As Jack worked the trail, McCain thought about everything that had gotten him to this point. He started thinking about last night and how grateful Sinclair had been. And then he thought about what day it was.
“Crap,” he said to Garcia. “Tonight’s the new moon.”
“Yeah, so what?” Garcia asked, breathing hard from the hard hiking.
“When it gets dark, it’s going to get very dark.”
McCain started pushing harder. As he did, Garcia fell farther and farther behind.
Finally, Garcia cried uncle. “I can’t keep up, McCain. Here’s the radio. You go ahead. I’m going to head back.”
“Thanks, Paul. Be safe.”
“You too. Go get him.”
He and Jack pushed even harder, only stopping for a few minutes every hour or so for a little snack and some water. They had stopped following Stratford’s tracks to the creek because each time they had, he had come right back up to the trail.
McCain did a radio check each time they stopped, telling Williams roughly their location and that they were still on Stratford’s trail. The helicopter finally arrived around five o’clock, and when McCain heard the aircraft overhead he radioed up to the pilot. McCain knew the trail stayed generally in a westerly direction, so he asked the pilot to search that way.
About forty-five minutes later the helicopter was back. The pilot radioed down to tell McCain he was running low on fuel and probably wouldn’t be back due to the time of day.
“Besides,” the pilot said over the radio. “We can hardly see a thing through the trees, so we’re just kind of wasting our time up here.”
“Roger that,” McCain said, and the helicopter turned and was gone.
Occasionally McCain would take a close look at the tracks in the trail, especially if there was some wet ground or soft dirt. It looked like the tracks were fresher than when they had started. McCain figured that meant they were gaining on Stratford.
About a half hour before dark McCain and Jack came to a ridgetop. The trail followed the ridgeline for about sixty-five yards and then dropped down into a big canyon. McCain figured the trail had to go down through the canyon and come up over the hillside to the west. If Stratford had slowed, which McCain believed he had, and if he was now fighting some of the symptoms of beaver fever, he might still be on the trail going up the steep hill opposite where McCain and Jack now stood.
It was worth spending a few minutes to look across the canyon. It reminded McCain of big game hunting. Search with your eyes. Find what you were hunting, before it spotted you.
He searched hard and finally saw what looked like a trail cutting across the hill at a 45-degree angle. He searched every inch of the trail and was just about a third of the way from the top of the next ridge when he saw something black moving slowly through the trees. At first McCain thought it was a black bear, but a closer look showed it to be none other than Jeremy Stratford, the Cascade Killer.
About the time McCain spotted him, Stratford dipped below the brush, out of sight. McCain couldn’t believe he had been seen by Stratford, so he stayed on the binoculars and watched for Stratford to reappear. And he did. The fugitive took a couple steps and disappeared again.
McCain wondered just what he was doing. Then it dawned on him. Stratford had diarrhea and was having to stop every few steps to drop his pants so we wouldn’t soil himself.
McCain was tired of tracking this guy, and he figured at the pace Stratford was moving, even with the emergency stops, he couldn’t catch him before dark. He decided to try something different. He got his rifle ready, lay down on his belly, put his pack down as a rest, and found Stratford in his scope. McCain figured the killer was a little less than 500 yards away. Not the easiest shot in the world, but one he had made before.
He put the crosshairs just above Stratford’s right hip and then yelled loud and clear, “Freeze, Stratford!”
McCain watched as Stratford stood straight up and looked his way. Then he dropped right back out of sight again.
“How’s the beaver fever?” McCain yelled. “It’s the shits, isn’t it?”
McCain stared carefully at where Stratford had been and didn’t see anything.
“You can keep running.” McCain yelled. “But I caught up to you pretty quickly. You’re not going to feel any better any time soon. Let’s end this.”
“Go to hell,” Stratford yelled.
That’s ironic, McCain thought to himself. If anyone was going to hell it was Stratford.
McCain caught a movement just up the trail. When he saw Stratford again, he had a rifle and was pointing it toward McCain and Jack. Stratford had no clue where he was, but he fired his rifle in McCain’s direction anyway.
That’s all McCain needed. He again put the crosshairs just above Stratford’s hip and touched the trigger, sending a 100-grain bullet across the canyon.
A .257 Weatherby has very little recoil, so McCain clearly saw the bullet hit its mark. At impact, Stratford rolled to his left and went down. McCain stayed on his target for a couple minutes, and when he was sure Stratford wasn’t going anywhere he picked up his stuff, radioed Williams, told him he had Stratford down, and then he and Jack headed toward the downed man.
When McCain got up the trail on the other side of the canyon it was close to dark, but there was still just enough light to see. The Vortex scope he had mounted on his rifle picked up extra light
