Nowhere to Run (3 page)

The satellite phone was bulky compared to a mobile, and he had to remove his hat to use it because the antenna bumped into the brim. The signal was good, though, and the call went through. Straight to voice mail. He sighed and was slightly annoyed before he remembered Marybeth said she was taking the girls to the last summer concert in the town park. He’d hoped to hear her voice.

When the message prompt beeped, he said, “Hello, ladies. I hope you had a good time tonight. I wish I could have gone with you, even though I don’t like concerts. Right now, I’m high in the mountains, and it’s a beautiful and lonely place. The moon’s so bright I can see fish rising in the lake. A half hour ago, a bull moose walked from the trees into the lake and stood there knee-deep in the water for a while. It’s the only animal I’ve seen, which I find remarkably strange. I watched him take a drink.”

He paused, and felt a little silly for the long message. He rarely talked that much to them in person. He said, “Well, I’m just checking in. Your horses are doing fine and so am I. I miss you all.”

 

HE UNDRESSED AND SLIPPED into his sleeping bag in the tent. He read a few pages of A. B. Guthrie’s
The Big Sky
, which had turned into his camping book, then extinguished his headlamp. He lay awake with his hands beneath his head and stared at the inside of the dark tent fabric. His service weapon was rolled up in the holster in a ball near his head. After an hour, he got up and pulled the bag and the Therm-a-Rest pad out through the tent flap. There were still no clouds and the stars and moon were bright and hard. Out in the lake, the moose had returned and stood in silhouette bordered by blue moon splash.

God
, he thought,
I love this. I love it so
.

And he felt guilty for loving it so much.

THE RHAPSODY ENDED AT NOON THE NEXT DAY. THERE WAS a lone fisherman down there in the small kidney-shaped mountain lake and something about him was wrong.

Joe reined to a stop on the summit and let Buddy and Blue Roanie catch their breath from clambering up the mountainside. The late-summer sun was straight up in the sky, and insects hummed in the wildflowers. He shifted in the saddle to get his bearings and searched the sky for more clouds. The sun had been relentless on the top of Battle Pass. There was little shade because he was on the top of the world, with nothing higher. He longed for an afternoon thunderstorm to cool things down, but the thunderhead had slowed its sky march and the rain column now looked like an afterthought. He hoped for a more serious cloud, and to the south he could see a bank of thunderheads forming at what looked from his elevation like eye level.

But first, he’d need to check out the fisherman.

Joe raised his binoculars and focused in, trying to figure out what there was about the man that had struck him as discordant. Several things popped up. The first was that although the hundreds of small mountain lakes in Sierra Madre had fish, the high-country cirques weren’t noted for great angling. Big fish were to be had in the low country, in the legendary blue-ribbon trout waters of the Encampment and North Platte rivers of the eastern slope or the Little Snake on the western slope. Up here, with its long violent winters and achingly short summers, the trout were stunted because the ice-off time was brief. Although today it was a beautiful day, the weather could turn within minutes. Snow was likely any month of the summer. While hikers might catch a small trout or two for dinner along the trail, as he had, the area was not a destination fishing location worth two or three days of hard hike to access.

Second, the fisherman wasn’t dressed or equipped like a modern angler. The man—who at the distance looked very tall and rangy—was wading in filthy denim jeans, an oversized red plaid shirt with big checks, and a white slouch hat pulled low over his eyes. No waders, no fishing vest, no net. And no horse, tent, or camp, from what Joe could see. In these days of high-tech gear and clothing that wicked away moisture and weighed practically nothing, it was extremely unusual to see such a throwback outfit.

He put away the glasses, clicked his tongue, and started down toward the lake. Leather creaked from his saddles, and horseshoes struck stones. Blue Roanie snorted. He was making plenty of noise, but the fisherman appeared not to have seen or heard him. In a place as big and empty and lonely as this, the fisherman’s lack of acknowledgment was all wrong and made a statement in itself.

As he walked his animals down to the lake, Joe untied the leather thong that secured his shotgun in his saddle scabbard.

