They couldn’t go on like this. Even Will had to see that — although Will was pretty good at not seeing what he didn’t want to see.
They stopped midmorning for water and granola bars, still not looking at each other, still not talking. Will consulted his map. Checked his compass. High overhead, a pair of golden eagles threw insults at each other.
“Are they mating?” Taylor asked, suddenly tired of the stand off. He missed Will, missed their old companionship. He’d been missing him for six weeks — and he was liable to be missing him from now on. It seemed worth making an effort for whatever was left of their trip.
Will glanced skyward briefly. His eyes were very blue in his tanned face. They held Taylor’s gaze gravely. “That’s your idea of romance?”
He was partly kidding, but partly not, and Taylor felt himself coloring.
“Hey.” He lifted a shoulder. Not exactly sparkling repartee, but he didn’t want to fight anymore, didn’t know what Will wanted. He couldn’t not feel what he felt; he’d tried that — had tried for well over a year to talk himself out of feeling what was obviously unwanted and unwelcome.
Will snorted, but he was smiling. Sort of. “You’re a nut, MacAllister. Did I ever tell you that?”
“A girl never gets tired of hearing it,” Taylor deadpanned, and Will did laugh then. He shoved the map back into his pocket, shrugged on his backpack.
* * * * *
They reached the meadow a little after one o’clock. The clouds roiling overhead were thunderous and black. The pine and fir trees were singing and swaying in the wind; the lake was choppy and dark. The gray green grass rippled like the earth was breathing beneath their feet.
“Let’s get under the trees,” Will said. “We’ll pitch the tent and have lunch. Wait it out.”
Taylor could see he was worried about the worsening weather conditions; Taylor was just grateful for flat terrain. He’d wanted to call for a rest an hour earlier, but he’d have died first. He could feel the ache of coming rain in his chest, and told himself to get used to it. The doctors had said the broken ribs were going to hurt forever — especially when it rained. The bullet had torn through skin, muscles, and a couple of ribs. Following the shock of impact — like a land mine going off inside his chest — the pain had been unbelievable. Unimaginable.
The miracle had been that no major blood vessels had been hit while the bullet ricocheted around his chest cavity. But it hadn’t felt like a miracle at the time. His right lung had begun to squeeze, he’d had to struggle for each short breath, and it had been agony — like getting stabbed over and over. His vision had grayed out, he hadn’t been able to call out or move, feeling the warm spill of his own blood on his chilled skin — and the blood had felt good, that’s how cold he’d been. Cold to the core.
And then Will had been there. And he’d been glad. Glad for the chance to see him one last time, to say good-bye, even if it was just inside his own head because he sure wasn’t capable of speech. And the expression on Will’s face had been comforting. At least at the time. Now he knew it for what it was. Guilt. But at the time it had looked like something else, something it had been worth dying to see.
He glanced at Will, walking beside him as they tramped across the long meadow. Will appeared a million miles away, but he felt Taylor’s gaze and looked over at him. He opened his mouth, and then closed it, and Taylor knew he had been about to ask if Taylor was all right.
And as tired as he was of Will asking if he was okay, he realized he preferred that to this new awkwardness. And he sure as hell preferred it to Will no longer giving a damn.
He started to say so, but something in the brush caught his attention: the sheen of black material.
“Hey,” he said, stopping and nodding.
Will glanced at him, tracked his gaze, and saw exactly what Taylor had. He followed as Taylor waded into the currant bushes dragging what at first glance appeared to be a black seat cushion from out of the bush.
“It’s a parachute,” Will said, taking it from Taylor and turning it over.
Taylor nodded. “Still packed.”
They met each other’s gaze, and Taylor raised an eyebrow.
“Let’s have a little look-see,” Will drawled.
“I’ll take the right.”
They separated, fanning out across the meadow. It took less than half an hour to locate the other three parachutes — two still packed, one torn wide open by something with claws and a lot of optimism. It seemed clear to Taylor that all four parachutes had been jettisoned at the same time. The speed of the plane and the headwind had resulted in several yards between each landing, but not nearly the distance which would have resulted from dropping them out the plane door at deliberate intervals.
“That’s it,” Taylor said as Will rejoined him. “The fifth chute will have gone with the hijacker.”
“Then it won’t have gone far.” Will’s face was grim. He was staring past Taylor, and Taylor turned. Near the lake the trees grew in a thick wall of white firs, Jeffrey pines, and incense cedars. And there, dangling from a twenty-feet tall cedar like a dreadful Christmas tree ornament, was what remained of the missing parachutist.
* * * * *
“He’s carrying a knapsack,” Taylor commented, as they stood gazing up at the macabre thing swinging gently in the wind.
“Christ,” Will said.
“I’ll go up.” Taylor started forward, but Will caught his arm.
“Uh, no, you sure won’t.”
That of course was a big mistake; Taylor freed himself,
