The River of Bones v5 (30 page)

“No, we have to finish this.”  He looked at her.  “Tomorrow the villagers on Little Diomede, King Island, and Wales will start talking about the strange fireworks they saw after dark.  We have to get rid of them.”

Simon broke the following silence.  “How can we get rid of the Hip?  There isn’t enough fuel left in tanks for even a few minutes.”

“I intend on slinging her out to sea.”

“What do you want us to do afterward?” asked Simon.

“Walk into Wales along the beach, staying near the surf so your tracks will be washed away.  Hire an air-taxi back to Anchorage and hide out at your place until I get back.”

He saw Sasha just standing there—ever since their lovemaking they’d been running for their lives, and now she’d lost her father for the second time.  He loved her, despite all the problems it presented for both of them.

“Sasha, can we talk, because I want you to know how I feel about everything before I leave?”  He saw her nod, face and hair brightened by the white surf.

They walked down the beach together, and when they looked back, Simon and Molly were pumping the last of the fuel into the Werewolf.

“When I get back I want you to stay with me.” he said.  “There has to be some way to work everything out between us.”

“What if the
Mafiya
start hunting me again?” she asked.  “I can’t bear the thought of you getting killed.”

“We’ll be better off together.”  He paused a second, “Listen, I wish there was a better way of saying this, but I’m never any good at these things.  I’ve never been in love before.”

She stopped walking.  “I’ve fallen in love with you, too.  But I’ll need time to get over losing my father and my home.”  Tears ran down her face.

“Someday we’ll go back and find him.”  He held her.  Finally, they didn’t have people trying to kill them.  After a few minutes both turned and walked back.

Jake helped Simon make up backpacks for everyone, giving each person the small, lifesaving things such as an emergency locator beacon, dried food, and a first aid kit.  Then it was time to drag the Hip out to sea.

He snapped the sling line onto the Werewolf and stood quietly for a moment.  His friends were indistinct and he sensed their uneasiness.  They had spent so much time together.

“When I hover overhead hook me to the main rotor mast of the Hip,” he said, “and then I’ll pull it out to deep water.  It’ll only take a minute, and you shouldn’t worry about me.”

Molly broke the stillness.  “How long will it take you to reach Anchorage?”

“Two or three days.  There’s a small airstrip fifteen miles from Foggytop, the same place where the park rangers picked up your grandson.  People always hike there and wait for an airplane to come along.”

Her voice trembled.  “Hurry back, okay?”

He climbed into the Werewolf, snapped on its switches, and listened to it come alive.  Sadly, there would be no more flights after this one, and he sensed his sorrow over the helicopter’s imminent death.  Why did people fall in love with their flying machines?

Pulling on the helmet, he saw the surroundings quickly brighten.  He lifted the collective and hovered over to the Hip, waited, then saw Sasha signal that Simon and Molly had attached the sling line swinging below him.  He pedal-turned and pulled, felt the load resist, finally move as the Werewolf’s rotor blades overcame the weight.  After a couple minutes he released the belly hook, flew to the side, and watched the Hip sink out of sight.  No one would ever see it again.

He lowered the Werewolf’s nose, watched its airspeed climb, and buzzed his friends on the beach, seeing them waving.  Smiling, he sat back and looked around in the moonlight.  The Brooks Range was already in sight, and Foggytop was only an hour away.  A beautiful sight, even with artificial vision, and one that had always thrilled him.

He circled when he arrived at Foggytop, looking for just the right place.  Finally, he found a chasm large enough for the Werewolf and hovered down, inching it into a big cavern under an overhanging cliff.  No one would find the Werewolf in a million years.  He shut down, waited for daylight, and listened to the wind, sensing that no one had ever visited the place before.

At sunup he climbed out of the cockpit, took his pack, and walked away without even looking back.  He had said his good-bye earlier, and now the helicopter belonged to the mountain.  It had saved them when they’d needed it the most, and it could now rest in peace.  Its last resting place seemed fitting, since Molly and Sasha had lost so much in the time that had passed.  It was a good monument, one for the ages.

