Cold Dish (35 page)

I listened as the drums began a low rhythm and watched as the broad shoulders picked their way carefully down the trail. The world began to turn white, and the Bear disappeared.

Even in the snow-muffled air and the distance between us, I heard the gunshot.

We had been battling our way through the wind and the snow; it was an early storm, so the flakes were as big as silver dollars and, with the force of the wind, hit with the same impact. Henry and I had worked our way over the slight rise and outcropping, staying to the right as the trail followed the general path of the stream, and had moved past Mirror Lake with no results. The water continued to run fast from the hanging valley and you could hear it when the wind died down, which it did but with lessening regularity. The blizzard had arrived, visibility had dropped to about twenty feet, and you couldn’t see much of anything except the creek.

The Forest Service path remained visible as it wound its way along the stream basin but, in another hour, the depression that made up the trail would be filled with the fast accumulating snow. I took a small measure of solace in the fact that the part that led to the West Tensleep parking lot was not only tree covered but downhill, and we didn’t have that far to go before we would get to that section. But the farther we got, the farther my heart sank with the thought that George Esper was not going to be found. I had already summoned up the image of George’s bones, scattered by all the little animals by springtime, their bleached white contrasting sharply with the green of the fresh, high-meadow grass. I watched as Henry’s image faded in and out of the white swarm of the blowing snow. Every time he disappeared, I quickened my step a bit, wanting comfort from the dark shape that stayed just ahead of me.

Was the killer here? The last two murders had been within easy reach of roads, of quick access and egress, so I didn’t think so. But what about the boot prints? It was a popular boot in a very popular size, and the possibility that George, Jacob, and some guy from Casper wore the same shoe wasn’t out of the question. I had just about convinced myself that it was coincidence when I heard the shot. It was not the report of the Remington I knew Henry was carrying.

It was close, close enough that I thought I might have seen the muzzle flash. Hearing the sound of a gunshot when you’re not expecting it is like sticking your finger in a light socket, but hearing this gunshot was more like sticking that finger into a fuse box. I know I jumped, because I had to catch myself from slipping on the freezing ground and falling into the icy water.

I wasn’t aware that I had started running or how fast I covered the distance between us, but the next thing I saw were two distinct figures in the swirling haze of snow. One was seated in the path with his feet before him and was slouched forward, and the other was standing over the first and held something in his hands. With the keening of the wind, they didn’t hear me coming even though I’m sure that the pounding of my feet and my ragged breathing alone was enough to get the dead to roll over. For some reason, I hadn’t unslung the rifle during my run but was just now slipping it from my shoulder and gripping it with both hands.

It was like falling into an impressionist painting with the snowflake pointillism giving the image a surreal quality. As I surged forward I knew it was Henry on the ground. It wasn’t a big person that I hit, and I didn’t recognize a single aspect of his appearance as we collided. I know he didn’t expect me, because there wasn’t any resistance when I got there. I was carrying the rifle forward, but I didn’t swing it, instead I used it as a battering ram. In hindsight, I suppose I could have used the thing with a little more strategy, but calculation didn’t play much of a part in my reaction.

When he went, I went over with him into the cloud of snow and down the bank leading to the creek. When we hit the ground the first time, the rifle came up and caught me at the bridge of my nose, but the majority of the impact went directly into his head, which snapped back as the stock of the big Weatherby slammed into the side of his jaw. I’m pretty sure I heard the crack of bone as he went down with me smothering him as we went. The second time we hit the ground was the last, and the roll converted into a slow slide on the bank of the stream in axle-grease mud. I felt a sharp pain in my lower lefthand side; something dug into my short ribs and felt as though it had suddenly yanked on my insulated coat as I heard a muffled report. Even in the windstorm, the smell of spent gunpowder and quartzite stung the air. I slapped a hand down to the area where the gun must have been, and I could feel the small revolver that was wedged between our mutual diaphragms. The grip that held it was limp. There was accumulated moisture between us, and I couldn’t tell if it was from the fall or if either of us had been shot. I stripped the revolver from the open hand of whomever it was that had held it and lay there for a moment to make sure he really was out and to catch my breath. After a moment, the bass of Henry’s voice strained into the wind. “Are you hit?”

