Asgoth now found that his shallow gasps matched the cadence of the water sucking against the pond’s bank. He watched the Hispanic couple look around, then clasp hands and hurry on toward a better-lit area.
Soon it would be time for the Scandi-Fest. Throngs of people would pack JC. Asgoth knew his strategies for the coming weeks required the assistance of Mr. Monde; there was no choice, if he wanted to win the Consortium’s approval. But Monde had exhibited blind spots before; at critical moments his ambition had become a liability.
Asgoth headed back to the lonely apartment.
Never mind the old mistakes. Clay Ryker was on his way out. A sacrifice.
And once he’s gone, Henna will be wholly devoted to me—no more schoolgirl distractions. Monde’s services will be needed no longer, and I’ll be unchained, using my skills to their full potential.
25
Double Meaning
Over Summit Lake Campground, the morning sky was an inverted glass bowl reflecting sapphire waters. Clay waded out to his knees, saw small fish flicker and flash about his shins. Why hadn’t he paid for a fishing license? He could almost taste the potential trout fillets lurking further out in the depths.
After muesli cereal and black tea, he broke camp and refilled his water bottles. Unless he went off trail, he’d be without water access until sometime late tonight.
“Good hiking with you guys,” he told Sam and Lyndon.
“Clay, tell me you’ve registered with the Forest Service. As a precaution.”
“Don’t worry. My parking pass’ll give them a general idea of where I am.”
“But what if you’re injured?”
“Or stranded?” Sam inserted.
“Hey, you can always find friends on the trail. Least that’s been my experience.”
Lyndon touched a hand to his heart. “I do think he means us, Sam.”
“Listen, we’d better stop loitering if we’re going to get shooting today.”
“Shooting?” Clay didn’t think of these two as hunters. “Ah, the photos.”
“He’s not only friendly and tall, he’s smart.”
“We’re working on a set of historical cards,” Sam said. “Points of discovery and what have you. We’ll be back up at Emigrant Pass.”
“I’ll keep my eyes open in the stores.” Clay threaded his arms through his pack straps, aware of each aching muscle. “Off I go.”
“Remember. No accident.”
“I’ll be careful.”
“No,” Sam said. “He means from yesterday—you being here is no accident.”
“Gotcha. See ya later, guys.”
The first few miles were easy going, threading through trees along Summit Lake’s west shore, then meandering south. The PCT began to climb again, cutting diagonally up an escarpment and bringing sweat to his forehead. He removed his ball cap to mop at thick brown hair.
Should’ve cut it, he thought. Buzzed it down to a half inch.
Nope. He knew from his college b-ball days how itchy a fresh cut could be. Better left as it was. Jenni liked it longer too—used to, anyway.
He extracted his cell phone from a side pouch. To save the batteries, he would use it only if necessary. He noted missed calls from his parents, his work, and another number that might be Sergeant Turney’s.
None of it mattered. They would survive without him.
Along the path he spotted deer droppings and tufts of a pelt caught in a ponderosa pine’s bark. Hawks patrolled the azure sky. Although bear and cougar sightings were not unheard of, most hikers moved through these woods unscathed.
He greeted fellow backpackers—males, females, groups, loners. Some were on day excursions, while others were long-distance PCT veterans. One man in his sixties claimed he’d completed the entire trek from Canada to the border of Mexico.
“Over three summers,” he confessed, but Clay was impressed.
Clay’s research reminded him that the Pacific Crest Trail covered more than twenty-six hundred miles. In the 1920s and ’30s, the trail’s concept grew from passing dialogue into the hobby of mountain clubs. The passion of a USFS regional supervisor carried along the dream, followed by the persistence of YMCA officials and volunteers, but WWII and its aftermath delayed the trail’s progress. In ’68, Congress appointed an advisory council that had worked with the USFS to map the definitive route Clay was now on.
The scent of berries broke through his recollections.
He located a lode of huckleberries and helped himself to them while his mind pondered the lives of those who had made this trail a reality. They’d gone after a goal and achieved it; they’d created something special.
What, though, had he ever accomplished?
Carry on, Clay. Only a few days left.