As he descended Foggytop, he thought about Feliks Zorkin, wondering about the risk that he posed.  He had raised his ugly head and struck at them again.  Why else would the Frogfoots have waited beside the Bering Sea?  He was certain other fighters had hunted them as well, but missed finding them in the vast wilderness of Siberia.  Zorkin also had fled with their money belts when he’d ran off.  They had financed the most dangerous man in Russia with a small fortune, so maybe they’d see him again.

He wondered as well about the Werewolf’s weapons failure when he’d needed them the most.  Could it be that Zorkin had somehow disabled the missile and rocket systems?  Had he planned on double crossing and then killing Kozlov?  Sadly, the answers were lost in Russia.

When he reached the bottom of the mountain he walked toward the remote airstrip.  What would he spend his money on and how would it feel to be debt free?  He smiled.  Simon and he could be free spirits again.  It would be like in their bright-eyed days when the world had been all theirs.  God, it was great to feel alive again.

After a few hours he tired, feeling all his endurance leave him.  The last twenty-four hours had been the most exciting of his life, but he’d been running on empty.  It was time to stop, find a soft place in the sun, and rest for a few hours.  It made no difference when he reached the airstrip, and he was in one of his favorite places.

He walked off the trail, found a patch of mossy ground, and lay down, using his pack as a pillow.  A recent freeze had killed most of the bugs, the day was warm, and he hadn’t seen any bear sign.  It was a perfect place for a few hours of rest, and the sunny valley quickly let him fall asleep.

Kick!
  What the hell had hit his foot?  He woke, scrambling for the Uzi he knew was inside his pack.  Then he stopped.  Sometimes there were enemies more dangerous than bears.  The park ranger who had threatened Molly was standing over him, aiming his pistol at him.

“I should have known it was you, Colter.  We thought Jones and you were dead, except now I see you guys were hiding someplace.  Okay, where’s the helicopter?”

His heart sank.  How could the ranger have learned about the Werewolf?  It had been dark on Foggytop, and he’d been hidden by the neighboring peaks as well.

“What in hell are you talking about?  Why would I be walking if I had a helicopter?”

The rangers’s face looked a bit doubtful, as if the logic of the answer was something he hadn’t expected.  He shuffled his feet but still held his aim.  “There were hikers down at the strip who said they heard one last night.  They think it landed around here someplace.”

“I heard it as well, but for crying out loud it was on its way to the North Slope.  ConocoPhillips must have a dozen leased helicopters flying on any given day.  Don’t you have anything better to do, and put away that damn pistol?”  He stood up slowly.

“What’s in the pack, Colter, and what are you doing here?”

His heart fell.  Getting caught with an Uzi was a federal offense, and carrying one in a national park would add even more jail time.  He had to try bluffing.

“Leave me alone and get out of here.  You have no right to stop me without a warrant.  You’re going to lose your job if you keep threatening me with a firearm.”

“Give me the pack or I’ll blow your head off.  Everybody thinks you’re dead, so what difference would it make?  Nobody would find you because the grizzlies would eat your dead ass.  Now give me the pack.”  He cocked the pistol.

Jake waited, then handed over the backpack.  Men sometimes turned nuts when they were given a uniform, and the ranger in front of him epitomized the worst of the disease.  He would kill him if given the chance.

Reaching over, the ranger took the pack, stepped back, and knelt down, holding the pistol at arm’s length.

“Well, well, well, what do we have here, and this looks too good to be true?”  He lifted the Uzi out of the pack.  Seconds later, he spoke again.  “Look at this.  An artifact, too.  You’re going away for a long time, asshole.”

My God, Sasha had put the stone knife he’d found along the River of Bones in his backpack without him knowing it.  Even with plea bargaining he’d have to spend several years in a federal prison.  He felt sick.  Now his future looked as bleak as could be, and the only bright spot was that Simon, Molly, and Sasha had taken all the diamonds for safekeeping.  The trooper would surely have murdered him if he had found those.

The ranger stood.  “Where’s Jones?”

“Guess he’s in Anchorage,” said Jake.  “I really don’t know.”

“He dropped you off last night, didn’t he?”

“I’m not answering any more of your questions until I get a lawyer.”

“Well, head down to the airstrip because you’ve just won a free trip to Fairbanks.”  The ranger used his belt radio to call his partner.

