The Gorge

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Holy fuck, he shot the son of a bitch.

Not that Farrengalli gave a damn about the Fed, or any cop for that matter. He’d never learned respect for law and order, ever since he’d been pinched for stealing a Nirvana CD in the fourth grade. In high school, he’d pulled thirty days for breaking and entering, which led him to flunk out and graduate to serious small-time crime: boosting cars, peddling hot TVs and computers, and turning over the occasional kilo of Mexican grass. For most of his life, cops of any kind were the Enemy. And Special Agent Jim Castle had come on two doughnuts shy of a sackful, closer to Hannibal Lector than Clarice Starling.

But as he watched from the woods while the Fed took a bullet from the scrawny Charles Manson wannabe, Farrengalli’s gut was a block of ice. He’d felt no desire to interfere, and he figured the guy with the gun was the Bama Bomber, which would make his story worth even more money once he got out of this bad horror movie of a river trip. All he had to do was dodge the vampires, survive the river, avoid getting shot, and collect his money from ProVentures. The survival of the rest of the group, or the ever-expanding list of extras and bit players, was not his concern.

He wouldn’t mind bringing Dove along with him, though. After all, she had the camera and the publishing contacts, plus she was hot enough to scorch an Eskimo’s dick. He could probably work her for a tumble if he could get her away from the redskin. At least that prick Bowie was apparently getting kidnapped, which was just fine with him.

Dove went straight to the Fed, playing nurse like she had the whole trip. The Bama Bomber looked ready to take down Dove and the redskin, too. Hell, if the nut shot Raintree, then Farrengalli could bring the raft out of the woods and play “Moonlight River” with Dove. Except it didn’t look like the night would offer up a moon, and he wasn’t sure he’d be able to handle the raft without some help.

The Bama Bomber climbed into the raft with Bowie and the girl and shoved off. Bowie shouted something that was drowned out by the river’s rush. The raft spun, undulated like a fat larva, and entered the heart of the current. It slipped downstream and was quickly lost in the mist. class=Section4›

Farrengalli shouldered the second raft and headed out from the relative shelter of the high evergreen trees. By the time he reached the group, Castle was propped against a boulder, his shirt open, rain carrying rivulets of blood down his belly. The agent was conscious, but his eyelids fluttered as if he were focusing on something beyond the wall of mist.

“Man, oh, man,” Farrengalli said. “Guess we need a new trail boss.”

“Where the hell were you?” Dove said.

“Never mind that now,” Raintree said. “We’ve got to patch him up.”

“The first-aid kit was in my backpack,” Dove said.

Raintree unzipped his SealSkinz and peeled it down his torso. Underneath was a white T-shirt that advertised his fitness gyms. He yanked the shirt up and over his head, showing a muscular chest. Farrengalli figured him for a show-off, but Dove was too busy tending Castle to get an eyeful. Raintree ripped the T-shirt into several large swathes of cotton and handed them to Dove. She used one to wipe at the wound, then wrapped two around Castle’s upper abdomen and tied them tightly. Castle winced and moaned. Some tough guy, Farrengalli thought.

“The bullet didn’t seem to pierce any major organs,” Dove said. “It may have broken a rib, but I think it went below the lung and above his liver and kidney. Looks like it just hit meat.”

“Thank God for all those doughnuts,” Farrengalli said.

Ignoring him, Raintree rummaged in the little leather pouch that was tied to his belt. He pulled out an orange vial, rolled a couple of pills into his palm, and held them to Castle’s mouth. “Here,” Raintree said. “This will help the pain.”

“What are those?” Dove asked.

“Oxycodone.”

“Oxy.” Farrengalli said. “Where did you get those?”

“From my medicine bag,” Raintree said. class=Section5›

Fucking smart-ass redskin. If Dove wasn’t here, I’d mash those government-subsidized teeth straight down your throat.

Castle swallowed the pills with effort. Dove removed her helmet, carried it to the river, and scooped up some water. “Guess a little diarrhea is the least of his worries,” she said as he sipped the water. “With the rain, it’s probably cleaner than usual.”

“Well, Chief,” Farrengalli said to Raintree. “What’s the plan?” Maybe he should have asked Dove, too, but the way she was making horny-squaw eyes at the Cherokee, she would go along with whatever he decided.

Castle cleared his throat. “Guess this is the part where I tell you to go on without me. I’m dead weight and I’ll just slow you down.”

“The painkillers will kick in soon,” Raintree said. “Hang on.”

“He’s right,” Farrengalli said, as if Castle weren’t there. “He’s vampire bait. Let’s get on down the river.”

“No way,” Dove said.

Castle sat up a little. The makeshift bandages were stained with a crimson blossom, but the bleeding appeared to have slowed. He reached inside his shirt. “There’s one other option.”

“Shit, he’s got another gun tucked in there,” Farrengalli said. “I knew it. Like something out of Wild, Wild West.”

Instead, Castle brought out a small silver object the size of his palm. He flipped it open. “No bars.”

“You can’t get a cell phone signal down in the gorge,” Dove said. “Surely you tried it before.”

“Not down here by the river,” Castle said. “I mean up there.”

He pointed above the tree line, to the stack of stone that rose like an edifice out of the mist.

“Babel Tower,” Dove said.

“Attacoa,” Raintree said.

“High ground,” Farrengalli said.

Castle coughed, a gurgling in his throat as he spoke. His words were slurring, and Farrengalli figured the redskin’s happy pills must be doing the job. “Our plan-me and my partner’s-was to climb the peak and see if we could pick up a tower. Though this area’s remote, you might get a line-of-sight connection even if the transmitter’s fifty miles away.”

“It would take a half day to reach the top,” Dove said. “I’ve seen the trail maps. There are stretches where you’d have to climb instead of hike. Hard climbing, with fingertips and toeholds. No can do in weather like this, when the rocks are slick, even if darkness wasn’t falling.”

Farrengalli thought about it. Babel Tower looked like something out of The Lord of the Rings, a precarious and treacherous natural turret. Except it wouldn’t be orcs and trolls that would crawl out of the shadows to attack them; it would be bloodsucking bat-beasts.

But if they made it to the top and put in a successful call, then a helicopter would swoop down, pluck them-well, those that survived the climb, anyway- off the stony, flat peak, and carry them off to a date with CBS Evening News. He didn’t know shit about cell phones, he’d always been too broke to buy one and the calling plans were confusing as hell, but Castle’s idea sounded fine to him. Especially because both Dove and Raintree were frowning.

“I like it,” Farrengalli said.

“We don’t have much climbing gear,” Dove said.

Farrengalli shook his backpack. “Ropes, pitons, and a couple them funny hammers.”

“Which of us would make the climb?”

“Well, I figure you and me,” Farrengalli said to her. “You got the experience and I got the stubborness. But Raintree’s the one in charge now, so I guess it’s up to him.”

Farrengalli gave his best shit-eating grin, hoping his gleaming, television-ready teeth were visible in the fading light.