Killer View

The other window was shattered too, glass on the inside. Had that happened when Brandon had been shot? He didn’t recall the sound of breaking glass, only the bells of the wind chime. He reached the open window and peered out past the jagged frame.

Brandon lay below him, faceup. The man’s glove was gripped high on his left arm, which was blood-covered and still oozing.

“You okay?”

“Dandy,” Brandon answered with a grimace.

“I’m going to pull the door open. We’re going to do this fast, on three. You with me?”

“Three,” Brandon said, and he started to slide on his back toward the door.

“Shit!” Walt said, as he yanked open the door, reached out, and found the man’s right shoulder. He dragged him-the man was heavy-through the door and slammed it shut.

“Motherfucker hurts!” said Brandon. “Goddamn it!” He ran through every expletive he knew, as Walt opened the jacket and worked it off the man’s left arm. As wounds went, it was pretty awful. The bullet appeared to have missed the bone, but the exit wound was twice the size of the entrance, leaving a hole the size of a golf ball. The bleeding was severe, possibly arterial. The wound wouldn’t kill him but the blood loss might. With Brandon compressing the wound, Walt stripped a shoelace out of the man’s boot.

“No,” Brandon said.

“I’m going to tie it off.”

“The hell you are,” Brandon said. “Once we do that, we can’t go back. The toxins’ll kill me if we loosen it, and, if we don’t, they take the arm. Fuck that. Compression for now. We only go to tourniquet if I pass out and you see no other choice.”

“There is no other choice.”

“I’m not losing my arm, Sheriff. Nice try.”

“Tommy!”

“No… fucking… way. I’ve done the course, Sheriff. I’m not losing this arm unless I have to.”

Walt looked around the room, as if someone might arrive to help him.

“You’ve got to go after him,” Brandon said.

“The hell I do.”

“Yes, you do.” Brandon couldn’t point, so he shook his head in the direction of the door.

It took Walt a moment to see the plastic dart canister wedged into the intersection of the wall and floor.

“They got him, Sheriff. That’s what we heard with that first shot. We’re maybe, what, fifteen, twenty minutes behind him?”

Walt processed everything Brandon was saying and his eyes were telling him. “Darted him inside the cabin? I don’t buy that.”

“Who the fuck knows? That’s a dart, and, unless I’m mistaken, no one’s home.”

“You’re bleeding out.”

“I can get down the hill. It’s easier than going up.”

“Bullshit.”

“Give me the keys.”

“This isn’t going to happen, Tommy. I’m going with you.”

“We’ll use the radios,” Brandon said. “I’ll keep talking. As long as I’m conscious, you keep heading up there. I go silent, then, sure, come back and be the hero.”

“Give it a rest. There’s procedure, Tommy. I’m evacuating the wounded.”

“You’re pursuing the hostage. The first twelve hours, Sheriff. You know the drill.”

“If someone took Mark, they’ll be on snowmobile. I’m on foot, Tommy.”

“And when I get down to town, I’ll send a deputy up Yankee Fork on a snowmobile looking for you.”

“Got it all pla

“Yes, sir, I do.”

“Mark’s a vet. The dart could be his,” Walt said.

“Could be.” Gripping his arm tightly, Brandon said, “I’ll need help with the snowshoes, and you’ll need a pair of gloves.”

“We’re going to clean and wrap the wound,” Walt said. “We can get a lot of compression with the wrap.”

“Well, fucking hop to it!” Brandon said. “He’s got a head start on you.”

Walt passed him the keys.

16

WALT FOLLOWED THE TRAIL OF PACKED SNOW FOR ONLY the first fifty yards, then gave one final look back at Brandon before cutting to his right and entering into a stand of towering lodgepole pine that formed the southwestern boundary of the National Forest. He had first learned to track in Boy Scouts; but where other kids picked up footballs or soccer balls, Walt had spent his school-day afternoons in the wilderness with his head down. A man named Jeff Longfeather, a Blackfoot Indian who worked as a farmhand for his maternal grand-father, had seen the boy’s passion and had taught him the natural state of indigenous flora and fauna, the different ways and speeds that mud dried, the forces behind impact prints. Taught him the feeding, watering, and mating habits of big game. How to bugle an elk to within fifty yards. How to construct a blind. To survive in the woods for days at a time, eating pine nuts and edible roots, and burying his own scat. In the process, Walt had come to respect the environment in ways that wouldn’t be popular for twenty more years, but his reverence had paid off. Jeff Longfeather turned a wet-behind-the-ears Boy Scout into a fine tracker who could stalk a bull elk or deer for days without revealing himself. Walt had not stayed with scouting, but he’d visited the family farm weekends and school holidays and had come to view Jeff as something of an older brother, spiritual adviser, and mentor.

He disappeared now into the woods, his mission twofold: to track the man who had kidnapped Mark Aker, for there was only one set of snowshoe tracks coming and going, and to make certain no one tracked him.

Brandon ’s ramblings crackled on in his earpiece, as his deputy descended from Aker’s cabin toward the Cherokee. The reception wasn’t great, but he continued to hear Brandon ’s voice, which was all that mattered.

The snowpack was thi

Brandon had not been shot from such an elevation, but the dart on the floor of the cabin lingered in Walt’s mind.

What was Mark involved in? Why would anyone want, first, to try to kill and then, later, kidnap a local veterinarian? If he’d been willing to shoot Brandon, why not Mark Aker? Why the dart?

Being up a tree helped with radio reception. Brandon had reached the vehicle and felt able to drive himself into Challis. They signed off, with Brandon promising Walt a snowmobile on Yankee Fork Road in short time.

Walt returned to the snowfield and stayed parallel to the tracks. Jeff Longfeather had taught him about time and patience; where possible, he stole into the center of the well-traveled elk trail and reestablished the snowshoe tracks-the man was pulling a heavy sled. Mark? He’d clearly made good time, establishing himself in Walt’s mind as big and strong. He was also an expert with a sniper rifle, keeping Walt mindful of his cover.

An hour and a half passed before his radio barked again. The Challis sheriff and a deputy were waiting nearby on Yankee Fork Road.

Walt discovered some cigarette ash, dancing on the snow. The butt had been GI’d, or packed out, leaving only the rolling worms of ash as evidence. The man towing Mark had paused here, had come back to the sled and done something-had administered more drugs, maybe, or delivered a warning. Walt followed the tracks and soon met up with two men on snowmobiles. They wore sheriff patches.

A track of a snowmobile towing a sled was evident. It headed not toward Challis, as he’d expected, but deep into the National Forest.