining you soon.”

No shit, Sherlock.

Behind Castle, Pete and Jenny were arguing over the map, and Jenny appeared to be winning. Castle hoped, if those weird, bloodthirsty nightmare creatures really existed, they would find her. She probably tasted bad, but at least Pete would get the pleasure of watching her being dragged away across the sky. If he lived long enough to enjoy being a widower.