Deadfall (5 page)

As if his thoughts had given it permission to exist, he heard a sound that sent a cold spark streaking down his spine: it was the metalsliding- on-metal and
click-chink
of a bolt-action rifle receiving a bullet into its firing chamber. “Locked and loaded” was the military expression. He looked and saw Bad and Kyrill at the open back door of the Hummer. The teenager had the rifle, a long, tightly constructed weapon. He'd seen something similar only twice before.The first time was at RCMP's Special Emergency Response Team training, before the unit had become Joint Task Force Two. It was the firearm of choice for the snipers there. Took a six-inch-long .50-caliber Browning machine gun load.Tom had seen his second BMG rifle when an affluent hunter brought one to town, keen on bringing down a caribou from a thousand yards. Evan MacElroy had guided him backcountry. Later Evan said the man had shot from one basin ridge to another, about twelve hundred yards, and dropped a big bull with one round.

“The thing just toppled over,” he'd said. “When we got over there, I coulda stuck my arm in the hole that bullet made.”

Kyrill yanked the stock to its full extension, seated it into his shoulder, and peered through the scope at the sky.

If this gun was anything like the others Tom had seen, it was too powerful to shoot like a normal hunting rifle, a .30-06, say.The manufacturer provided a bipod at the base of the barrel, designed to stabilize the heavy weapon and minimize its recoil. He wondered how experienced this boy was with it. He hoped not to find out.

Showing a toothy grin, Bad was appraising a weapon even more exotic. It looked like something from a space movie: a plank of rectangular metal with a grip and trigger extending from the center of one of the narrow sides; on the other side, opposite the trigger, was a handle that appeared to contain a built-in scope. Bad looked up. He saw the group of townies and stiffened. He pulled the weapon in close to his chest and turned his torso so one end of the gun pointed at them.

Declan waved his pistol at the kids and adults, as if in greeting. When they stopped, Tom said, “You better come on over. Do what they say.”

“What have you done to Tom?” one of them yelled.

Declan sauntered to the woman, who took a step back. He leaned his shoulder against hers, whispered in her ear. Her eyes widened and her skin paled noticeably in the brightening morning light. Declan kissed the air between them, then took in each face, one at a time, making sure they understood his intentions. He ordered the group to the community center. He watched them go, one hip cocked, apparently feeling pretty good about himself.

The girl approached him, affecting the same sauntering gait, and she put her arm around his waist. They kissed. When their faces parted, she melted into him, notching herself into the shape of his side.

“A place like this, you guys must play a lot of video games,” Declan told Tom.

“We find better things to do. Lots of outdoor things.”

Declan looked surprised. “Like what?”

“Family outings . . . touch football, picnics, hide-and-seek. Hiking, camping, boating, off-roading, bird watching, fishing, hunting . . .”

“I like hunting,” Declan said.

Tom studied his face. “Animals,” he clarified.

The younger man nodded.

“Rabbit, coyote, sheep, caribou.”

Declan gazed south down Provincial, seeming to cast his vision beyond Dirty Woman Park, over the wide span of water, to the rolling green and gold hills on the far side.

“Yeah,” he said. “That's something I could do.What do you think? Wanna try that, Cort?”

“Sure.”

“Later,” he said. “After we take care of other business.”

The way Declan looked at him made Tom's guts feel like soup.

6

The pilot brought the JetRanger
down in a meadow of tall green and yellow turf. Hutch watched the grass sway in the propeller's downdraft like the hair of a girl swimming in a strong current. The way it strained away from the helicopter in a large, vibrating circle, he could imagine it trying to flee from the bellowing contraption invading its peace. In the distance a rabbit bounced up and disappeared into the woods.

The pilot—named Franklin, Hutch remembered—switched off the engine and inverted various other toggles on the center console. The roar and bluster they had grown accustomed to diminished like a dragon's dying breath.

Hutch patted Franklin's shoulder and gave him a thumbs-up.The man returned the gesture.

“Yeah, baby!”Terry said in a passable imitation of Austin Powers.

