“They wore suits, is that it?”
“And their eyes. They looked like yours.”
“Their eyes?” He sighed and shook his head.
“Yes, eyes. Those men have killed. And city stuck out all over them. And the highway patrol picked you up in Craig. And they noticed us as if they’d just peeked into the Wyndham and Harper files. And they tried so hard not to show it. And for an instant they looked as if they couldn’t believe their luck. What more do you want?”
The creep was laughing. She was too tired and scared to hit him.
“I want to pull this truck over and.… However.…” He leaned across her to open the glove compartment. This time, instead of a bottle, he brought out a gun and laid it on her lap. “I want you at my back. One for you, one for me.” He pulled out another.
“One more crack about women and I might use it on you.” She left the nasty thing lying on her lap without touching it.
“Why is it whenever I’m with you I wonder how I got there? Why I went in the first place? How do I let myself get into these—”
“You said you wanted to come along. I had a hell of a time convincing Welker to let you. If he wasn’t so hot for those papers he wouldn’t have let me talk him into it.”
“What I meant was I wanted to get out of that apartment and away from them.”
“Poor Leah, you’re always getting away from something, only to get into something worse.” And he laughed.
“Why not have Ben at your back? He lookes more capable.”
“I have other plans for him. Besides I want you to see something. Leah, don’t you really know why you wanted to come along?”
“No.” But Leah was afraid she did know.
Glade reached across the cat to put his hand on her knee. Goodyear bit his wrist.
Leah stood at the back of the truck, shivering in her windbreaker. She stuck her hands in her pockets, felt the grisly cold of metal in one of them, and took that hand out again. A constant whishing sound somewhere near.… She could smell water.
Glade shoved an oblong yellow object toward her. “Gas cylinder for the boat. Here, take it.”
“What boat?” she said suspiciously and experienced that sinking feeling she’d known before when around him. The cylinder was slippery and heavy.
“This boat.” He drew a large bundle from the camper shell, balanced it on his shoulder, and started around the truck. “Come on.”
“What do we do with a boat?”
“Ride in it. I told you, you wouldn’t have to walk, didn’t I?” He moved ahead of her as if his burden was heavy.
She’d expected a lake. But it was a river. And even at night it had a strange color.
Dropping the bundle, he stood on the bank and looked down at the water. “Shit!” He kicked a tall grass clump with his toe. “Leah, this river’s twice the size it was when I went down it last fall. And I’m no river rat. There isn’t time to train you, either. I’m afraid we’re going to have to fake it and pray.”
The river answered him with a sinister whoosh. It should have looked inky in the dark before dawn, but it had a funny creamy color that might have been tan in daylight. It didn’t smell of fish or reed. It smelled of earth and … decay? Death?
“I’m not going on that river. And if you think Goodyear will, you don’t know cats. He’ll be climbing our heads.” She turned to see the gas cylinder inflate the heavy bundle into a rubber boat that would look small and flimsy on a river that appeared to be a good hundred feet wide. “Cats hate water.”
“I suppose ex-underwear models do, too.” He grabbed her wrist and pulled her back to the truck. “I’m worried about Goodyear, too. We’ll be in the middle of the river where he can’t jump out of the boat. But I couldn’t leave him back there. They wouldn’t have cared for him when they didn’t need him anymore.” His concern for the cat was the only emotionally warm thing about him.
“You are crazy, Glade Wyndham.”
By dawn they had stuffed the contents of the backpacks and her purse into rubberized duffel bags, along with the provisions he’d bought in Steamboat Springs with her money. They had changed into tennis shoes and he’d moved the truck back down the road and off into the trees. Leah was still protesting.
Goodyear sniffed at the boat suspiciously.
Glade threw her a life jacket and strapped one on himself. He’d lashed the four duffel bags in the center of the boat with a series of ropes and he now added a fifth to the top of the pile. It was empty. “This is for Goodyear.”
