The Gorge

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

“Test weight is good to one thousand pounds,” Travis Lane repeated, as if to hone his ProVentures sales pitch.

“We’re close, then,” Bowie said. The raft was crowded, with Castle jammed up behind Bowie. Lane had completely given up on paddling due to the lack of elbow room. The waterline was within a foot of the bow, and each buck of the rapids tossed a few more tablespoons of water into the craft.

The current had eased, and Bowie remembered this middle leg as one of the gentlest stretches of the river. In autumn, the river was generally at its lowest anyway, far removed from the torrential rains of summer and the snowmelt of early spring. But even the gentlest stretches had their occasional hair runs, moments when a lack of concentration could result in another spill or worse. And Castle had no PFD to float him to safety.

“So they have you working alone?” Bowie shouted over his shoulder.

“Yeah,” Castle said.

“There’s a lot of territory to cover out here,” Bowie said. He didn’t believe the agent, but accepted that the FBI had probably instilled some weird code of honor in Castle’s head. Loose lips sink ships, and all that. Still, Bowie felt it was fair to be forewarned of any potential danger. An armed federal agent in the middle of nowhere probably signaled “manhunt.”

As a devout recluse, Bowie had willfully avoided newspapers and magazines, and his Montana property had been too isolated for cable television. He could have set up wireless Internet service and satellite TV, but it seemed counterproductive to let unwanted information into his cabin while he had spent so much energy keeping the real world at bay. Bowie couldn’t recall any sensational cases that might have triggered a serious federal manhunt, but he was sure not every crime was as high-profile as the 9/11 attacks, the Green River Killer, or the Unabomber case.

McKay, at the rear of the raft, spoke up. “I saw on the news that abortion clinic bomber was supposed to be hiding out in the mountains of North Carolina. Is that the guy you’re after?”

Bowie, focused on the upcoming swells, couldn’t see Jim Castle’s face, but he was willing to bet the man’s jaws were clenched. The agent hadn’t immediately responded, which hinted that McKay was close to the mark. Bowie hadn’t heard of the case, but figured some nut job was on the loose somewhere. Plenty of them to go around. But if this bomber was hiding in the Unegama Wilderness Area, it would take an army to smoke him out.

“Yeah, the Bama Bomber,” Lane said. “Some kind of redneck mass murderer, right?”

“Technically, he is both a mass murderer and a serial killer, if that is who I’m after,” Castle said.

Cop-speak riddles. No wonder people got away with murder. But the best killers could move in different worlds, disguise themselves as plumbers, politicians, or pet shop owners.

“He’s from North Dakota,” McKay called from the rear. “They just call him the Bama Bomber because it fit the headlines better.”

“Mr. Castle, I need to know if my group will be in any danger,” Bowie said.

“I promise you’ll be the first to know. If and when.”

“I’ll just assume he’s considered armed and dangerous, then.”

“Isn’t everybody these days?” Lane said.

A budding J. Edgar Hoover or an explosive-packing member of the moron militia might be the least of their problems, Bowie thought. Clouds had pushed in and coalesced into a rumpled and smothering blanket. Bowie had studied the weather reports for the two weeks prior to the trip, and a warm front was predicted to push precipitation across the central states and possibly into the Northeast and Canada, completely dodging the South. From Bowie’s previous experience running the gorge, though, he knew weather in the mountains could change dramatically, the escarpment playing with wind patterns and sometimes swinging temperatures thirty degrees within a few hours.

The Unegama River, with stretches ranked between Class III and Class VI when the river was at its safest, could quickly become a torrential storm drain. If the rain was more than just a passing shower, Bowie would have to decide between taking the rafts out and losing precious hours, or even a day, or sticking to schedule and ramping up the risk factor. With one raft already overloaded, he might have to ditch a couple of crew members.

Farrengalli, maybe. The thought brought a smile to his lips. But Dove might volunteer to keep him company, reasoning that she had more hiking experience than the others. The smile tightened. He knew well what happened when Dove kept a man company in the woods.

“How far do you expect to ride?” Bowie asked Castle.

“As far as it takes.”

Bowie glanced upriver, saw Dove working the paddle, and admired her strong but slender arms. He should have put her in the raft with him, but he had been determined to interact with her as little as possible. This morning had been a mistake, though the memory of it caused a warm and pleasant swelling in the crotch of his SealSkinz.

“Your clothes are wet,” Lane said to the agent. “You’re in danger of exposure.”

“I’ve been exposed before,” he said.

Every time Bowie glanced at Castle, the man’s eyes were scanning the sky as if expecting a strafing run from a formation of jet fighters. Though the eyes never stayed fixed on anything for more than three seconds (nothing like Serpico when played by Pacino, who could beat a mirror in a staring contest), Bowie had seen enough to wonder if the man might just possibly be some kind of nut job himself. What if Castle was the suspect and had somehow obtained a federal badge, possibly from one of his victims?

Bowie guided the lead raft to the right, into the shallow shoals, so the other raft could catch up. He was about to ram his paddle into the sandy bottom when the piercing shriek erupted from above and fell like a meteor.