Deadfall Page 2

  We walk back to the buck. Neither one of us has the stomach to kill it, so we decide to each grab a front leg and drag it to the edge of the road on the forest side. We bend down, grab a leg. The animal struggles weakly, pain and fear registering in his eyes. “I can’t do this,” I say. I release the leg, walk toward the back of the Volvo.

  Ty says, “Hey! What are you doing?”

  “I’m going down. You can stay here, or come with. Whatever you decide is fine with me.”

  Ty turns off the engine but leaves the headlights on and activates the hazards. I stress about the battery draining, but Ty says we won’t be gone that long ’cause there probably won’t be any survivors. I hope he’s right, then kick myself for thinking that way. I take my pack because it has the first aid kit, but add two water bottles, four granola bars, Ty’s extra hoodie, and his sleeping bag in case there are multiple victims and I need to treat for shock. We put on our headlamps and start working our way down. The slope is too steep and slippery wet for a straight descent, so we have to do it in tight zigzags. I curse myself for not buying those trekking poles at REI. Meanwhile the fog is so thick we can’t see more than fifty feet out. But the tire tracks digging into the pine needles and dirt are easy to follow. After a couple hundred yards the tracks slew sideways and end.

  Ty says, “Looks like this is where it gets bad.”

  We keep walking, find pieces of metal and glass, big chunks of earth dug out where the vehicle landed and went airborne again. Farther down the slope our lights sweep across something big leaning against a boulder. It’s a silver sedan, upside down, wheels facing out.

  Ty says, “What a mess.”

  We run the final thirty feet. Inhale the stink of gas and oil and burning rubber. Shattered bits of glass are everywhere. I shed my pack while Ty checks out the driver’s door, which is crushed inward. The window is gone. He crouches down, pokes his head inside. I run to the rear passenger window, which is also gone, and shine my headlamp inside, fully expecting to see multiple dead bodies. But the backseat is empty. I don’t see anyone in the front passenger seat. Ty says, “Nobody here. But there’s plenty of blood on the airbag and the steering wheel. Oh, and there’s more on the roof. Shit. There’s a lot on the roof.” Then, “Hey. Check it out.” Ty shines his headlamp on the seat belt clip. A six-inch piece is hanging down, sliced at an angle. He says, “Looks like the driver had to cut his way out.”

  “Any sign of a passenger?”

  “Don’t see any blood. And the airbag didn’t happen.”

  I say, “The gas smell is pretty bad back here.” Then I step away from the car and throw up.

  Ty knows the drill. He waits till I stop heaving, says while I’m wiping my face with my sleeve, “There’s a bloody handprint outside the driver door. And a couple boot prints going that way.” He points up the slope we just hiked down. “Looks to me like he didn’t want to hang around here with all this gas leaking.”

  “I know how he feels,” I say as my stomach finally settles and the surrounding trees wind down to a slow spin.

  He says, “So? What’re you thinking?”

  “If he’s bleeding as much as you say, he could be hurt pretty bad. Since we didn’t see him up at the road, or on the way down, it could mean he collapsed somewhere between here and the road. With this fog it would be easy to miss him.”

  “Or her.”

  “Right. Or her.”

  “So? Can we go now, or do you need to search for the body?”

  “Maybe we should yell first. Do you mind?”

  “Go for it.”

  I yell, “HEY! WE’RE HERE TO HELP! WHERE ARE YOU?” We wait. Hear nothing. I yell again. Still nothing.

  “Well?” Ty says.

  Then I do hear something. But it’s not coming from the forest. It’s close by. A muffled, metallic sound. I look at Ty. “Did you hear that?”

  “Hear what?”

  “A sound. Kind of a clunky metal sound.”

  “Nope. All I heard is you yelling.”

  We wait a couple more seconds. The fog-drenched silence seeps in from the trees, coils in our headlamps, crawls up and over the big rock where the trunk of the car is resting. Whatever the sound was, it’s gone.

  “And the verdict is…?”

  I say, “Let’s spread out. Stay about twenty feet apart and hike to the car. If we don’t find the driver, then we’re back to plan A.”

  Ty smiles. “Okay. Let’s do it. But do it now. I don’t want to kill the battery.”