His voice was thick, and I could tell he was hurt. I grunted, rolled off the inert figure, and felt my side. I looked back up the hill. “No, I don’t think so. I’m just trying to get my heart out of my throat. You?”

“Who is it?”

I pulled myself up on one elbow and looked down at my victim; his face was turned and buried in the hood of a Gore-tex jacket. I used the stock of the rifle to leverage myself up into a position more suited to looking and reached out to turn the face toward me. His chin grinded a little as I pulled the face around, indicating that some damage had been done but, aside from the askew jawline, it was the mostly intact face of a watered-down Jacob Esper. “George Esper.”

Henry’s voice was still thick, but there was a little more animation. “Is he hit?”

“I don’t know.”

“Check him. I can wait.”

I sat up completely and looked in the general vicinity of where I thought George might have been shot and found nothing. The words were just coming out of my mouth when I noticed a small tear in his full-zip pants. “Shit . . .” I pulled off my glove and ran it over the black fabric; it was coated with his blood. “Shit.”

“He is hit?”

“Yep.” I tore the pants open to reveal an entry and exit wound at the front of his thigh. “Subcutaneous damage, possibly the thigh muscles. Missed the bone and major arteries though.”

“Can you stop the bleeding?”

I sighed. “Maybe, but he’s not gonna to be able to walk.” I took one of my gloves, turned it inside out, placed the fleece-covered leather over both holes, and looked around for something with which to tie the glove in place. The small pack was still attached to my middle, so I stripped the water bottles off and emptied it out, wrapping it around his leg. I raised his head up and peeled back an eyelid. What showed was mostly white; he gave no sign of coming to. I had seen his chest rise and fall, but I felt his wrist just to make sure I hadn’t killed him. The pulse was strong, but he remained still. I checked George’s leg again and then scooped up a small .38 caliber Smith and Wesson Detectives’ Special. I thumbed open the cylinders and looked at the two spent cartridges and at the two that remained. I removed the two empties, readjusted the wheel forward of an empty chamber, and snapped the cylinder back with the firing pin resting on the hollow chamber. I pushed it into my pocket, picked up the water, and climbed the hill to my friend who still sat on the trail.

As I got to the path, I had a clearer picture of him and saw that drifts of snow had begun building up against his outstretched legs. The Bear’s arms were wrapped around his middle, and the hood on his jacket dipped low as if he were trying to sleep. The Remington 870 lay across his lap. I knelt down and looked up into his eyes; they were pinched. “Let me see.” He slowly dropped his hands to the edges of his jacket, and it was only then that I noticed the dark red stains that had soaked through his woolen gloves. The jacket slowly opened to reveal a bloody mess at his abdomen, just above the navel and slightly to the right. The blood had saturated the lower part of his shirt and thermal underwear and was now leaking into his lap. I swallowed, and the word was out before I could stop it. “Shit.”

He laughed but quickly stopped as the movement in the trunk of his body caused him who knew how much pain. “Please, you are overwhelming me with your optimism.”

We had no idea where the bullet was or what damage it might have done on its merry little way. With abdominal injuries, there’s always the possibility of traumatic tear in one of the vascular organs, which could easily lead to massive hemorrhaging into the abdomen. Percentages for gunshot mortality rates flashed through my head: liver, 30 percent; kidney, 22 percent; stomach, 18 percent; and bowels, 12 percent. These numbers geometrically progressed the more I concentrated on how far we were from a formal paracentesis, or peritoneal lavage, and computerized tomography, or CT scan. I also thought about how much time I had spent standing in emergency rooms developing an unwanted education, and how badly I wished my friend and I were in one of those very rooms right now. “We have to stop the bleeding.”

He continued to smile. “Yes, we do.”

I turned my other glove inside out and placed it over the wound. “Is the pain high or low?”

