Good Day to Die (32 page)

My worst-case scenario never happened. I did have to cross the stream twice, working my way from rock to rock while the stream yanked at my legs like a demented crocodile. I lost my balance several times, hugging boulders, my face covered with foam, until I got my feet back underneath me. I should have been afraid, but I wasn’t; I just couldn’t bring myself to believe the forest would turn against me. As far as I was concerned, that wilderness was as alive as it had been to my Indian ancestors. I’d spent years placating the spirits that called it home. Paying them homage until I won their respect. And their trust.

I made the logging road in just under six hours. From there, it was another fifteen minutes to Kennedy’s house. I didn’t approach the house directly, because I didn’t want the dogs to sound an alarm. Instead, I skirted the house on the downhill side, then climbed a slope to the east, finally coming to an enormous rock outcropping. What I was hoping for, and what I found, was a cut along the bottom where rain and wind had washed the soil away. In a billion years or so, the weather would eat away so much soil that the rock would tumble down onto Kennedy’s roof, but at this point there was just enough room for me to get myself and my gear out of the rain and still keep an eye on the prize.

The first thing I did was drop that backpack and groan like an adolescent who’d just discovered the joy of orgasm. I’d carried heavy loads over a distance of ground before. (And not only in Vietnam; I’d packed fifty pounds of deer meat from the depths of the Adirondack Park on many occasions.) But that had been a long time ago, and despite all my efforts to stay in shape, the last mile had been strictly grit-your-teeth-and-bear-it.

I took a few minutes to enjoy my relatively weightless state, then got to work. It was nearly dark, and though the rain had slackened to a drizzle, the sky was blanketed with low, black clouds. More by feel than by sight, I attached barrel, scope, and sling to the Anschutz, slapped in a clip and left it, along with the .45, where I could reach it in a hurry. Then I went off into the woods, found a stand of white pine, and cut enough branches to make a mattress.

By the time I was satisfied with my accommodations, it was cold and rapidly getting colder. That was all to the good, in a way; the morning would see clearing skies and bright sunshine. But right then, with the wind picking up, my legs and feet were about to become inanimate objects. I’d already pulled on the wool sweater, but I hadn’t packed an extra pair of jeans. And, of course, I couldn’t make a fire. Not within sight of Kennedy’s den.

I stripped off my boots, socks, and jeans, then wriggled into the goose-down sleeping bag. I’d chosen a down bag because it was much lighter than a more appropriate, flannel-lined summer bag, but now I was glad for its warmth, two wrongs, in this case, having made a right. And I was glad, too, that I’d finished the business end of my journey and could now get on with the pleasure. Kennedy’s cruiser was parked in front of the house, and I imagined him sitting down to a quick dinner, then heading out to finish his shift. When he didn’t, when two hours passed with no sign of him, I knew that something was wrong. Animals, predators included, don’t alter their patterns, unless something drives them to it. What frightened me, as I chewed a mouthful of seeds, nuts, and raisins, was the near conviction that Bouton had made a premature move and that Kennedy, having gotten wind of it, was busy destroying evidence.

But there was nothing outside of a full-scale, frontal assault that I could do about it. And maybe it didn’t matter anyway. At some point, Kennedy and I were going to have a long, pointed conversation, after which I’d know everything I needed to know.

I
T WAS STILL DARK
when I woke up, but a nearly full moon cast a pale light through high lacy clouds that flew across the night sky, obscuring, then revealing, a jet-black dome filled with thousands of sharply etched stars. I sat up and listened to the wind dance through the forest, whistling, whining, roaring, as it ebbed and flowed. I could feel it in my own body, feel it dance through my flesh as if the muscles that powered my bones had no more resistance than the leaves on the trees. It was a purely physical sensation, yet so overwhelming as to brush aside all resistance. I surrendered completely, feeling my breath as the wind, the wind as my breath. It didn’t last very long, but for those few minutes, the past disappeared, and I was left without time or place. I was left in peace.

Then a bobcat screamed from across the valley, announcing his existence and the territory he was prepared to defend. A second cat answered from somewhere up on the mountain behind me. No life without opposition, he said. Your enemies define you.

