“Maybe.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
I notice that he had tied some tubular webbing from the packs to the shotgun, making a sling, which he now pulled up higher on his shoulder. “Do you remember what George Esper looks like?”
I thought for a moment. “Yep.”
“I remember what Cody Pritchard looked like, I remember what Bryan Keller looks like, and I have a pretty good image of what Jacob Esper looked like, but whenever I think of George, I cannot seem to bring the image into focus.”
I thought about the pictures, the ones I kept in the Little Bird file, the ones I had cut from the Durant High School yearbook. I had studied them enough over the past few years that I should have been able to tell you every significant feature of George Esper’s face, but I couldn’t. I shook my head. “Look, maybe we’re getting worked up about nothing. Maybe he’s just waiting for his brother.”
He started down the trail and called over his shoulder, “He will be waiting for a long time.”
We climbed the hillside in the Forest Service’s zigzag pattern that led to a granite outcropping where the run-off from the lakes escaped to the rocks below. The wind picked up again, and the cold air found every inch of uncovered skin on my hands, ears, and neck. I looked down the valley and at the trail we would be using as the snow began overtaking everything within a quarter mile. In two minutes, it would be to us. Henry had stopped too, to pull up the government-issue parka hood and to look back at the lakes. I pushed his shoulder. “Considering the situation, why don’t you talk about something happy?”
I watched as he tied the drawstring at his neck. “I thought I was.” He shifted the shotgun from his shoulder and cradled it in his arms, first looking down the trail at the approaching wall of snow, then off to the distant lakes. His eyes softened at the view, and he seemed sad. “These… young men, when they did what they did to my niece? For me, they no longer existed. For good or bad, they were gone.” His eyes returned to mine. “Do you understand?” His eyes stayed with mine. “It is the best I can afford them.”
I waited a moment, but it seemed as if he wanted me to say something. “All right.”
He smiled and once again threw the makeshift strap of the shotgun over his shoulder. “It is far from that, but it will have to do.” He continued to smile, then flipped the flaps down on his fingerless gloves and twisted his fingers into the mitts. The smile warmed me even as the flakes began stinging my face. He threw a paw up and thumped my shoulder twice. “Anyway… Revenge is a dish best served cold.” With this, he turned and walked into the low- flying clouds and the maelstrom of snow that had reached us.
I listened as the drums began a low rhythm and watched as the broad shoulders picked their way carefully down the trail. The world began to turn white, and the Bear disappeared.
12
Even in the snow-muffled air and the distance between us, I heard the gunshot.
We had been battling our way through the wind and the snow; it was an early storm, so the flakes were as big as silver dollars and, with the force of the wind, hit with the same impact. Henry and I had worked our way over the slight rise and outcropping, staying to the right as the trail followed the general path of the stream, and had moved past Mirror Lake with no results. The water continued to run fast from the hanging valley and you could hear it when the wind died down, which it did but with lessening regularity. The blizzard had arrived, visibility had dropped to about twenty feet, and you couldn’t see much of anything except the creek.
The Forest Service path remained visible as it wound its way along the stream basin but, in another hour, the depression that made up the trail would be filled with the fast accumulating snow. I took a small measure of solace in the fact that the part that led to the West Tensleep parking lot was not only tree covered but downhill, and we didn’t have that far to go before we would get to that section. But the farther we got, the farther my heart sank with the thought that George Esper was not going to be found. I had already summoned up the image of George’s bones, scattered by all the little animals by springtime, their bleached white contrasting sharply with the green of the fresh, high-meadow grass. I watched as Henry’s image faded in and out of the white swarm of the blowing snow. Every time he disappeared, I quickened my step a bit, wanting comfort from the dark shape that stayed just ahead of me.
Was the killer here? The last two murders had been within easy reach of roads, of quick access and egress, so I didn’t think so. But what about the boot prints? It was a popular boot in a very popular size, and the possibility that George, Jacob, and some guy from Casper wore the same shoe wasn’t out of the question. I had just about convinced myself that it was coincidence when I heard the shot. It was not the report of the Remington I knew Henry was carrying.
It was close, close enough that I thought I might have seen the muzzle flash. Hearing the sound of a gunshot when you’re not expecting it is like sticking your finger in a light socket, but hearing this gunshot was more like sticking that finger into a fuse box. I know I jumped, because I had to catch myself from slipping on the freezing ground and falling into the icy water.
I wasn’t aware that I had started running or how fast I covered the distance between us, but the next thing I saw were two distinct figures in the swirling haze of snow. One was seated in the path with his feet before him and was slouched forward, and the other was standing over the first and held something in his hands. With the keening of the wind, they didn’t hear me coming even though I’m sure that the pounding of my feet and my ragged breathing alone was enough to get the dead to roll over. For some reason, I hadn’t unslung the rifle during my run but was just now slipping it from my shoulder and gripping it with both hands.
It was like falling into an impressionist painting with the snowflake pointillism giving the image a surreal quality. As I surged forward I knew it was Henry on the ground. It wasn’t a big person that I hit, and I didn’t recognize a single aspect of his appearance as we collided. I know he didn’t expect me, because there wasn’t any resistance when I got there. I was carrying the rifle forward, but I didn’t swing it, instead I used it as a battering ram. In hindsight, I suppose I could have used the thing with a little more strategy, but calculation didn’t play much of a part in my reaction.
When he went, I went over with him into the cloud of snow and down the bank leading to the creek. When we hit the ground the first time, the rifle came up and caught me at the bridge of my nose, but the majority of the impact went directly into his head, which snapped back as the stock of the big Weatherby slammed into the side of his jaw. I’m pretty sure I heard the crack of bone as he went down with me smothering him as we went. The second time we hit the ground was the last, and the roll converted into a slow slide on the bank of the stream in axle-grease mud. I felt a sharp pain in my lower lefthand side; something dug into my short ribs and felt as though it had suddenly yanked on my insulated coat as I heard a muffled report. Even in the windstorm, the smell of spent gunpowder and quartzite stung the air. I slapped a hand down to the area where the gun must have been, and I could feel the small revolver that was wedged between our mutual diaphragms. The grip that held it was limp. There was accumulated moisture between us, and I couldn’t tell if it was from the fall or if either of us had been shot. I stripped the revolver from the open hand of whomever it was that had held it and lay there for a moment to make sure he really was out and to catch my breath. After a moment, the bass of Henry’s voice strained into the wind. “Are you hit?”
His voice was thick, and I could tell he was hurt. I grunted, rolled off the inert figure, and felt my side. I looked back up the hill. “No, I don’t think so. I’m just trying to get my heart out of my throat. You?”
“Who is it?”
I pulled myself up on one elbow and looked down at my victim; his face was turned and buried in the hood of a Gore-tex jacket. I used the stock of the rifle to leverage myself up into a position more suited to looking and reached out to turn the face toward me. His chin grinded a little as I pulled the face around, indicating that some damage had been done but, aside from the askew jawline, it was the mostly intact face of a watered-down Jacob Esper. “George Esper.”
Henry’s voice was still thick, but there was a little more animation. “Is he hit?”
“I don’t know.”
“Check him. I can wait.”
I sat up completely and looked in the general vicinity of where I thought George might have been shot and