Joe had often considered the fact that, for Western game wardens, unlike even for urban cops in America’s toughest inner cities, nearly every human being he encountered was armed. To make matters even dicier, it was rare when he could call for backup. This appeared to be one of those encounters where he’d be completely on his own, the only things on his side being his wits, his weapons, and the game and fish regulations of the State of Wyoming.

Fat-bodied marmots scattered across the rubble in front of him as he descended toward the lake. They took cover and peeked at him from the gray scree.
What do they know that I don’t?
Joe wondered.

 

“HELLO,” JOE CALLED OUT as he approached the cirque lake from the other side of the fisherman. “How’s the fishing?”

His voice echoed around in the small basin until it was swallowed up.

“Excuse me, sir. I need to talk to you for a minute and check your fishing license and habitat stamp.”

No response.

The fisherman cast, waited a moment for his lure to settle under the surface of the water, then reeled in. The man was a spin-fishing artist, and his lure flicked out like a snake’s tongue.
Cast. Pause. Reel. Cast. Pause. Reel.

Joe thought,
Either he’s deaf and blind, or has an inhuman power of concentration, or he’s ignoring me, pretending I’ll just get spooked and give up and go away.

As a courtesy and for his own protection, Joe never came at a hunter or fisherman head-on. He had learned to skirt them, to approach from an angle. Which he did now, walking his horses around the shore, keeping the fisherman firmly in his peripheral vision. Out of sight from the fisherman, Joe let his right hand slip down along his thigh until it was inches from his shotgun.

Interaction with others was different in the mountains than it was in town. Where two people may simply pass each other on the street with no more than a glance and a nod, in the wilderness people drew to each other the same way animals of the same species instinctively sought each other out. Information was exchanged—weather, trail conditions, hazards ahead. In Joe’s experience, when a man didn’t want to talk, something was up and it was rarely good. Joe was obviously a game warden, but the fisherman didn’t acknowledge the fact, which was disconcerting. It was as if the man thought Joe had no right to be there. And Joe knew that with each passing minute the fisherman chose not to acknowledge him, he was delving further and further into unknown and dangerous territory.

As Joe rode closer, he could see the fisherman was armed, as he’d suspected. Tucked into the man’s belt was a long-barreled Ruger Mark III .22 semiautomatic pistol. Joe knew it to be an excellent gun, and he’d seen hundreds owned by hunters and ranchers over the years. It was rugged and simple, and it was often used to administer a kill shot to a wounded animal.

The tip of the fisherman’s pole jerked down and the man deftly set the hook and reeled in a feisty twelve-inch rainbow trout. The sun danced off the colors of the trout’s belly and back as the fisherman raised it from the water, worked the treble-hook lure out of its mouth, and studied it carefully, turning it over in his hands. Then he bent over and released the fish. He cast again, hooked up just as quickly, and reeled in a trout of the same size and color. After inspecting it, he bit it savagely behind its head to kill it. He spat the mouthful of meat into the water near his feet and slipped the fish into the bulging wet fanny pack behind him. Joe looked at the pack—there were
a lot
of dead fish in it.

“Why did you release the first one and keep the second?” Joe asked. “They looked like the same fish.”

The man grunted as if insulted, “Not up close, they didn’t. The one I kept had a nick on its tailfin. The one I threw back was perfect. The perfect ones go free.” He spoke in a hard, flat, nasal tone. The accent was upper Midwest, Joe thought. Maybe even Canadian.

Joe was puzzled. “How many imperfect fish do you have there?” Joe asked. He was now around the lake and behind and to the side of the fisherman. “The legal limit is six. Too many to my mind, but that’s the law. It looks like you may have more than that in your possession.”

The fisherman paused silently in the lake, his wide back to Joe. He seemed to be thinking, planning a move or a response. Joe felt the now-familiar shiver roll through him despite the heat. It was as if they were the only two humans on earth and something of significance was bound to happen.

Finally, the man said, “I lost count. Maybe ten.”

“That’s a violation. Tell me, are you a bow hunter?” Joe asked. “I’m wondering about an arrow I found stuck in a tree earlier today.”