I lay back on the sleeping bag and closed my eyes. I’d been dreaming just before I awakened, and while I couldn’t remember the dream, I remembered the event that had inspired it. I was twelve years old, old enough to have grown careless, and stupid enough to disrespect Mother Nature. To be deep in the forest in mid-September without taking the precautions necessary to survive an early autumn snowstorm. When the large, wet flakes began to fall, I immediately turned for home, but when the wind picked up, when it began to howl, I knew I wasn’t going to get there. I also knew that my life depended on making a fire, a clear impossibility.

The only good thing I can say about my own stupidity was that I didn’t lay down and die. I stumbled through the snow, looking for something, though I couldn’t have said what it was. Eventually, through sheer persistence, I came upon a pile of enormous boulders perched on the edge of a steep slope. Roughly square in shape, they sat on top of each other as if they’d originally been of one piece, then cracked like an ice cube in a glass of hot water. Down at the bottom, where several boulders met and the whole mass rested on solid bedrock, I found a deep depression. High and rounded at the top, it looked like a niche cut for a plaster saint.

Though I didn’t (even in my own mind) qualify for sainthood, I was smart enough to recognize salvation when I saw it. And inspired enough to gather firewood, make that first fire, and keep it going throughout the night. To, in other words, survive.

Years later, I read Jack London’s short story “To Build a Fire” and remembered my own brush with the brutal indifference of the natural world. I’d been no better prepared then London’s character, and had no more right to walk away from the consequences of my arrogance. But not only had I walked away, I’d been thrilled by the proximity of death. I didn’t stay home and count my blessings (dear old mom made sure of that); I continued to push the limits, knowing that a serious mistake—a broken leg, for instance, or a bad concussion—could easily result in my death.

I sat up and cleared the sleep from my eyes. Kennedy’s house, surrounded by a thin mist and haloed by moonlight, seemed peaceful enough, but when I surveyed the yard through the nightscope, I discovered that his dogs had been tied to extremely long leads at the back of the house. There, was no sign of any shelter for them, and no way they could have survived if they’d been exposed to the elements on a regular basis. So what were they doing out there in the middle of the night? And why were they in the
back
of the house?

The cruiser was gone, but there was a second car parked next to the van, Kennedy’s ancient brown Toyota. I glanced down at my watch. It was five o’clock, time enough to find a safe place to make a fire and boil up some breakfast. Or it would have been if I’d remembered to bring a pot.

So much for Pathfinder. I settled for a meal of trail mix and water, but I didn’t get to eat my breakfast in peace. A red squirrel, his tufted ears pointing straight up, chattered and squeaked at me from the branch of a tree. On impulse, I tossed a handful of seeds and nuts onto the ground. Sure enough, the little bastard flew out of the tree, grabbed an almond, then darted back into the branches before consuming his prize.

After watching the squirrel make several trips, I used all my knowledge of the natural world to reach the obvious conclusion that the beast had been fed by humans before. Squirrels don’t have large territories, and there was no other house nearby. Therefore …

I think I would have done nearly anything to postpone climbing out of my nice warm sleeping bag and into that cold, wet denim. Anything except refuse to answer nature’s call. When I got back, the sun was coming up behind me, and somebody had turned on a light in the Kennedy house. I looked down at my watch again. Six o’clock, awful early for someone who’d worked until after midnight.

Of course, it might have been the wife, Rebecca, getting ready to go to work, but I’d been under the impression that she was a housewife. She’d certainly acted the part when Bouton and I had paid our visit. I fished the binoculars out of their nylon pouch and focused on the window, expecting to find a half-naked woman putting on her makeup. What I saw was Robert Kennedy standing with his back to the window, gesticulating wildly. His arms waved like the wings of a wet chicken trying to escape a rabid weasel.

I started to collect my gear, thinking I’d move in for a closer look, when the dogs began to bark furiously. That, in itself, didn’t strike me as peculiar (any small animal, not to mention bear and deer, could have set them off), but when Kennedy, shotgun in hand, came racing into the backyard, I began to get the picture.

The dogs had been tied outside in order to give an early warning. Kennedy was clearly expecting some kind of a threat, and he was convinced it would come from within the forest and not from the road, which virtually eliminated any chance that he was anticipating the arrival of the police.