David opened a rear door. Cool wind blew in, bringing with it swirling bits of grass, leaves, granules of dirt—and something else, a fragrance. Musky and floral and clean, Hutch didn't know if it was earth or trees or water or animals or more likely a sort of aura derived from all of them over eons, but he did know it was wonderful. It smelled like freedom, the way the world must have smelled when it was new. All of them sensed it. They were taking in lungfuls through their nostrils.David sniffed the air like a dog, his eyes closed, the mere hint of a smile on his lips. Terry and Phil leaned toward the open door, seemingly unconscious of their posture.

Then the dying engine backfired. A plume of smoke, reeking of oil, blew in.

Terry coughed and waved his hand in front of his face.

David hopped out. He moved twenty paces into the meadow, out from under the slowing blades and away from the engine's fumes.

Phil found the handle that opened the door beside him. He slid down, leaping the last twelve inches. He tumbled, rolled, and sprawled in the grass, face up, as though he were making a snow angel.

Hutch climbed out of his own door, laughed at Phil, and laughed at being here. He leaned back into the cabin to shove the map into his pack. He withdrew an empty Monster can from a cup holder, and Franklin touched his hand.

“I'll get those,” the pilot said. “You'll have enough trash to haul out in ten days.”

“How far are we from that area where you suggested we camp?”

“Three, four hundred yards. That way.” He pointed over Hutch's shoulder.

Hutch wondered if he truly looked as glum as his twin images appeared in Franklin's glasses. He felt lighter, happier than he had in months. Maybe the emotion was only a tiny swing in the right direction, but it felt good after the long months of near-constant stress and depression. The thought made him realize his heart still ached, heavy in his chest.

Give it time,
he told himself.
We just got here. If simply flying over No Man's Land could nudge my happy meter up even the slightest bit, imagine what ten days of surface dwelling, river fishing, caribou hunting, campfire storytelling, and peeing like a bear is going to do.
Speaking of peeing . . .

“You good with the gear?” he asked. “I've gotta get rid of two cups of coffee and an energy drink.”

“Just step away from the bird, eh?” Franklin said.

Hutch grinned and moseyed over to where Phil lay. He looked skyward, treeward, anywhere-ward but Phil-ward, acting like he didn't see him down in the grass. He adjusted his waistband, unzipped his fly.

“Hey, hey, hey!” Phil yelled. He rolled away, then rose to his knees. “What're you doing?”

“Oh, Phil, man, I didn't see you. Sorry.” He turned away and relieved himself.

“You're still too close,” Phil scolded.

Hutch chuckled. Every trip up north, they all took a day or two to get used to the freedom. There was something about living in a civilized, restroom-abundant world that made relieving yourself outdoors feel as wrong as swearing in church. He recalled taking his son, Logan, on his first camping trip six years ago, when the boy was five. Phil, David, and Justin, David's son, had been there too. As kids his age do, Logan had waited until the last moment to ask where the bathroom was. He had been holding himself, legs crossed, bobbing up and down. Hutch had pointed to the nearest tree.

“I can't go there,” he had protested.

“Why not?”

“It's outside.”

“Where did you think we were going to go?”

Logan had shrugged and bounced, worry etching his smooth features. Finally he had dashed behind the tree. By the next morning he was attempting to put out the campfire in the way only boys can, shooting off boulders into the lake and generally proving that inhibition crumbled fast.

Pleased he had gotten into the swing of things quickly, Hutch zipped up and smiled. “Just don't douse our campfire the way Logan did that time, remember?”

Phil laughed. “That was classic.” He looked off toward the trees a moment. “Should have brought him. Logan.”

“Think he's old enough to hang with us?”

“Sure. Justin too.” David's boy was now twelve.

Hutch shrugged. “I did run the idea of bringing Logan up here past his mother. She said no way. I checked with Harris”—a friend and Hutch's divorce attorney—“and he said no magistrate would approve taking him out of state, let alone out of the country, if she fought it. Not with the custody thing going on.”

“I'm sorry,” Phil said. He rolled back onto his butt, his knees up and his legs spread in front of him. He looked even fatter like that.