  I put on my pack. Ty finds another boot print. It’s about the same size as his hiking boot, so I figure the driver is our size, six foot, maybe a little more. Ty walks fifteen feet away, starts hiking up the hillside. I walk fifteen feet in the opposite direction, then head straight up, scanning the beam from my headlamp in 180-degree arcs. I walk ten steps and stop when I hear the same sound again. But this time there’s no question about the source.

  I call out to Ty, “Wait! I heard something.”

  He swings around.

  I run to the car. Bang on the frame with my fist and yell while scanning the interior, “Hey! Where are you?”

  By this time Ty is back. He says, “Cory. The car’s empty. We checked. There’s nothing—”

  Then he hears it. A muffled thump, thump.

  He looks at me, says, “Oh shit.”

  The sound is coming from the trunk.

  TANUM CREEK

  SIXTEEN MONTHS AGO

  3

  Driving up to the junction with six miles between them and the bridge, Benny talked about hunting pheasant and chukar in those fields back in his teens and twenties before the habitat went to shit, back when he could scare up a big ol’ rooster just by blinking. If he didn’t have a sack of birds after an hour’s time, he’d consider it a bad day. While he talked and drank and drove one-handed, Cory tried not to think about the empties clanking around in the passenger footwell every time Benny hit a bump. About how many times the truck would roll if Benny missed a hairpin and they bottomed out in Tanum Creek Canyon. But Benny kept the truck in second gear and the engine whined as they climbed out of wheat fields into scrub bushes and then pines.

  At the junction Benny swung left and paralleled the canyon. He told Cory and Ty that a pheasant stew simmered in wine all day is a tasty treat, but nothing beats an elk steak grilled to perfection over a charcoal fire. He said he’d count down the days till archery season like a kid waiting on Christmas, that if you were willing to hump in some miles with a bow and be patient and endure a little suffering, then getting skunked just didn’t happen. Then he slowed the truck to a near crawl, scanned the trees to his left, and said, “But there was one day in particular. One day that stands out from all the rest. It was the best hunting day of my life despite the fact that I came home empty-handed.” Then he stopped, backed up twenty yards, and took a hard left through the trees onto a narrow road. The branches slapped angrily against the windshield and screeched like claws raking down both sides of the truck. Cory took this as a sure sign that where they were headed and where he wanted to be did not inhabit the same universe.

  Ty said, “What’s so amazing about that day?”

  Benny said, “You’re about to find out,” and braked to a stop. They were in a circular clearing barely big enough for the truck to turn around. Straight ahead through the mud and bug smears on the windshield Cory saw two knee-high rocks and a dark gap between them hinting at a trail. What he didn’t see was a bathroom, a trailhead sign, or even a garbage can.

  “Where are we?” he asked.

  “This here’s the hunter’s trailhead for Tanum Creek.” Benny reached across the two of them, opened the glovebox, and pulled out his .45 with the pearl-and-bronze handle. He checked to make sure it was loaded and the safety was on, drained the beer on the dash, burped, and said, “Time for a walk in the deep, dark woods.” He climbed out of the truck.

  Over the sounds of Benny whistling while his bladder emptied against those rocks, Ty sai
d to Cory, “Why do Dad’s birthday presents always suck?”

  After a quick snack of glazed donut holes, raisins, and Sunny Delight, Benny shrugged on his daypack and they hit the trail a few ticks shy of 9:30. Benny made a point of leaving his cell in the truck, telling them, “There’s no service up here, so why carry the weight?” Before leaving, Cory asked Benny if he had a map, because on these outings he always had a map and compass and made sure they knew exactly where they were going and how to get back. But on this day Benny just took off his ball cap, tapped his forehead, and said, “It’s all up here, boys. There’s only me an’ one other person that’s seen what I’m about to show you. An’ that other person, well… let’s just say he’s no longer a factor.” He put on his cap and walked between the piss-stained rocks. “So you’d best make sure nothin’ unfortunate happens to your old man.”

