The Gorge

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Damned redskin thought he’d leave me in the dust and steal my thunder.

Farrengalli worked his way up the rope. He was glad he’d reached the bottom of it before Raintree reeled it in. The first part of the climb had been easy, but a day of fast water and an afternoon of dodging bloodsucking Stephen King nightmares had worn him down a little. He was running on pure adrenaline now, and wondered what kinds of smells the creatures picked up on.

Probably fear. Or blood. Wonder if Dove’s on the rag?

One thing for certain. When they put the call in and the cavalry came swooping over the ridge in their black helicopters, Vincent Stefano Farrengalli was going to be in the spotlight taking credit. He’d propped Castle up in a nice little niche, a place where two boulders had fallen against each other. Castle was alert and seemed recovered from shock. In fact, he’d tried to talk Farrengalli into taking the raft, just the two of them.

Farrengalli had half the same idea: He’d take the raft by himself. But he’d already seen the power of the flooded river, and he knew he couldn’t handle the raft by himself. If any of the bloodsuckers attacked, he wouldn’t be able to fend them off while keeping the raft on course. Castle would be useless, except as ballast. Even if Farrengalli completed the solo run, odds were better that Chief and the Babe would strike pay dirt with their little cell phone trick, leaving Farrengalli in the drink when the reporters started their feeding frenzy.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Raintree said, peering over the ledge.

“The Bat-climb,” Farrengalli said, bracing himself to rest his forearms. “You know, in the Batman TV show, when him and Robin would walk up the side of the building. Except, really, they just turned the camera sideways, because you can see the wires tugging their capes straight out.”

“I ought to cut this rope and let you fall.”

“You might need me. What if those things attack while you guys are playing bondage with your ropes?”

“Where’s Castle?”

“I went to get some firewood, figured it would help him get comfortable. And the son of a bitch stole the raft while I was gone. Can you believe that? A fucking federal agent.”

Farrengalli renewed his assault on the slope, his sheer strength and size compensating where Dove had failed. He didn’t want to count on Raintree’s helping hand, as she had. He wasn’t sure how helpful it would be this time around.

“Did he inflate the raft while you were gone?”

Shit. Farrengalli hated being caught in a lie. It had always made him angry, but he also enjoyed the challenge. Honesty was for dumb-asses. Liars were smart, because they had to remember all their lies, whereas smart people only had to remember what really happened.

“Well, he ordered me to pump it up. Wanted the two of us to make a run for it.”

“ Ordered you? Without a gun?” Dove said, her head now poking over the ledge beside Raintree’s. In the growing darkness, he could barely make out the teeth inside her grimace.

“He’s got a badge. What did you want me to do?”

“I thought we decided-oh, screw it.” Raintree tossed down a second line. “Here’s a backup if you need it.”

“Preesh, my man.” Though Farrengalli had no intention of putting his weight on any line that Raintree hadn’t tried first. Besides, eight more feet of busting his balls and he’d be within reach of the ledge. Raintree wouldn’t try anything funny in front of Dove.

He’d slid the carabiner through his belt, the way they’d taught him on the reality show. But it felt a little bit faggy, like some goofy body jewelry or something. Safety was for sissies, anyway. What was the point of looking both ways to cross the street when God was probably dropping a fucking piano on your ass?

Faith, man, that’s the ticket. You got to believe in your own fucking self.

He propelled forward, hand over hand, water squirting from the rope as he gripped it. Dove and Raintree barely had time to move away before he launched himself up and over the rock edge. The ledge was about ten feet wide, with a few scrub pines and patches of moss clinging where dirt had collected over the centuries.

Farrengalli managed to disguise his exertion. “So, you guys going to have a picnic, or should we get our candy asses up sugar mountain?”

“What really happened down there?” Dove said. Chief stood a few feet away, arms folded. One good shove away from a fifty-foot drop. But that could wait for later. Right now, he needed Raintree to help get them to the top. Like he’d needed Bowie at first. And he needed Dove for the photographs, the promise of fame stored on negatives, in the backpack he’d left with Castle along with the words “Guard this with your life.”

“Like I said, he stole the raft.”

“He was wounded and in shock.”

“You know how those Feds are. They’re messed up in the head. All this duty and courage and toughness bullshit.”

“I think we’re the ones getting the bullshit,” Raintree said.

The red bastard’s forearms were pretty big. Farrengalli would have to be careful getting rid of this one. “He had this cockamamie idea that he still could catch the Bama Bomber. Said he owed it to his partner.”

“We’re losing daylight,” Dove said. “We can sort this out later.”

Not a whole lot of daylight left to lose. “All I know is we’re all here and, on this little piece of rock, we’re like deviled eggs on a plate for whenever those bloodsuckers get hungry.”

“Okay,” Raintree said, working on threading the safety line through its anchor. “I’m lead. I’ll go up a little bit, set the lines, and drop one down.”

Dove put a hand on Raintree’s forearm. “Let me go first this time.”

Farrengalli had to choke down a laugh. Touchy-feely P.C. horse crap. And Raintree will have to say “I’m more experienced.”

“Now you’re the one that’s bullshitting. We both saw how your safety anchor wasn’t secure.”

“Remember when you said I’d have to be the leader if anything happened to Bowie?”

Farrengalli’s ears pricked up. Not at this little tidbit of revelation, but because of the banshee wails bouncing off the walls of the gorge a couple of miles downstream.