The fisherman shrugged. Not a yes, not a no. More like,
I’m not sure I want to answer
.

“Do you know anything about an elk that was butchered up in a basin a few miles from here? A seven-point bull? It happened a week ago. The hunters who wounded it tracked it down but someone had harvested all the meat by the time they found the carcass. Would you know anything about that?”

“Why you asking me?”

“Because you’re the only living human being I’ve seen in two days.”

The man coughed up phlegm and spat a ball of it over his shoulder. It floated and bobbed on the surface of the water. “I don’t know nothing about no elk.”

“The elk was imperfect,” Joe said. “It was bleeding out and probably limping.”

“For the life of me, I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

“I need to see your license,” Joe said.

“Ain’t got it on me,” the man said, finally, still not turning around. “Might be in my bag.”

Joe turned in the saddle and saw a weathered canvas daypack hung from a broken branch on the side of a pine tree. He’d missed it earlier. He looked for a bow and quiver of homemade arrows. Nope.

“Mind if I look in it?”

The fisherman shrugged again.

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes. But while you look, I’m gonna keep fishing.”

“Suit yourself,” Joe said.

The fisherman mumbled something low and incomprehensible.

Joe said, “Come again?”

The man said, “I’m willing to let this go if you’ll just turn your horses around and ride back the way you came. ’Cause if you start messing with me, well . . .”

“What?”

“Well, it may not turn out too good.”

Joe said, “Are you threatening me?”

“Nope. Just statin’ a fact. Like sayin’ the sky is blue. You got a choice, is what I’m sayin’.”

Joe said, “I’m choosing to check your license. It’s my job.”

The fisherman shook his head slowly, as if to say,
What happens now is on you.

The rod flicked out again, but the lure shot out to the side toward Joe, who saw it flashing through the air. He flinched and closed his eyes and felt the lure smack hard into his shoulder. The treble hooks bit into the loose fabric of his sleeve but somehow missed the skin.

“Damn,” the fisherman said.

“Damn is right,” Joe said, shaken. “You hooked me.”

“I fouled the cast, I guess,” the man said.

“Seemed deliberate to me,” Joe said, reaching across his body and trying to work the lure free. The barbs were pulled through the fabric and he ended up tearing his sleeve getting the lure out.

“Maybe if you’d stay clear of my casting lane,” the fisherman said flatly, reeling in. Not a hint of apology or remorse.

Joe dismounted but never took his eyes off the fisherman in the water. He fought an impulse to charge out into the lake and take the man down. He doubted the miscast was an accident, but there was no way he could prove it, and he swallowed his anger. He led his horse over to the tree, tied him up, and took the bag down. There were very few items in it, and Joe rooted through them looking for a license. In the bag was a knife in a sheath, some string, matches, a box of crackers, a battered journal, a pink elastic iPod holder designed to be worn on an arm but no iPod, an empty water bottle, and half a Bible—Old Testament only. It looked as if the New Testament had been torn away.

“I don’t see a license,” Joe said, stealing a look at the journal while the fisherman kept his back to him. There were hundreds of short entries made in a tiny crimped hand. Joe read a few of them and noted the dates went back to March. He felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. Was it possible this man had been in the mountains for
six
months?

“Don’t be reading my work,” the fisherman said.

On a smudged card inside the Bible was a note: FOR CALEB ON HIS 14TH BIRTHDAY FROM AUNT ELAINE.

“Are you Caleb?” Joe asked.

Pause. “Yeah.”

“Got a last name?”

“Yeah.”

Joe waited a beat and the man said nothing. “So, what is it?”

“Grimmengruber.”

“What?”

“Grimmengruber. Most people just say ‘Grim’ cause they can’t pronounce it.”

“Who is Camish?” Joe asked. “I keep seeing that name in this journal.”

“I told you not to read it,” Caleb Grimmengruber said, displaying a flash of impatience.

“I was looking for your license,” Joe said. “I can’t find it. So who is Camish?”

Caleb sighed. “My brother.”