He grunted as I held the glove in place. “In the sense of tolerance or location?”

My eyes met his. “Where does it hurt?”

He chuckled very lightly. “No higher than the wound.”

“Right, left?”

He thought, concentrating on the pain. “It appears to have stayed to the right.”

I sighed and looked at his torn pack. I started unbuckling my belt, trying to remember if Henry still had his appendix. “You know, if one thing would go right in this case . . .”

I pulled my belt around him and cinched the notches through; there were, of course, no holes where I needed them. “You got a pocket knife?” He began fumbling at one of his pant pockets, but I carefully took his hands away and placed them over the now saturated glove. “Hold this.” I fished the knife from his pocket and pulled out a bone-handled stiletto with a five-inch switchblade. I shook my head as I flipped it open and gauged a hole in the spot I had indented with the belt’s tang. He grunted when I finally buckled it over the glove. “Too tight?”

“No.”

I pulled the radio from the clip at the small of my back, amazed that it was still there after all the acrobatics. I rolled the small dial on the side, listened to the static, and keyed the handheld. “Absaroka County Sheriff ’s Department, this is Unit One, come in Base? Unit Two?” I released the button and listened to the static some more. “Come in. Anybody out there?” Nothing. I looked around at the mountains that surrounded us and were covered in the visual static that was also taking its toll on our reception. I thought I heard a ghosting of some voice in the cover of radio frequency. “Come in anybody? I’ve got an emergency here. Anybody?” I listened, but the ghosting didn’t repeat itself. “I’ve got two men down in the draw of Lost Twin, just past Mirror Lake?” Still nothing. I turned and looked at Henry. “What happened? The abridged version.”

He cleared his throat. “He was standing on the trail when I looked up, so I stopped, and he fired.”

“He say anything?”

“No.”

“You?”

“I believe I may have gasped before clutching my stomach and falling to the ground, but that is all.”

I punched the button on the radio. “Come in, this is Unit One of the Absaroka County Sheriff’s Department, anybody out there?” I waited again. “If anybody can hear me, I’ve got two men down and need assistance on the trail of Lost Twin. I need backup and medical. If anybody can hear me, your assistance would be greatly appreciated.”

“That would be an understatement.”

I sighed. “Think you surprised him?”

“Yes, but all things considered I think he surprised me more.” He glanced past me to George who was starting to gather his commensurate amount of snow. “He is out?”

I looked back over my shoulder. “Yep.”

He raised a bloodstained hand to my arm. “You better get going.”

I turned and knelt down to check George’s pupils for any dilation or constriction; they appeared normal for now. I was concentrating, so it took a moment for me to process what he had said. “What?”

He gestured toward the prone George Esper. “You have to get him out of here.”

It hit me all at once what it was he was saying. “I’m not leaving you.”

He continued to slowly shake his head. “You do not have any choice. He is smaller, and you can make it out with him.”

“I’m not leaving you.”

He smiled. “Do not be mistaken, I have no intentions of dying. I will wait for you, here.”

“It’ll be after dark, in a blizzard. We won’t find you.”

“Then I will have to find you.”

My shoulders sagged a little, but I kept my eyes on him. “All right, knock it off with the mystical horseshit. You are gut shot, and the chances of your surviving are narrow enough without you crawling around out here.” His smile saddened a little. “What?”

“It is the mystical horseshit that is going to save my life.”

I looked away and sighed. “Sorry.”

“Do me a favor?”

I raised an eyebrow. “I’m not putting you out of your misery.”

“I have a small bag in my front pocket. If you would please get it out for me?” I reached for the front pocket of his coat, unbuttoned the flap, and pulled out a small, green velvet satchel with a ledger horse and warrior stitched across the front. There were beads and feathers attached to the opening at the top, and there were a number of items under the soft fabric, some discernible, some a mystery. I handed the medicine bag to him, and we didn’t mention it again. “You have to take him.” His smile brightened again. “Who knows, perhaps the weather will cooperate.” He grimaced and shifted his weight.