He handed her a small metal case and put an identical one in his pocket. “There are matches in this and the case will keep them dry. If you get thrown out of the boat and can get to shore, you can build a fire to keep warm. Here’s your paddle. I’ll explain.…”
“Glade, I don’t want to go on that river.” Just the thought filled her with terror. “I’ll wait for you in the truck.”
“I’m not coming back here. There’s no going back on the Yampa River. It won’t be long before Charlie and your friends at the restaurant in Craig find that truck anyway.”
“But we lost Charlie.”
“Nobody loses Charlie for long.” He grabbed Goodyear and stuffed him into the top duffel, drawing it up so that only a small air hole remained. The bag bucked and pitched as if it were filled with ten cats.
Just as a sharp pain stabbed her middle so hard that she doubled over where she stood, a car motor rumbled on the road behind them. The pain released Leah in time for her to glimpse headlights bobbing through the trees and hear the vehicle bottom out on a chuckhole.
Glade had the boat in the water and sat on the bank, holding it with his feet. “Get in front, fast!”
The boat wobbled threateningly as she stepped into the cramped space and practically capsized when he jumped in behind.
“Dear God, what am I doing here?” she thought and leaned back against the gear as the river caught them. The floor of the boat buckled and warped as if trying to heave her out. There was nothing to hold onto except the paddle, which wouldn’t do her much good if she and it ended up in the water alone.
“Turn back, Wyndham!” Brian ran along the shore, his suit jacket flapping, his city shoes slipping on the rocks. Behind him, Charlie stood on the bank and raised both arms to steady the aim of the weapon in his hand.
“Duck!” Glade yelled and Leah slipped sideways along the duffels at her back, but not before a cracking echoed across the river and water spewed several inches from the opposite shore.
“He’s bluffing … shooting high.” Glade’s voice came muffled behind her. “They can’t risk me till they’ve got the papers.” And then only seconds later, “You can sit up now. We’re out of range, anyway.”
Brian and Charlie were tiny in the distance. Leah turned to face what lay ahead and tried to force down sickness.
The funny-colored river whispered derision. Trees slipped by rapidly in the dingy dawn light. A fine spray wetted her face. It came over the rim in front of her and soon dampened her hair, too, began to bead her lashes. The floor of the boat was cold through her jeans. And there was nothing to hold onto!
“I guess we can let the cat out for a while,” Glade said. “He can’t jump ashore here.”
Goodyear put two front feet on her shoulder, his whiskers brushed her cheek. “Yowl!” he roared in her ear. Leah almost dropped the paddle. He slithered down her front, digging in his toenails, until he could sit on her lap and glare slit-eyed up into her face, his ears laid back.
She undamped a fear-frozen hand from the paddle to pet his head. His fur was already damp. “I’m sorry, blimp. I didn’t mean to get you into anything like this. I told you two strays were no good for each other. This wasn’t my idea. I crave hot baths, flush toilets, central heating, a roof over my head, and warm food like some people crave cigarettes and cocktails.”
Goodyear hissed and jumped to the pile of rubber duffels.
Glade laughed. “Listen, city girl, there’s no time
to feel sorry for yourself. I was going to give you a quick lesson on river running, but our friends interrupted us. Now, pay attention. If we’re not both going in the drink, you have to help get us down this river.” He went on in a steady patient drone for a half-hour, explaining what to do in an emergency, repeating himself endlessly, trying to instill confidence in his boatmate—but he only increased her fear.
Goodyear hissed and yowled and paced the unsteady boat. A line of living trees stood to their knees in water. A piece of sod that had broken loose from the river’s edge floated by like a small lost island. It rocked gently as it passed, dandelions still in bright bloom amid the grass on its undulating surface. Leah watched it sink.
“This river’s in flood,” Glade interrupted his discourse long enough to explain, and there were nasty undertones in the way he said it.
Leah drew her knees up to her chin and hugged them.
“Rapids. Straddle the left side of the boat as if you were riding a horse bareback. Tuck one foot under the rim of the pontoon where it meets the floor. The other under the boat in the water. Grip the paddle—”
“But I’ll get wet.”
