Right.
She pointed deeper into the forest. “If you go that way you’ll find a nice, clear stream if you want to wash up. I got some water earlier, but I used it for the coffee.” She handed him his tin cup.
The cup was hot, and Mortimer used the tail of his shirt to hold it. The cold morning air drifted up his shirt and chilled him. He ignored it, held the coffee up to his nose. It smelled damn good. “Thanks.”
Sheila poked at the sausages with a fork. “Breakfast soon.”
“Okay. Guess I’ll splash some water on my face.”
He wandered off to find the stream, in no particular hurry. The forest was starting to fill in with green; still no underbrush, but pine needles were thick on every branch. It was pleasant. Mortimer could almost pretend he was on a camping trip. It was pretty here; maybe there was even good fishing in the stream. He had not been fly-fishing in a long time.
Anne had never cared for fishing, but she liked hiking and the outdoors in general. Their last real vacation had been to Las Vegas, and neither of them had enjoyed it; they had spent most of the time complaining that they should have gone to Yellowstone instead. Maybe if they’d gone to Yellowstone the next year it could have saved things. Maybe that would have been the start, gotten things back on track.
They never got around to it.
Mortimer found the stream, splashed water on his face. It was freezing, but even that was pleasant, the wet sting waking him up. And the coffee. That woke him up too, warmed his belly.
Mortimer sat on a rock and watched the stream go by and sipped coffee, and was quietly happy that not everything in the world was broken. There were still clear early mornings and hot cups of coffee.
Sheila’s scream echoed through the forest. Mortimer dropped the tin cup and was already running before it hit the ground.
XXVI
Halfway back to camp, Mortimer made himself slow down. He wouldn’t be able to help anyone if he ran straight into a trap. He moved as quickly as he could while remaining quiet.
At the edge of the camp, he crouched low. He saw bodies moving through the low-hanging pine boughs. He scooted around, trying to get a better look. Two men, no, three, standing near Sheila. One had her by the shirt lapel. She was trying to pull away. The men laughed.
“Doing some camping, sweetheart?” asked the one holding her.
“Fuck off.”
That made him laugh more.
“Who’s here with you?” asked one of the other ones.
“Just me, asshole.”
“She’s got a mouth on her,” the third one said.
“She’s got a sweet little caboose on her.” The one who held her pulled her closer, dropped his rifle so he could grope.
Sheila aimed a kick at his groin. He turned and took it on the thigh, grunted.
The other two men laughed at him. Mortimer saw the armbands. Red Stripes. He tensed to spring out at them, but what could he do? All three carried rifles. Mortimer could see his shotgun leaning against his Nike bag on the other side of the campfire.
“Stupid cunt.” He yanked at her shirt and it ripped, the buttons popping halfway down. Sheila gasped, fear blooming in her eyes, no trace of defiance anymore. He yanked again and the shirt ripped open. She wasn’t wearing a bra, and her breasts sprang out, immediately goose-pimpled in the cold air. He grabbed a fistful of her hair and pulled her head back, her mouth gaping open, a scream caught in her throat.
Three of them. Mortimer couldn’t take three. Not barehanded.
The bushes rustled on the other side of the camp, and Bill bumbled through, buckling his belt. “I thought I heard-oh, hell.”
The third Red Stripe swung his rifle, aimed it at Bill. The tip of the barrel was a foot from Bill’s nose. “Hey, man! Hold it right there.”
Bill froze, eyes big.
Sheila dropped to one knee, grabbed the coffeepot off the campfire.
The guy holding her looked down to see what she was doing, and she splashed it all. The scalding coffee hit his eyes and he dropped her, screaming. Falling to the ground, pawing at the bright red flesh of his scorched face.
Mortimer was already out of his hiding place and running toward them. He threw himself on one Red Stripe, pinned his arms so the guy couldn’t bring his rifle up. The one near Bill turned, aimed at Mortimer. Mortimer saw what was happening and turned his captive toward the Red Stripe firing at him. The rifle barked, and Mortimer felt the man in his arms twitch and die, a bloody hole in his chest. He dropped him, turned toward the man with the coffee eyes, who was already on his feet again.
Bill jumped the Red Stripe near him. They wrestled, went down.
Mortimer advanced on coffee eyes, but the Red Stripe pulled a revolver from his belt, brought it up toward Mortimer, who flinched back.