  Benny set the pace, his strong legs leading them up an overgrown trail that started out friendly enough with a slow but steady rise. They heard the creek but couldn’t see it as they walked through a series of small meadows with wildflowers scenting the air and the foliage heavy with the fresh greens of early summer. While Benny pointed out mushrooms and berry bushes and named the various peaks, Cory couldn’t stop thinking about what transpired at the bridge. He had hoped that since today was their sixteenth birthday and they were in the woods, Benny’s favorite place to be, that the “other” Benny wouldn’t show up. That he’d stay where he belonged, in the brooding shadows of their home, late at night after his shift ended at the potato-packing plant and everyone was in bed except him. But the other Benny had shown up. It wasn’t for more than a minute, but that was long enough. Cory had to hike the rest of the day in wet underwear, keeping his shirt untucked so it would cover the dark spot on the front of his jeans. Benny saw that spot appear on the bridge, he was sure of it. But Benny didn’t say anything. All he did was smile. And that one smile with the promise behind it worried Cory more than whatever secret Benny had lined up for them in these woods.

  Ten minutes in they came to another meadow, this one larger than the other two. Benny stopped, took a hit off the silver flask he always carried with him on these outings, and pointed at a cluster of pine trees to their right. “That’s where I was, in the shadow of those trees, crouched behind some bushes, bugling off and on for an hour, when it walked to the edge of the meadow right over there.” Benny swung his arm 180 degrees. “The biggest bull elk I’d ever seen. Had an eight-point as wide as I am tall. Steam billowin’ out of his nose like he was breathing fire. Hide all scarred, black eyes as big as my fist. I mean he was mag-fucking-nificient.” Benny took another sip. “So I nocked an arrow and waited till he got clear of the trees. When he was a few yards beyond that blowdown he turned broadside just enough and it was like God smiled down on me. I pulled an’ let ’er fly.” He frowned at the memory. “Unfortunately it took a step at that very second. The arrow struck him true, but three inches left of where I intended. I knew it missed the lungs. He took off like a shot, headed north toward the creek. I waited where I was, hoping he’d lie down somewhere close and bleed out. But a warrior like that, I knew I was in for a march. After thirty minutes I set out to find him.” Benny capped and pocketed his flask. “Well, let’s go,” and left the trail to make his way across the meadow.

  “Where are you going?” Ty asked.

  “Where are we going,” Benny corrected. “We’re gonna follow the blood trail.”

  “Blood trail? But it’s been, like, fourteen years. It’ll be gone by now.”

  Benny tapped his head. “Up here it’s like yesterday.”

  “For how far?” Ty asked.

  Benny stopped, turned to face them. “Don’t matter how far. You boys’ve been yankin’ my chain to take you hunting. Well, here we are. Consider this your introductory lesson.” He started walking again.

  Ty said to Cory, “Does he seem a little stranger than normal to you?”

  Cory thought about that smile on the bridge, the hint of dark behind it. “Not so much,” he said.

  They stepped off the trail and waded through meadow grass, the mud sucking at their boots and bugs rising up in amorphous black clouds as they passed.

  A couple hundred yards after the meadow the terrain sloped moderately down to the creek. Like Benny promised at the bridge, the flow of the water was much lighter up here. Twenty feet bank to bank, small hip-deep pools, ripples not rapids bending around big mossy rocks, and plenty of places to cross if you could jump three feet and your balance was decent. Benny turned downstream, striding along the bank, not saying a lot except to point at spots here and there where a hoofprint had been or how much blood he had seen on this rock or that leaf. It was clear to Cory, listening to him go on about the elk’s determination, its power and sheer will to survive, that Benny had a profound appreciation bordering on love for this animal he shot with an arrow on a quiet meadow morning years ago. Cory wished it was that easy for him. That all he had to do was take an arrow in the ribs and he could impress Benny.

  They hiked down and down, following the creek and crossing it twice, for what Cory figured was a mile at least, when Benny crossed a third time and leaned back against a big angular rock. He took a long pull off the flask, lit a cigarette, watched Ty, then Cory, hop boulders to where he stood. Cory panted like a sled dog while Ty looked like he could go for another hour or two without a rest.

  Benny said, pointing downstream, “Follow it that way for twelve miles and you’ll come to the bridge. I wouldn’t advise it unless you have a rope and balls of steel ’cause not too far from here she drops into the canyon, gets ugly fast, and stays that way. There’s a couple spots that’ll make you shit your pants.” He smiled at Cory. “That I know for a solid fact.” Then he pointed upstream. “Follow it that way for six miles an’ you’ll come to the source, a little pocket puddle named Two Knives Lake.”

  “Have you ever been up to the lake?” Ty asked.

