Farrengalli eased his way down the rope, taking care not to look at Raintree’s raw, red corpse. He imagined, or told himself he’d only imagined, the dead Chief twitching and quivering in obscene animation. He thought of retrieving the cell phone, but couldn’t summon the courage to touch the body. He accelerated his descent, burning grooves in his palms. The rope was only fifty feet long, but it enabled him to reach a craggy, less severe slope, which he then carefully navigated, expecting to come across Dove’s body at any moment.
Come across her body. Heh. My buddies will never believe I scored with a dyke.
By the time he reached the bottom, the sun was above the cliff-top trees. The storm had knocked most of the leaves off them, and their gray bones stippled the edges of the gorge.
He found the rocky stretch of shore where he’d left Castle. Should have cut off his head or something. Or put a stake through his heart. Well, live and learn.
In the forest, above the flood line, he found the backpack that held Dove’s camera. Good as gold. With her pictures, and his first-person account (sold to the highest bidder, film rights separate), Vincent Farrengalli was going to be puffing nothing but twenty-dollar Cubans for the rest of his days. Along with the occasional Grade-A Thai stick, that was.
The grab loop of the half-inflated raft had snagged on a willow sapling, and the raft bounced like a rubber ball banded to a wooden paddle. He waded into the water, wary of being exposed to the vampires- but, hell, they don’t come out in the sunshine, do they? — and brought the boat back to the shore. Travis Lane and ProVentures could be proud of the Muskrat, and he’d be sure to strike up an endorsement deal with them, assuming the offer was solid.
He sat, unscrewed the outer valve, and wrapped his lips around the stem.
Breathe in through nose, then out through mouth.
In, out.
Eyes on the prize.
He had the raft nearly to an air pressure he thought was good enough to get him to the lake when he heard them. At first, he thought they were vampires, and he lost a good dozen huffs worth of oxygen. They splashed in the shallow water, walking slowly, Bowie bare-chested, his shirt worn by the girl. It reached the tops of her thighs. Farrengalli figured, if she sat behind him, he’d get a pretty good view as they worked their way downstream.
“Hey, folks,” he said. “Some night, huh?”
Hell, he might even let her share the media coverage. Bowie would probably go back to Oregon or Saskatchawan or wherever the fuck they said he hid out. No threat there. No fight for the spotlight. So he might as well be part of the team for now.
Besides, if some vampires did come along, it probably wouldn’t be that hard to shove the suckers overboard.
The human suckers, that was.
He smiled.
It was only fucking natural.
