The Kraken Project

17

Ford started up the Como Lake trail early the next morning, walking on foot, trailing the horse Redbone, who was carrying his gear and food. Clanton had helped him pack the horse and showed him how to tie a diamond hitch, which had proven to be extremely difficult. They went through it again and again, until the horse was prancing about in irritation and they were both sweating and angry. It would be a bloody miracle, Ford thought, if he was able to redo the pack when it came time to leave.

The trail up to Como Lake was a jeep road as far as the lake. From the lake on, Clanton said, it turned into a goat track before disappearing altogether in barren rocks and scree above thirteen thousand feet.

The sun rose as he hiked. The trail wound up the shoulder of the mountains and entered a long, spectacular glacial valley, the piñon trees giving way to ponderosa pines, aspens, and, finally, firs. In about two hours he arrived at Como Lake, a pristine turquoise pond lying at an altitude of 11,500 feet, surrounded by meadows and dwarf fir trees, in a long valley walled in by mountain ridges dusted in snow. There was a chill in the air and the smell of frost.

Ford stopped to rest and check his topo map. The long valley ascended past several other glacial ponds, finally ending at the last pond, called Crater Lake, at an altitude of 12,700 feet.

Ford had spent a lot of time contemplating the terrain, and he had chosen Crater Lake as the place to camp. The tiny lake was situated well above the tree line, in the middle of a vast open bowl. The ridges and peaks all around it formed a natural, gigantic amphitheater. Crater Lake could be seen from almost everywhere inside the bowl: it was like being in the center of the Roman Colosseum.

If Melissa Shepherd was anywhere on this side of the mountains, she would be able to see him.

Ford led the packhorse up the rough trail to the upper valley. He’d had enough experience with horses, a few years ago in Arizona, while on an undercover investigation, to realize that he didn’t like them. And they didn’t like him. Redbone was no exception. They did not get along. Soon the horse was flattening his ears with irritation every time Ford spoke to him.

They climbed over a ridge and into the next hanging valley. Two stunning glacial lakes came into view. They were marked as the Blue Lakes on his map, and they were of a turquoise color so deep and pure it hurt the eyes. He and the horse were now well above the tree line. As they passed by the Blue Lakes, Redbone started giving him trouble. The horse wanted to drink, pulling the lead rope as he tried to go to the water. Ford yanked him back with a curse, making him wait. The horse resisted and Ford cursed again, raising his voice, the sound of it echoing off the surrounding mountain walls. At the far end of the lake, he finally let Redbone drink, but he made his irritation known with loud and abusive language directed at the animal. The horse didn’t like being yelled at and crow-hopped a bit as Ford tried to lead him on, provoking more cussing.

They continued on. They were now well above the tree line, picking their way along a steep, rocky trail — hardly more than a goat path — which switchbacked up a scree slope. This trail ended at Crater Lake, where he intended to camp. Ford continued to speak to the horse in a loud voice, yelling at him when he tried to stop and nibble grass. By the time they arrived at Crater Lake, Ford sounded thoroughly irritated with the horse, and the animal responded in kind, laying back his ears and exposing his teeth. Ford tied him to a rock in a highly visible location — there were no trees or bushes around — and unpacked him.

As soon as the pack was off, Ford had more difficulties with the horse. Redbone wanted to eat grass, and Ford pulled him away with a curse. But the horse tugged on the rope, and they had more words, before Ford grudgingly allowed him a brief graze, leaving him tied on a long rope while he set up the tent.

It was a dramatic spot, far above the timberline — cold, windswept, and desolate. Snow lay in the shadows of the rocks, and ice rimmed the side of the lake. The only signs of life were splotches of lichens. Massive walls of rock, scree, and cliffs rose up all around, ending in jagged ridges and peaks.

Straight above him stood Blanca Peak, the fourth-highest mountain in Colorado. Farther to the left stood a granitic pyramid known as Ellingwood Point. And behind him stood Little Bear Peak, a toothy mountain considered to be one of the most difficult of the fourteeners. He was in a mountain fishbowl of gigantic proportions.

He started a fire on his camp stove and cooked a late lunch of ramen noodles, supplemented by a bag of Doritos that had been reduced to crumbs by the pack, and some smoked beef sticks. Then the horse got tangled up in the too-long rope that Ford had tied him to. Ford went over and, as he was untangling the horse’s feet, he loudly condemned the horse in foul language, calling him an ugly glue-plug bucket of guts, then launched into a denigration of his parentage, his breeding, his intelligence, and (especially) his training. As he warmed up to his subject, Ford screeched and yelled and waved his hands, his voice echoing off the mountain sides. He even picked up a stick, menacing the horse with it and threatening a beating. The horse, thoroughly alarmed by his loud, bizarre behavior, put on a good show, rearing up and neighing loudly, before Ford tied him up short.

After that, Ford looked around for a place that would be suitable for what he planned as the climax of the drama. He soon found what he was looking for in a well-hidden spot between two enormous boulders.

It took Ford awhile to work up the nerve for what he had to do next. He untied one of the leather split reins and doubled it up, forming a kind of whip. Then he went back to where Redbone was trying to nibble what little grass there was, and started yelling at him again for getting tangled in his rope. At high volume, he threatened the horse, raising the whip. Then, with much shouting and noise, he led Redbone into the hidden area between the rocks and began to beat him mercilessly, all the while cursing and screaming.

Only he wasn’t actually beating the horse, just whacking the side of the rock next to him.

When the show was over, he went to his tent and lay down on his sleeping bag, pretending to nap.

It didn’t take long. He heard a tearing sound as the blade of an enormous bowie knife sliced into the side of his tent. A second later a blond Amazon had him by the neck, with the barrel of a.22 revolver pressed against his head.

“You son of a bitch, I should smoke you right now,” she said, cocking the revolver.

“Hello, Melissa,” Ford said.