Jake’s heart fell completely.  Now there wasn’t any prayer of escape at all, not with two armed men guarding him.

An hour later the ranger’s taller partner joined them.  Both then reminded him that he’d been promised they’d get even, and they laughed the rest of the way to the isolated strip.  Once there, they shackled him inside the back of their red and white Cessna and flew away, heading south, telling him that they’d turn him over to the U.S. Marshals for prosecution by the Department of Justice, along with the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms.  The ranger told his partner that only his quick action had overcome the armed assault he’d faced.  Jake hung his head.  Both were hoping that he’d be sent away for at least ten years.

The marshal’s office met them on the general aviation side of the airport, took him into custody, and drove him downtown.  At least he was free of the rangers . . . and better yet no one had remembered to read him his rights.  Maybe there was a prayer.  Prisoners also were promised three phone calls after their initial arrest.  Now it would become a matter of keeping his mouth shut and hiring the best lawyer that money could buy, which meant that he could kiss off his share of the diamonds.  Rich one moment and poor the next, the story of his life.

The marshals treated him with courtesy, which helped him relax during the booking procedure.  Thank God again he’d gotten away from the two rangers, because they had frightened him as much as Zorkin.  After a half hour the marshals jailed him, and for the first time in his life he was behind bars.  The sound of the cell door would always ring in his ears.

He tried sleeping but kept waking every hour or so, counting the hours of the night.  The U.S. Marshals hadn’t finished their paperwork until late afternoon, and consequently he’d put off making his phone calls.  Besides, it would take Simon, Molly, and Sasha at least a day to get to Anchorage, then another day to find a good attorney.  His first court appearance would turn into a nasty fight.  The National Park Service would portray him as a dangerous criminal who had threatened to shoot their rangers.  Bail would not come cheap, if at all.

Finally, the morning came and the jailhouse came alive with all its ugly sounds.  He showered, ate breakfast, and asked permission to make his first phone call.  A guard led him to a pay telephone.  He dialed Simon’s number and prayed.  Please, please, let them be home.

“Hello.”  Molly sounded so good.

“It’s Jake and I’m in jail.  I’ve been arrested for the possession of an automatic weapon and theft of a historical artifact from a national park.”

The line fell silent and all he could hear was a long sigh.  Then he heard her voice again.  “Jake, don’t let them question you about anything.  Tell them you want a lawyer.”

“I did.  But I need the best lawyer that money can buy.  Otherwise, my rotten luck might cost me ten years in a federal pen.”

“Where are you now?”

“In Fairbanks.”

“We’ll come up this afternoon.”

“No.  Stay away from here.  All they’ve got me for is a weapon’s charge and the theft of an artifact.  Don’t make it worse, okay?”

“I understand.  Tell me what you want.”

“The best criminal lawyer that money can buy.”

“It’ll take a day or so for one to reach Fairbanks.”

“That’s okay.  The marshals and ATF will just have to wait.  Please don’t try telephoning me because it’s not worth the risk.  Wait for my call.”

“Make it soon.”

“I’ve got to go because the guard’s coming back.”

He hung up and walked back to his cell, thinking the next couple days would be the longest of his life.  The ATF had earned a reputation for using Gestapo tactics, and they’d be furious over being put off.  The best he could hope for was parole in a few years.  And if they found out about Siberia . . . then they’d throw the key away.

All day and night he lay on his jail cot, trying to sleep.  Nothing’s more cruel, he thought to himself, than living trapped inside a small, featureless room when the greatest place on earth lay just outside.  Freedom.  He’d had so much all his life, and the realization of what prison might do to him slithered around in his brain.  His appetite for danger had taken an ugly turn.

The next day the guards released him to the custody of a marshal once again, and he followed the officer upstairs and down a hallway.  Why was the man so silent?  His spirits lifed—probably a well-known attorney had come to help him.  Maybe in a few days he’d make bail and see freedom once more, if only for a little while.

The marshal opened a door, motioned him into a conference room, then walked away.  He stepped inside.  An impeccably dressed woman sat at the end of a long table, and her brown eyes speared through him.  She must be his lawyer.  Her business dress, demeanor, and posture screamed professionalism.