“Righteous,” Farrengalli said. “I get to ride with the two quiet o nes.”
“I don’t think there will be much time for talking,” Bowie said. “ Maybe at midday we’ll switch off, but if things are going smoothly, we ’ll probably stick with what works.”
It usually took an hour or two for rafters to coordinate their pad dling and work as a team. Bowie again regretted the company’s tactic, making a cold run with no rehearsal. ProVentures scripted everything e lse, so why not manipulate the Muskrat field test so it looked great f or the cameras? Why risk so much for a product in which the company ha d obviously invested thousands of development hours?
Because it was a pure publicity stunt. In fact, Farrengalli had be en selected in the equivalent of a reality TV show, a competition in t he Arizona desert that had been featured on the outdoors cable series Wild Life with Natalie, featuring a buxom aerobics queen who alternat ely taunted and coaxed the competitors. According to rumor, Farrengall i had bagged Natalie in the star’s trailer one night, just before a fi nal elimination round. Farrengalli subsequently won an obstacle course race that featured a hundred-foot-pole climb to a rocky plateau, a th ousand-foot wade through waist-deep quicksand that was actually colore d oatmeal, a reckless rappel down the side of a butte, and two barefoo t miles across the scorching sand with nothing but a wineskin full of cactus juice for sustenance. Whether Farrengalli’s bedding of the show ’s host contributed to the victory, no one was willing to say, but Bow ie would bet all the sponsors were smiling.
The series had been augmented with a feature story in Back2Nature, with Dove Krueger providing the photographs and copy. Krueger alread y knew Farrengalli, Lane, and Raintree through her work with ProVentur es. Bowie hadn’t known any of them until the ProVentures vultures had tracked him to Montana, made an unannounced helicopter landing on his ranch, and laid their obscene offer on his chipped plywood table. As m uch as Bowie could fool himself into believing he was the right man fo r such a job, in his heart he was as much of a prostitute as any of th em. This tour would keep him in dried beans, bait, and ammunition for the rest of his days, which meant he’d never have to leave Big Sky Cou ntry again.
But his remote cabin was nearly three thousand miles away, and the solitude he craved would have to wait for his sleeping bag. For now, he needed to take charge and plant the idea that if there was any trou ble, the group would turn to him for a decision.
“The river’s low,” McKay said. “Maybe we should check for portage trails in the morning.”
“No,” Bowie said, knowing Lane was listening. “We do this by the b ook as much as possible.”
“Looks to be running around two feet,” McKay said. The group had g athered at the water’s edge before making camp, and though much of the seventy-foot waterfall was hidden in shadow, the weak moon caught eno ugh of the silver spray to suggest its glory. Even a distance away fro m the falls, the ground vibrated with its thunder.
“It’ll look different in daylight,” Bowie said, standing. “We shou ld all get some rest. Let’s make an early start tomorrow. Breakfast at six, launch at dawn.”
They had lined their pup tents around the clearing, and Bowie didn ’t wait for the others to follow his command as he headed for his. He imagined Farrengalli would finish his flask first, and McKay would pro bably wait a few minutes in order to appear independent. Lane was alre ady yawning, probably the sorest among them. Krueger would be eager to escape the unwanted male companionship. Robert Raintree The two had scarcely spoken since the trip began. Bowie sensed the man harbored no unnecessary rebellion, nor did he seem overly interes ted in the adventure ahead. Though his eyes were open, his head was st ill as if he were meditating, or listening to the forest beyond the ro ar of the water. Bowie gave a brief nod and wriggled into his tent. He undressed in the cramped space and slid into his sleeping bag, his ca lves and thighs aching more than he had expected. Tomorrow, his should ers would get a workout from using the paddle, and when he next lay do wn, his entire body would be throbbing like the root of a rotted tooth.
Closing his eyes, he was assaulted by the same familiar sight, one that hadn’t lessened in intensity over the past five years.
They had been cross-country skiing, in a fairly treacherous but po pular valley in Jackson Hole, Wyoming. The sunlight sparkled off the s now, the air temperature was forty degrees, and the wind was mild. A p erfect day, even when viewed through shaded goggles. Bowie was a hundr ed feet ahead, figuring to blaze a trail so his wife’s passage would b e easier.
Bowie thought the first rumble came from his stomach, it had been so gentle. The second was accompanied by a small spray of loose snow, and then the massive wall of white clinging to the mountain above had let loose, thundering down like the cavalry of the Apocalypse.
By the time Bowie had flailed the long skis around, the bulk of th e avalanche had swept past, tossing a few chunks against his shins and coating him with powder, but otherwise leaving him unscathed.
Connie was gone.
The silence that followed in the wake of the avalanche was a mocke ry of the noise with which it had broken loose from its winter-long mo orings. Bowie stripped his gloves, knelt, and removed his fastenings, cursing his clumsy fingers. By the time he propelled himself into the settled trough of snow, precious seconds had passed. Avalanche victims didn’t die of broken bones, shock, or exposure. They died of suffocat ion.
After a fifteen-minute search, he finally spotted a patch of blue against the glistening white. Her stiff and gloveless hand, the finger s lifted as if waving good-bye.
Or reaching for him.
The diamonds in her wedding band gleaming in the reflected light.
He rolled over in his sleeping bag, but there was no direction whe re that hand wasn’t waiting, waving, beckoning, curling at last into a n angry fist. He should have died with her. By now, instant death held no appeal. His punishment was to linger for an excruciatingly long ti me, to share his endless nights with the memory, to taste the cold air of his failure.
As always, the sun could not come soon enough.
CHAPTER TEN
He caught up with her a couple of hours after sundown.
Clara had youth on him, and she was no stranger to the woods, but Ace Goodall had a manic energy that both attracted and repelled her. Back at the camp, when he’d gone after the agents, Clara decided enough was enough. She understood his mission of bombing abortion clinics. That was clearly a fight on the side of right, and appealed to her self-destructive nature, but killing people in cold blood just because they were cops didn’t seem Christian. Oh, she knew she would probably face the death penalty if she were ever dragged to trial, but she had planned over the past couple of months to die by Ace’s side, going out in a blaze of glory. Whether it came from police bullets or a double suicide, she’d not feared it, and almost welcomed it.
Still, when she had a chance, she had fled. Not to escape arrest; no Earthly court could trump the higher law, as Ace had said. She had fled because of something inside her that screamed for life. She was too young to die. God must have given her a purpose separate from helping Ace.
Not that running had done much good. So deep in the wilderness area, the trails were few, and the darkness slowed her, too. She’d left her backpack at the camp, and she was tired and hungry. She’d found a little creek and drunk water from it, figuring there was no pollution or sewage since the wilderness area was protected from development. The water had refreshed her, but she needed sleep. She curled in a ball on top of a damp bed of leaves, and was just drowsing off when the boot nudged her side.