“You’re going to be wet anyway. The point is not to drown,” he suggested dryly.
The sun rose behind clouds offering no warmth. Breeze rippled the water and blew chill through her damp clothes. Her muscles felt cramped and stiff already.
Birds called good mornings to each other across the river.
Goodyear crawled into his duffel voluntarily, moaning evil-sounding cat curses at his human companions.
The current rippled down the river’s center, leaving foam-flecked eddies to slip around and back on themselves on each side.
A cow, stiff and bloated, turned in a slow grotesque death circle near the right bank. Her legs extended as if she had been stuffed with metal rods to make her stand up in a museum display case, but had tipped over.
The boat nosed toward the cow and the foul, putrid stench of decay, the odor gaining new dimensions when water-soaked.
Glade barked an order and they paddled back to the main current.
“Leah, pay attention. I asked, what do you do if thrown from the boat and get ashore?” he went on as if the cow had never been.
Thrown from the boat … panic sent nasty tingles through her body.
Leah reached into her jacket pocket and drew out the gun. She twisted around and rested it on Goodyear’s duffel, bent down to sight along the barrel and aimed for the space between his eyebrows. “Get me out of here!”
His eyes went dead.
“I mean it, Glade Wyndham!”
“Leah,” he said softly, “there is no way out. For once in your life you’re committed, whether you like it or not.”
She meant merely to force him to pull to the safety of the shore but she shivered just them, and the cold finger clamped around the cold trigger jerked.
Chapter Thirty
“Another lesson learned,” he said calmly. But the index finger that reached out to move the barrel of the gun aside trembled. “You pulled the trigger only far enough to cock it. Let me show you.” He took the metal monstrosity from her carefully. “Do you really hate me that much?” Surprise and a fleeting hurt look on his face.
“I hate … I hate danger.” Leah was crying and didn’t care. She’d almost killed someone. She’d almost killed him.
Her gun, in his hand, came right up to her nose. “Leah, it is now cocked. See the hammer? If I pull the trigger the rest of the way, it will fire. Never point this revolver at anyone … unless you mean to kill him. And be sure to pull the trigger all the way back.” He aimed the barrel toward the sky and eased the hammer gently into place with his thumb. “But you don’t want to kill me. You need me now because there is no way off this river except in this boat. There are rapids ahead. You can’t get down this river alone and neither can I. We’re both committed.” He put the gun in her hand.
She replaced it in her pocket and looked away.
“Your aim was dead center and steady there for a minute. Don’t forget how you did that.” He loosened the strings on a duffel and brought out a large plastic bottle. “Here, I bought three bottles and emptied them into this. It’s Maalox.”
She took a long sip. And then another. “Why? Why do we have to do this … river thing anyway?”
“The papers are here … downstream.”
“Damn the papers! You’re just going to make a deal. And after all you’ve put us through.”
“We could get down this river in two days. I’ve given us three to allow for difficulties. We meet the CIA and the FBI at a place called Split Mountain Ramp in Utah. It’s a place to haul boats off the river. Now, if we make that rendezvous and Swords keeps his word, there’s a chance that we’ll both get out of this with our hides.”
“And if this Swords doesn’t keep his word? What do we rendezvous with then? Death? And what makes you think the goons won’t be at Split Mountain Ramp?”
He just shrugged and looked away.
She was still twisted around to face him when the river began a low murmur behind her; the boat slipped faster through the water. Glade looked beyond her, reached to pull up the strings on the cat’s duffel.
The murmur grew in intensity.
“Okay, here we go. I know you can do it.” He gave her a confident smile. “Turn around and climb onto the rim.”
Leah turned around and froze. A line of mist above white water … and through the mist, the river changed levels as if in an illusion … the Yampa wound on past the splayed water ahead, but lower … much lower.… The murmur was now a roar. Leah tasted Maalox.