Near the saddle of Cowhorn Mountain, he had his eyes down, verifying his position on his GPS unit, when he spotted a flash of color on the path. Some poor soul had lost a UW cap. Contemplating the rivalry between the University of Oregon and University of Washington, he had an urge to break out his camp shovel and bury this article in symbolic victory.
Anyway, Clay was about ready to find a spot behind a tree.
Not a half hour passed before Clay heard plodding footsteps. Hunched under his pack, a man approached with a bright-eyed mongrel panting alongside.
“Hey.”
“Whassup?” Beneath a thin beard, the man’s face was young. “You seen a hat along the way? Musta dropped it on the ground.”
“A hat?”
“Yeah, dude. Like a Washington ball cap. Came back hoping it’d still be here.”
“Uh, actually I did find it.” At Clay’s knees, the mutt sniffed and snorfled. Cute, with gold and white fur, she looked up and begged him to come clean. He coughed. “Hate to tell you this, though. I’m a Ducks fan, so you wouldn’t expect me to do something nice to a Huskies cap, would you?”
“Tell me you’re jokin’.” The man’s eyes begged for mercy. “What’d you do?”
“I still have it. If that’s any help.”
“This is the PCT, dude. S’posed to be lookin’ out for your fellow hikers.”
Although softened by the beard, the man’s face had an odd angular shape, with one hazelnut eye set deeper than the other. He gave the impression of one who’d lived through darker days and had now been granted a fresh helping of grace. He wore green khaki pants, a Scooby Doo T-shirt, and a leather bracelet matching a braided necklace.
“Yeah? Well, uh … sorry.” Clay produced the missing cap. “Here you go.”
“What’d ya do to it? You tore off the letters?”
“No, no. Nothing that permanent. Just rubbed them in a little berry juice so they’d blend in with the rest of the cap.”
“Dude, that’s so wrong. I’m not even laughing.”
“Trust me. It’s better than my original idea.”
“Dmitri, you better get outta here.” A wadded shirt hit him in the chest.
“So soon? Is this what Americans call a one-night stand?”
“Call it what you want, but if my boyfriend finds you here …” Vicki left the sentence unfinished. “What’m I doing? I need to get ready for work. Why don’t you meet me later by the Chevron, same as yesterday.”
“You must grow tired of keeping secrets.”
“You kidding?” She opened her eyes wide to apply mascara. “I live for them. Around here, you take what adventure you can get. Most of my friends never leave the Northwest. Well, maybe a trip to Disneyland, but that doesn’t count. If they do leave, they still end up back here. Same old, same old. It never changes.”
“You’ve lived many years in Junction City. You know the town secrets?”
“Oh, I could tell you stories. But you know what, around here it’s like a pact—‘I won’t tell your secrets, if you won’t tell mine.’ Doesn’t stop the gossip, though.” Vicki pulled her hair into a ponytail, slipped into work shoes. “My dad, he comes off like some religious nut, but talk about a man who knows the dark s
ides of this place.”
“This is him?” Dmitri tipped back a framed picture on the dresser.
“Mr. Stan Blomberg himself. Dad and I don’t get along. As you might’ve guessed, I’m not the prissy virgin queen he wanted me to be.”
“What is his work?”
“He owns Glenleaf Monument Company, makin’ tombstones. Pretty creepy, huh? Talk about having a finger on the pulse of the town.”
“Don’t tell me. Are ya headin’ south?”
Clay shrugged. “Is that an answer?”
“You just said not to tell you.”
“Mighta guessed.” The man put on his UW cap. “Same way I’m headed, my rotten luck. Name’s Wesley, by the way. And my dog’s Oatmeal.”
“Clay.”
They shook hands, then turned to the challenge of the trail. They kept pace with one another, held dialogue to a minimum, pointed out vistas through the trees. For a while Clay listened to the band Coldplay on his Discman—upbeat enough to set his pace, moody enough to match his downward spiral of emotion. Occasionally Wesley patted Oatmeal on the head and provided a dog biscuit. Clay and Wesley exchanged snacks of their own, trail mix for fruit leather.