  “Once.”

  “Was it nice?”

  “We got snowed on. In June. But I caught some fine rainbows, though. An’ they were natives too. Real fighters. Not the slack-eyed stock shit you catch these days.”

  “You said ‘we,’ ” Cory said. “Who was with you?”

  After a deep drag on the cigarette, Benny said, “Your mom.”

  Cory blinked. That was the first time Benny had mentioned their mom since she left. That was 397 consecutive days of forbidding them from talking or even thinking about her. All the belongings she left behind were either sold or burned, as was the refrigerator where she spray-painted in big black letters on the door: HAVE A NICE LIFE. Cory wondered if this was an opening he could explore. Like maybe there was a crack in the wall that would let in some air. But that crack disappeared when Benny tossed his cigarette into the stream and muttered, “May she rest in pieces.” Then he capped and pocketed his flask. “See this rock I’m leanin’ on?”

  The boys nodded.

  “I call it Anvil Rock ’cause of its distinctive shape. Burn that into your brains.” Benny stepped aside and pointed to three white dots on the rock. “I scratched these here twelve years ago. Remember it well, ’cause this is one of three markers I’m gonna show you. See the notch in that ridge up through those two pines?” He pointed to a jagged mountain with a ridge on the west side separated by a deep V-shaped notch. “That’s Gooseneck Mountain. You two better have some legs left. This is where the elk got pissed.” Benny turned and started angling up a slope toward the notch. The pitch was so steep he had to grab trees and bushes to keep from falling backward. Rocks and pieces of dirt avalanched down and dropped into the creek.

  Cory swallowed hard, said, “He can’t be serious.”

  Ty said, “I wish this freaking elk would just die already.”

  TANUM CREEK

  NOW

  4

  Ty climbs the boulder, pounds three times on the trunk. The person replies with three muffled thumps. Ty yells, “Hang in there. We’ll get you ou
t!” Then he says to me, “The lid is crushed against the rock. There’s no way we can open it from outside. Can you get in through the backseat?”

  “I’ll check.”

  I shine my light through the rear passenger window. There are two seams where the backseat folds down. I see a gray loop that is probably the pull for the seat release, but can’t reach it from where I’m standing. I have to do it from inside. The smell of the gas was bad before; now it’s worse. The thought occurs to me as I crawl in through the driver’s window that this whole thing could explode and I’d be trapped inside. Can’t think about that now. By the time I’m all the way in, Ty is on the ground. The thumps inside the trunk are getting louder, more desperate.

  I say, “Ty, shine your light on the backseat. There’s a gray loop.” He finds the loop, steadies his beam. The fabric is soaked. Amber drops fall in a steady stream. I crawl through the gap in the front seats, place my feet on the dash, reach up, and grab the loop. It’s oily. So the leak is coming from the trunk. More thumps from inside. “We’re almost there,” I say. “Be ready. We have to get you out through the backseat.” I pull on the loop. Nothing happens. I yank again, this time down toward the roof. There’s a soft click. The seatback releases. I raise it as high as I can. Ty reaches in and holds it up while I shine my light inside—and almost yack again. There are legs in jeans, ankles exposed, feet in white canvas sneakers. Two black zip ties are clamped so tight around the ankles that they’re raw and bleeding. A gas can is open with its contents dripping out, soaking the jeans to mid-thigh. The legs kick, hit the can hard.

  I say, “It’s okay, it’s okay. Relax. We’re here now. I have to open the other seat. Hang on.”

  Ty runs around to the other side while I back out. This window is shattered but still in place. He smashes it with a rock. I pull the loop, hear the click, lift the seat. The person’s head and face are covered by a black stocking cap with a single hole to breathe. A spare tire is wedged on top of the head, pressing down. The hands are double zip-tied at the wrists and, like the ankles, they’re raw and bleeding. I hear a gurgling noise. It sounds like choking. Time is running out. I grab the stocking cap but can’t get it off. The tire is in the way. It’s wedged too tight for me to pull it out, so I push back till it’s off enough for me to remove the cap. Blond hair spills out, streaked with pink. Blue eyes rimmed with red and wide in terror blink back at me. Her mouth is covered with a six-inch strip of duct tape. Blood streams from a gash on her forehead, across her cheek, and down to her throat, soaking the neck of a green sweater.