And then, minutes later, the match.
The pit lit on fire all of a sudden. Diesel is a slow-burning fuel. There was no great explosion, or even a whoosh. Flame simply ran across the pile, chasing the spent fuel. The heat increased. The flesh began to pop.
Walt knew Brandon would be anxious, might ruin things by leaping to Walt’s rescue, but then the ATV’s motor whirred. And grew faint.
The rope struck Walt on his back.
“Jesus, Sheriff!”
The concentration of flames was well away from Walt, but the heat was intense and the fire was spreading. He grabbed on to the rope, placed his feet on the wall of the pit, and drew himself up and out, where Brandon offered his one good hand and pulled hard.
The ATV’s taillights receded down the access road.
“You’re out of your mind,” Brandon said, his face aglow in the light of the fire. His skin shined from the sweat of anxiety. His eyes flashed white, wide with anger that he disguised as outrage.
“I would have called for help if I’d needed it,” Walt said offhandedly.
“Jesus! How was that possibly worth it, Sheriff?” Indignant. “How is that possibly-”
Walt patted the day pack. “It was well worth it, Tommy.” He looked back at the burning heap of flesh, popping and bubbling. He was thinking about Mark Aker and how much time had passed since his abduction. He was thinking that in these temperatures fire connected one person to another, one ranch to another, one life to another, and that somewhere out there Mark Aker hopefully was near a fire just like he was. Walt’s chance of finding and rescuing Mark Aker came down to efficiency, of turning a number on a Geiger counter into hard evidence, of uncovering an evidence trail that could connect the discolored biosensor to the missing veterinarian.
He understood where that trail would start and, rising to his toes, could almost see it in the blanket of darkness that stretched for miles up this nearly uninhabited valley.
Senator James Peavy’s ranch lay just out of view.
37
MARK AKER WAS SURPRISED BY HIS OWN STRENGTH. HIS legs felt good. Adrenaline, perhaps. He walked in the snowmobile track because it was easier going. It followed what appeared to be a road, given the lack of trees and shrubs. Not only could he move faster on the track, but he was less likely to leave tracks to follow. The moon turned the snow lavender. He heard shouting behind him, coming from the cabin. Coats and Gearbox. These first few minutes were critical. They wouldn’t know where he’d gone: around back to the shed, toward the woodpile, or up the snowmobile track. They’d search for tracks leading into the woods.
It wouldn’t take them long-five minutes, maybe less-to realize he hadn’t headed into virgin snow, that he must have taken the snowmobile track. And then they’d come after him.
He’d hurt Coats badly with that burn. Would Coats stay and lick his wounds or join the hunt? The answer came immediately, as more shouting erupted behind him, and the coughing of the snowmobile trying to start rumbled through the woods.
Aker had yet to turn on the flashlight, still negotiating by the light of the moon. If he left the snowmobile track, his prints would give him away. But if he stayed, he was only minutes from being caught. He could try jumping off the track, making his first prints in the virgin snow as far off the beaten track as possible, but he knew Coats to be a professional tracker. He had to outsmart him.
Think!
At the first curve, the snowmobile track left the road and weaved through the thick forest of lodgepole pine and aspen, no doubt following a shortcut only available in winter months. He passed a dozen or more trees before he heard the chain-saw-like buzz of the snowmobile’s motor catching life. They’d be on him in less than a minute.
He stopped. Turned. His mind counting down the time he was wasting. Then he saw it: a branch.
The track cut incredibly close to a twisted pine that had once been struck by lightning. It was a craggy old tree with a few sparse branches low enough to the ground to reach by jumping. Aker squatted and leaped, but his gloves slid off the only branch close enough to reach. He tried again, and again, but could not grab hold.
Now the snowmobile was crying out, well under way.
He jumped a fourth time and managed to hook his hands and lace his fingers over the branch. He walked his feet up the trunk, hooked a knee over the branch, and struggled up to a sitting position. With the adrenaline spent, he was far weaker than he’d first thought. He continued to climb, following the tree’s natural ladder. Two, three, four branches up; and now, looking down, he saw only branches. He moved himself higher, and on the opposite side of the tree from the track. He straddled the branch and kept himself against the trunk.
The snowmobile’s headlight winked through the woods, as the grind of the motor drew nearer. It was traveling slowly, and now a second light was revealed: a flashlight, searching both sides of the track.
Aker caught himself holding his breath as it came into view, staying in the track. Two men. Gearbox was driving, Coats, straddling the motorcycle-style seat behind Gearbox, holding the flashlight.
The snowmobile purred up the track approaching Aker’s tree, the flashlight alternately illuminating the forest on both sides, throwing harsh shadows that moved around in a jarring dance. It continued past.
A red taillight now. Nothing more. The sound grew more and more distant.
A person on foot was no match for a snowmobile. It would only take them minutes to realize they’d missed him.
Aker climbed down out of the tree as quickly as humanly possible. He landed back on the track and took off for the cabin. He tried to run but wasn’t up to it. It seemed to take forever to reach the camp, but it was only minutes. But how long until the snowmobile returned?
Inside the cabin now-the smell of burned hair and flesh, a nauseating stink-he stole a backpack, ripped a regional map off the wall, and stuffed it and other items into the zippered compartment: canned foods, matches, a church key, can opener, saltshaker, a fork, and a kitchen knife. He snatched up the syringes from the table and took the vials of insulin and the medication Coats had used to subdue him: opiates and narcotics. A pair of wool socks hanging by the woodstove. A wool cap. He grabbed a pair of snowshoes from a peg.
The sound of the snowmobile was suddenly louder. Closer…
He’d heard the two talk about spotting a cow elk by the salt lick. That meant game, which meant a game trail to follow. Out back, he briefly risked the flashlight, the moon having hidden behind the fast-moving clouds overhead. He couldn’t find the salt lick. The unbroken snow that formed an apron beyond the shed trapped him as neatly as a fence.
Leaving any tracks would give him away.
And there, in the flashlight’s beam, came his answer: two woodpiles, one for the split logs, neatly stacked very high, and, beyond it, a pile of ten or twelve massive tree trunks, ready for cutting and splitting. Small animals had greatly disturbed the snow in and around the logs; his tracks wouldn’t be easily noticed. By daylight, they might spot his route, but, if he hurried, he could be far gone by then.
He struggled up the pile of stacked wood, winded and weak. He fumbled his way over it and fell to the other side. Next, he took two great leaps in succession and reached the pile of felled trees. He clambered over this pile as well, the whine of the snowmobile fast approaching.