With the sun blazing overhead, they reached Windigo Pass. A nearby parking lot at the trailhead turned this into a busy juncture for both north- and southbound hikers. They marched on without a word.
Ahead they spied the pyroclastic cone of Windigo Butte. Far beyond, snow-sprinkled Mount Thielsen waited to be conquered.
This, Clay realized, was what he had hoped to experience with Bill Scott.
Bill had been his friend during his junior and senior years of high school. A change had come over Bill, though, in those months before the bridge incident. He’d become morose, quiet, more likely to incite trouble with authority figures. He did mean things. His circle of friends tightened into a fiercely loyal, secretive bunch.
Without words being spoken, Clay felt himself being edged out.
When Clay asked what was wrong, Bill snapped at him. “It’s this life, this little game they play with us. What do these teachers care, Ryker? Or our parents? They just want to impose their own bitterness on us. We’re powerful, young, full of dangerous ideas. And that scares them spitless. Get this—my dad says I should start going by ‘William.’ More mature, he claims. More likely to score me a job. As if I give a rat’s tail about jumping into his world! It’s all a big game to them.”
For Clay Ryker, jersey number nine, it had been all about the game. On the b-ball court he was a winner, headed for the big time, with nothing to stop him.
Until Bill Scott’s death at the river.
How many must die to pay for your sin? Sacrifice yourself …
Wrapped in these thoughts, Clay bumped into his hiking companion’s stationary form. Wesley grunted, stepped forward to retain his balance.
“Where’d you learn to drive, Clay?”
“My bad. Didn’t see your brake lights.”
“S’all right. So what’re your thoughts? A night at Tolo Camp?”
“If there’s room. Might have to push on to Maidu Lake.”
“Late July. Lotsa hikers. Yeah, Tolo might be outta the question.”
“What about you, Wesley? You got any specific plans?”
“Figured I’d bum it with you, if that’s cool. You’re packin’ good trail mix, and I’ve got the watchdog. Not much in the danger department, but Oatmeal’s a frickin’ awesome early-warning system. Good for chasin’ off the critters.”
“Critters? Where’d you learn that kind of talk?”
“Raised in Puget Sound, stinkin’ Microsoft country. Guess I like anything that goes against the high-tech flow.” Wesley flicked at a spider creeping up his pant leg. “So whaddya say? You wanna stick together another day or two?”
“Shoot. I guess I could try taming a Husky.”
Dmitri carried a mental list of priorities. Near the top he wanted the man’s identity from Sunday night’s fiasco, the one who had abandoned the car.
He made a visit to the local Department of Motor Vehicles, discovered that Gerald Ryker was the Duster’s registered owner. The Yahoo! people search told him where the Rykers lived. During surveillance at the Cox Butte address, Dmitri failed to sight the Duster, but he did see a middle-aged couple exit the house, arguing and gesticulating while climbing into a big Dodge truck.
Dmitri eased away. Still he had not spotted his target.
What was the next step? He’d gone through the motions with Vicki, waiting for the burger girl to bubble over with some relevant gossip or tawdry detail. She’d produced nothing of the sort, nothing about Kenny or Engine 418.
Where was the driver of the Duster? Where had Kenny’s adult friend gone? As predicted, Tolo Camp was full. They made the long descent to Maidu Lake, then, with the sun plunging behind the ridge crests, scrambled to set up camp. They’d trekked more than twenty miles. Once Clay had eased out of his pack, he felt weightless, a man walking on the surface of the moon.
The night air turned brisk. Both men warmed their hands with cups of instant Nescafé while stretching stockinged feet toward the campfire. Hiking boots aired out by the tent flaps. Oatmeal curled next to Wesley’s legs, eyes reflecting the flames.
“How far tomorrow, Wesley?” Clay was dabbing medicated cream at the stitches on his arm. The soreness in his back and legs gave him a perverse pleasure. A penitent satisfaction.
Wesley groaned. “Can’t we talk about it in the morning?”
“I’m thinking of bagging a few peaks. Tipsoo and Mount Thielsen.”
“Then what? Head down to Diamond Lake for the night?”
