Читать книгу Freefall - Jill Sorenson - Страница 10

CHAPTER THREE

JAVIER DEL NORTE reached the campsite at the edge of the river sometime after dawn.

He was thirsty, and hungry, and tired. His shirt had stains and his slacks were ruined. His feet were bleeding inside his Ferragamo loafers, he just knew it.

Luckily for him, Americans on vacation were a trustworthy lot. They left all sorts of clothing and supplies out in the open while camping. He didn’t understand why successful people with luxury vehicles would choose to sleep on dirt or torture themselves physically in their free time, but their masochism wasn’t his problem. California culture was ineffable. He’d accepted that and moved on long ago.

His main concern was getting out of this wilderness without detection. And hopefully without having to kill anyone else.

Shoving the items he’d scalped into a stolen backpack, he headed toward the public restrooms to change. Near the men’s entrance, he noticed a door for a utility closet. Unlocked, of course. Because tree huggers didn’t steal toilet paper. He reached inside, helping himself to bleach, hydrogen peroxide and Band-Aids.

In the men’s room, he studied his reflection. His once-white shirt was dotted with blood and bits of gore. Teeth fragments, perhaps. Removing it with a grimace, he tossed the garment into the sink and uncapped the hydrogen peroxide.

With heavy regret, for his jet-black hair was striking, he leaned forward and poured the bottle over his head. The liquid burned his nostrils and dripped down his chin, but he gave himself a good dousing, keeping his eyes shut tight. When he couldn’t stand the sting anymore, he rinsed his hair and studied the effect.

Awful.

The rusty bronze color didn’t look natural, or attractive, but it was different. With sunglasses on, he might be unrecognizable. Satisfied, he took off his pants, socks and shoes, piling them in the sink. He added bleach. While he was standing there in his boxer briefs, soaking his bloodstained clothes, another man came in to use the facilities. He was young and spot-faced, his eyes puffy. Mumbling hello, he disappeared into the first stall.

Retching sounds emanated from the confined space.

Javier shook his head in disgust. He fantasized about shooting the sick camper to put him out of his misery. There wasn’t a shower at this imbecilic place, so he washed with cold tap water and patted himself dry with rough paper towels. It was impossible to eliminate every spec of evidence, so he didn’t bother trying. After rinsing his wet clothes, he stuffed them in the trash can.

The pack he’d stolen contained several stray clothing items. He donned a gray V-neck T-shirt and low-slung plaid shorts, lamenting the owner’s bad taste. The shirt was too snug and the shorts too loose, but at least they were clean. He sat down on a wooden bench to bandage the blisters on his feet.

Two more young men walked into the restroom, glancing in his direction. He froze, hoping they weren’t the campers he’d just robbed.

Dismissing Javier, the first guy banged on the bathroom stall. “Dude, pull it together. We’re going to be late for the trip.”

The sick man vomited again.

His friends laughed at the noise, goofing around and punching each other.

“Just leave without me.”

“No way, dickhead! I can’t get a refund if you cancel.”

“I’ll pay you back,” he groaned.

“Stop being such a pussy. We’re all hungover.”

“It’s the altitude.”

“You’ll feel better on the raft.”

The man started dry-heaving, and his friends continued to ridicule him.

Javier almost felt sorry for the poor bastard. There was nothing more emasculating than puking your guts out in a public toilet. He’d done it himself, several years ago, after drowning his sorrows at Hector Gonzales’s bachelor party. The next day Hector had married the woman Javier loved.

Wincing at the memory, he put on a pair of sturdy athletic socks and black canvas tennis shoes that were only half a size too large. The backpack also boasted a hat. A beanie, he believed it was called. Tugging it over his wet hair, he walked outside, bypassing the foolish young men. An area map was posted on an information board next to the restrooms. Warnings about bears and safety instructions appeared in several languages.

He studied the map, which indicated that he was at the Kaweah Campsite in Sierra National Park. Only one road led in and out of the park. Both the entrance and the exit were more than thirty miles away.

That was a problem.

Hitchhiking was common in Venezuela, where he was born, and in many of the other countries he’d visited. Here in the U.S., it was rare enough to attract the attention of the authorities. He needed another mode of transportation. He could continue walking, pay for a ride or steal a car. But what if the park exits were being monitored? Law enforcement officials might know about the crash already. His boss would definitely be looking for him.

A man in Javier’s profession couldn’t leave behind a million dollars’ worth of drugs—and a dead pilot—without consequences.

On the right side of the map, there was an advertisement for Kaweah Whitewater Adventures. A blue line marked Kaweah Campsite as the launch point. The tour stretched past the borders of the park, ending at Moraine Lake.

The river was another exit.

While he considered his options, the hecklers walked out of the men’s room. They hadn’t convinced their friend to come along. Javier gave them another quick once-over, recognizing the type. After leaving Venezuela, he’d honed his English in Costa Rica, which was popular with surfers and potheads.