I watched him march across the yard and into the woods. A few minutes later, he reappeared, kicked both dogs, then went back into the house.

Sitting there, well-concealed behind a stand of paper birch, I began to collect the things I’d need. First the belt with all its dangling tools, including the Detonics. I cinched it around my waist, then took the small daypack and shoved a bottle of water, the first-aid kit, a box of matches, the bug juice, and the trail mix inside. The rifle came next. I checked the clip, removed the bolt, sighted along the barrel, checked the batteries on the nightscope, put it back together.

I did it all as fast as I could, because just as Kennedy’s back door closed behind him, I’d come to a sudden realization, a realization that stuck with me even while my brain screamed that it was only a possibility. And a remote possibility at that.

Suppose a victim had escaped and run blindly into the woods? Or suppose a victim had simply escaped. If the woman (and I had to assume it was a woman) had run out into the road, Kennedy’s goose would be cooked. He could only hope that she, for whatever reason, had taken to the woods. But if that was the case, what made him think she’d come back the way she’d gone? And why, now that the sun was up, wasn’t he out looking for her?

That question was answered a few minutes later when Kennedy and wife came out of the house (Kennedy still carrying the shotgun), jumped into the van, and tore around to the backyard where they disappeared into a seemingly impenetrable stand of red spruce.

I got up, slipped the binoculars into their pouch and the Anschutz over my shoulder, then abandoned my position. I could almost hear Bouton demanding that I stick to the formula. That I go into the house, search it, then get out. Following Kennedy would entail a serious risk of discovery. For all I knew, he might be camped a hundred yards away. And I had no doubt that if I was right and he was searching for a victim, he wouldn’t hesitate to kill me. Kill me and bury my body somewhere out in that wilderness.

So why wasn’t I afraid? Why was I so excited that my hands were literally trembling, my lips pulled apart in an almost gleeful smile? Why did I need all my self-control just to keep from breaking into a run?

I circled the yard, rousing the dogs to a frenzy. They growled, snarled, and whined at the end of their chains, desperate to sink their teeth into my flesh. I was tempted to give them a shot of pepper spray, but there was no point to it. They couldn’t get at me, and what I wanted had nothing to do with them.

My objective was the pine grove at the back of the yard. It had seemed impenetrable from my lookout several hundred yards away, but I discovered just enough room between the trees to hide a well-used dirt track. I was tempted to stay with it, to take advantage of its relatively smooth surface, but the chance of an ambush was too great. I knew I had to skirt it, to remain out of sight, yet still close enough to hear that van if it came back down the mountain.

The track basically followed the ridge line, cutting back and forth because the slope was too steep for a head-on assault. Ideally, I would have kept to the uphill side. Staying above the track would give me a good view of anyone coming down, but the switchbacks made that impossible.

Still, I remained as close to the road as possible, moving from trees to brush to rock—anything to provide cover. My adrenals were pumping steadily, demanding that I speed up, an urge I resisted mightily. I’d learned the haste-makes-waste lesson in Vietnam. Also the one about fools rushing in. I maintained a slow, steady pace, pausing to sweep the higher ridges from time to time.

Half an hour later, I came upon a rushing stream, the same one I’d followed the day before. The van was nowhere in sight, but the track led right to the edge of the water, then continued on the other side. Even with four-wheel drive, I couldn’t understand how Kennedy had made it through until I got close enough to examine the streambed. It was covered with small, closely packed rocks, and very shallow. Fifty yards upstream, a beaver dam held back enough water to make the stream passable. I remembered skirting the dam and the pond, but I hadn’t noticed the shallow stretch of water coming out of it.

I stopped for a minute to admire Kennedy’s skill and determination. The track hadn’t shown up on my topo maps (it would have made my life a good deal easier if it had), which meant that Kennedy had mapped and cut it himself. There was no way he could have cleared any stretch of heavy forest, not without a bulldozer, so he’d taken advantage of the terrain at every turn. Fording the stream just below the beaver dam was one example. In other places, he’d cut individual trees, then used the trunks to fill the low, swampy sections. And he’d run his road over flat rock whenever possible.