“Why not? Your young legs could use the workout.”
“Funny.” Wesley twisted his leather bracelet. “Sounds to me like a heckuva lotta hiking.”
“Uh, look around you. We’re in the middle of nowhere doing what?”
“Drinking java by the fire.”
“Hiking, Wesley. Don’t know about you, but it’s what I came to do.”
Clay disliked the sound of his own sarcasm. His voice had turned snappy, hard edged. He tilted his head back. Above, it looked as though angels had airbrushed the blackness with white glitter and tiny red speckles. The moon was a creamy circular splotch, swirled with wisps of gray.
“Sleep on it,” he goaded. “I’ll understand if you don’t think you can hack it.”
“Listen, dude.” Wesley pulled his knees to his chest, scratched a hand through his beard. “I used to run cross-country. Back in the day I even held a few records in King County—that’s Seattle area if ya don’t know—so I’ve got stamina comin’ out my ears. Didn’t earn my nickname for nothin’.”
“Nickname?”
“Scooter. As in, ‘That boy can scoot!’ For years that’s what they called me.”
Clay flicked aside a poking finger of suspicion. “Why’d you drop it?”
“A lot’s changed. I’ve been doing a lotta thinking. Just ready to start fresh. You know what I’m sayin’? Ready to settle my accounts.” Wesley drew a hand over his misshapen brow and cheekbone. “See this, the way it’s all outta whack? Up till January I was in a full coma.”
“Wow. How’d it happen, if you don’t mind me asking? Must’ve been serious.”
“Deadly.” Wesley rocked with arms still clasped around his knees. “Guess you could say I fell victim to some hard-core poison.”
“And you’re all right out here? At this altitude? Even after the coma?
Wesley nodded. “Don’t look so worried.”
“Man, forgive my stupid jabs. It was just my competitive nature coming out.”
“No harm, no foul. I’m all good, just a little funnier lookin’.”
“And slower moving,” Clay joked back. “Your nickname could have another meaning. As in, ‘That boy’s so slow, he just scoots himself along.’ ”
“S’already got a double meaning. Dude, you need some new material.”
“Clue me in.”
“My full name’s Wesley Scott.”
“Scott?” Clay’s voice faltered. “Scooter … Scott. Okay, I get it.”
You thought you could get off scott-free …
Was the name a coincidence or something more? The hand of suspicion clamped around his lungs, while in his head, misgivings and vague hope jockeyed for position.
26
Bad Call
Clay could barely move. His mummy bag was tight around his ankles, but his trail-weary bones were the real culprit. After a second day together on the PCT, he and Wesley had claimed Tipsoo Peak and Mount Thielsen as their conquests. Tipsoo’s glaciated face and Thielsen’s needle-tip pinnacles had been well worth the journey, but this morning his body was paying the price.
Carrying my burden. All part of my pilgrimage.
He moaned, then wished he had not.
“I heard that,” Wesley said from the neighboring tent.
“Don’t even start.”
“Thursday morning. Ready to hit the trail again, you peak bagger?”
Clay kicked at the side of his tent. “Shut up.”
“I feel your pain. My body’s all racked up, like I got beat with a two-by-four.”
“Which is what I’ll do to you if you say another word.”
In the following silence, Clay rumbled over Tuesday night’s conversation. There, over the Maidu Lake campfire, his emotions had collided. The fact he was camping with a Wesley Scott seemed unreal, considering he was on these trails because of a dead friend named William “Bill” Scott.
Was the coincidence a gesture of hope from above? An offer to build new friendships while sweeping away the ghosts of Friday the thirteenth, May 1992?
Or was it a sinister sign? A dead man’s brother coming for blood?
Clay had made attempts to find out more, asking if Wesley had any siblings.
“Got four brothers,” Wesley had responded. “All of them older.”
“You grew up around Puget Sound, right? But did any of them live in Oregon?”
Wesley scratched at his chin. “I can’t keep track. Sorry, but I was the baby, and we didn’t have what you’d call the model family. Pretty abusive, if you wanna know the truth. We get together for two things—weddings and funerals.”