The floor of the boat buckled and bulged beneath her. She slid from her giddy, uncertain seat to slip a leg over the inflated pontoon rim and mount it. The water washing over her lap was cold. The mist in her face turned to spray. The boat and river raced faster.
Remembering to grip hard with her knees only at the last minute, she felt the boat rear and her paddle flailed air. A spout of water hit her full in the face. She couldn’t see.
Then the boat bucked, trying to throw her as the back came up and they swooped down into chaos, with a lurch that almost knocked her over, almost pushed her stomach up her throat.
When her vision cleared, a rock loomed ahead. Instinctively, Leah paddled to steer away from it. But they caught it on the side with a sickening thud and then a pause while everything but them seemed to be in frantic motion … a tortured screech as rubber and rock rubbed together and the boat tore loose, turning slowly around until Leah was going backward and sitting high in the air.
When the boat lowered, she was looking at the rapids that should have been behind her and the roar was diminishing. She turned to find Glade smiling.
“Shall we turn around?” He stuck his paddle into the Yampa and held it still until Leah once again faced forward. “You did pretty good, but …” and he began to recite instructions again as she crawled shakily back to the floor of the wallowing boat. It was four inches deep in water.
Glade let a soaked Siamese out of the duffel, found what looked like a bicycle-tire pump in another and pumped out the boat while he talked. Goodyear shook water all over them, then settled down with a clinging hold on the duffel pile. An angry tail switched back and forth, making a slapping noise on wet rubber. The cat was even past moaning.
Leah was too cold and wet to talk, too miserable to comment when rain and wind began to lash at them, but she listened now to what the man behind her said.
And from what he said, she reasoned that they had a choice of dying by being sunk, or washed out of the boat, or ripping the boat on a rock and deflating. But they all added up to drowning.
Soon canyon walls, hundreds of feet high, surrounded them, sheer treeless sandstone monsters the color of the river, their sides pitted with holes and deep caverns cut into their bases. They resembled enemy fortresses in the dismal light of a rainy day.
Raindrops pocked the river and made bumpy
ripples bounce under the boat. But it didn’t wash the river’s grit or its sour smell from her clothes and skin and hair.
The exhaustion of shock and fear, and over twenty-four hours of sleeplessness added weight to the heavy depression of certain doom and the cold, wet discomfort.
As they swept on, the river became angrier, noisier with unexpected twists and shoots through narrow cliff walls. They were up on the rim again and again to fight rock obstacles, or keep the boat from being swept into the low-ceilinged caverns at the base of cliffs.
“You’re getting better,” Glade would yell encouragingly. “Good girl,” he would say and then start the endless process of pumping out.
Goodyear crept in and out of his bag, unable to find a dry hiding place.
The shoreline reverted to trees and rocks. Glade suddenly screamed to paddle for shore. Leah dragged a tired body back onto the rim and forced aching arms to pull at his command.
A giant round earth clod bore down on them in a swirl of white water, pushing a wave in front of it that would surely capsize them. The clod towered over the boat and managed somehow to stand on end.
Terror renewed failing strength. She paddled so hard that their boat hit the bank and swung Glade’s end around behind her. With a struggling cat under one arm, he jumped out to anchor them to the shore as the boat bucked with the wave and an entire uprooted tree crashed by so closely she could have touched it with her paddle. The huge root system still embraced a glob of the earth in which the tree had grown … an ancient cottonwood, its trunk at least four feet in diameter … trailing soggy leaves against the pontoon rim … brittle branches splintering and cracking over the river’s din.
They stared after it until it disappeared into the rain and murk ahead.
Leah shuddered. If the Yampa could conquer so massive a tree, what chance did they stand in their puny rubber raft?
They gave the cottonwood time to gain distance on them and paddled back to the current. The rain stopped but the wind was still cold through her wet clothes. They pulled over about noon to a patch of sheltered shoreline and he built a fire that smoked until the wood dried. Goodyear took off through the trees and Leah was sure they would never see him again. She stretched out on the damp earth beside the fire and soon the cat returned to huddle close while Glade heated water on his little stove.