Hutch didn't like the way he and his buddies seemed to be falling apart. Family, finances, health—it was as though the angels who were supposed to be looking out for them had gone out for a smoke and never came back.

He stepped to the starboard cargo hold, unlatched the door, and swung it open. His hunting gear was on top: a bow case, which also contained six aluminum arrows with Muzzy broadheads and urethane vanes. A waterproof duffel held his Realtree camouflage clothes and makeup, utility belt, canteen, binoculars, compass, and knife. Two more duffel bags stored a sleeping bag, a tent, a change of clothes, extra socks, thermal underwear, a tarp, freeze-dried food, pots, pans, cups, utensils, a water purifying system, a first-aid kit, a Coleman lantern, an isobutane stove, biodegradable soap and toilet paper, and various other knickknacks designed to ease man's encroachment on nature.

Terry appeared at his side.

“I'm missing a green duffel,”Terry said.

Hutch hefted his last bag from the hold, revealing a green duffel behind it. “There it is,” he said. He moved away to deposit his gear a good distance from the copter and grant Terry access to the hold.Terry pulled out the bag and immediately began rummaging through it.

Phil moaned. He rolled over, got himself standing, hitched up his pants, and ambled to the other side of the aircraft where his gear was stowed.

“What the hey?”Terry whined. He tapped at a device in his hand, then raised it over his head, glaring. He put it to his ear.

Hutch shook his head. “I told you, Ter, no mobile phones up here.”

“You did? No wait . . . I thought you meant we
shouldn't
bring any, not that it didn't matter even if we did.” He appeared devastated. “I got deals pending. I get the Multi-Listing Service on this. E-mail.” He showed Hutch the face of his phone. It looked like a small computer.

“Not up here you don't.”

“But I used it in La Ronge.”

“That's La Ronge, four hundred miles south.” Hutch went to his friend. “Look, we all agreed. No business.”

“But I'm . . .”Terry was crestfallen. He appeared ready to weep.

If he starts bawling,
Hutch thought,
I'm going to carry him all the way
to the river and throw him in.

“I'm . . . putting my life back together.”

Hutch put an arm around him. “I know. This is part of it. Really.”

David came around the back of the helicopter, burdened with bags. Straps crossed over both shoulders, his neck, and a forearm. “What's up?” he asked.

“Terry thought he'd be able to use his mobile phone.”

“Well, I was glad to leave mine home. But I did remember this.” He set down a bag and pulled something out of a breast pocket. An iPod. “Self-contained,” he said. “The White Stripes, Coldplay, Third Day.” He pulled earbuds out of the same pocket and began untangling them.

“Wait'll the battery goes,”Terry grumbled.

“Grouch,” David said, smiling. He squinted at a knot in the white cable.

Phil trudged up, dragging a duffel. He dropped it and went to fetch another.

Franklin ducked under the tail boom from the copter's port side, pulled the last bag out of the cargo compartment, slammed the lid down, and latched it.

“Hey,” Terry said. “What if I climb a tree . . . or hike up one of those mountains? Maybe I can get a signal there.”

“Not with that,” Franklin informed him. “Not up here.”

Terry gazed sadly at the phone, a child with the best Christmas present in the world but no batteries to run it.

“Now
this
. . .” Franklin said and reached around his back. He produced a decidedly unattractive hunk of plastic with what could have been a black foot-long hot dog protruding from one end. “E.T. could phone home with one of these.”

“That?”Terry squinted for a better look.

“Satellite phone. Only way to talk up here. 'Less you're First Nation.”

“What?” Phil said, returning with another duffel. “Smoke signals?”

“Well, maybe. I've seen strange columns of smoke. Could be them doing that, I don't know. But I meant the animals. They say some First Nations can talk to a lynx or bear or hawk.Then the animal goes and tells another First Nation what it heard.”

“For real?” Phil asked.

Franklin laughed. “I don't know! That's just what they say. But I tell you”—his voice grew conspiratorial—“weird things happen up here. An animal goes into a cave, a man comes out. A First Nation gets his leg crushed in one of the mines—I mean pulped meat and broken bone—shows up next day fine. Strong magic in these parts, eh.”