“You guys going on the whitewater trip?” Javier asked.

“Yep.”

“I’ve always wanted to try that,” he said, falling into step beside them. One of the guys had short, spiky blond hair. The other had long brown hair like Jesus. Both appeared strong, probably from athletic pursuits, rather than hard labor. “How do I sign up?”

“You have to reserve in advance.”

“Oh.”

The longhair exchanged a shrewd glance with his buddy. “We could bring you along if you have enough cash.”

“How much?”

“Four hundred. It’s a three-day trip.”

Javier had enough money, but he didn’t want to appear overeager. He also suspected them of trying to hustle him. Who would pay so much money to get abused by a river? “I’ve got two fifty,” he said, lowering his voice. “And an ounce of weed.”

That perked them up. “What kind?”

“Chronic.”

The guys smiled at each other. “Let’s see it.”

Javier glanced around to make sure they were alone before showing his stash. Neither the pot nor the cash belonged to him, so it was no loss. The deal suited his acquaintances just fine. They became very friendly all of a sudden.

“I’m Caleb,” the long-haired guy said. “This is Ted.”

Javier shook their hands. “Jay Norton.”

Caleb and Ted debated over smoking a bowl right then and there, but decided against it because they were already late. Javier breathed a sigh of relief. He needed to stay alert, not get stoned with a couple of pendejos.

The rafting group was supposed to meet in the camp parking lot at eight. They hurried down the dirt road as a dark green sport utility van with Kaweah Adventures printed on the side was about to pull away.

“Hey,” Caleb yelled, waving his arms. “Wait up!”

The three of them jogged to the vehicle. “You just made it,” the driver said. “Hop in.”

Javier took off his backpack and climbed inside. The backseat was occupied by two short-haired women in their forties. A cute blonde sat in the middle. There was space available beside her, or next to the driver.

“Hello,” he said, choosing the blonde. “I’m Jay.”

She fluttered her lashes. “Faith.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” he said, shaking her hand.

Although he wanted to keep staring at her, because she was beautiful, he introduced himself to the women in back and nodded hello to the driver. When infiltrating a group, it was important to adopt their customs. Outdoor lovers were gregarious. They liked to hug strangers and bond with nature. He couldn’t be standoffish.

Caleb and Ted struck up a lively conversation, using a lot of terms Javier didn’t understand. Class Five, portage, PFDs.

He turned to the girl beside him, studying her with interest. She was wearing long shorts, a tank top and hiking boots. Her platinum-streaked hair was braided into two sections. She had a demure, fresh-scrubbed look, but she wasn’t a teenager. Her brown eyes twinkled with a sexy sort of mischief.

While he sized her up, she did the same to him.

Coño de la madre. If all female campers were this young and hot, he’d been missing out. “Faith,” he said, liking her name. “Where are you from?”

“L.A.”

City of angels. “You’re together?” he asked, indicating the women in back.

“No, I’m alone. My sister was supposed to come along, but she got called into work.”

“Sorry to hear it.”

She arched a brow. “You don’t look sorry.”

He wiped the grin off his face. “Is this your first time rafting?”

“Yes.”

“Mine, too.”

“Really? I thought this route was for experts.”

“Is it?” He glanced behind him for confirmation. “Are you ladies experts?”

“We’ve been around a few rivers,” the redhead said. Her name was Paula.

“Don’t worry,” Caleb said. “Ted and I have done some sixes and lived to tell the tale.” He launched into a boastful account of their accomplishments. Javier wasn’t impressed, but he believed that the guys knew how to paddle. Whether they stayed sober enough to do so safely was another question.

Faith didn’t seem as enthusiastic about rafting as the others. Maybe she was nervous. Javier wanted to promise he’d look out for her, which was strange. If anything, his presence in the group put everyone at risk.

And the less he said the better. He’d impersonated an American before and it wasn’t as easy as it seemed. His English was almost perfect, and he could mimic a Californian accent. He knew U.S. history. But there were gaps in his education. TV shows he hadn’t watched, rock stars he didn’t know, movies he’d never heard of.

Cultural references would trip him up every time.

They drove down a bumpy dirt road to an area called the put-in. As he climbed out of the van with Faith, he drew in a deep breath, amazed by the size of the river. At the campsite, the Kaweah had been a bubbling brook. This monster was immense, full of jagged rocks, with angry froth churning down the center.

Faith made a noise of distress at the sight.

“Don’t worry,” he blurted.

“Why not?”

“I’ll take care of you.”

She lifted her gaze from the water. “How?”

“I’m an excellent swimmer.” He’d given surf lessons to tourists in Costa Rica. That had been a sweet gig. He should have stayed.

“You look strong,” she said, her eyes trailing down his body.

Well, yeah. Being physically intimidating was part of his job. Also, beating the hell out of people.

They spent the next hour going over safety rules and rafting techniques. Javier paid close attention, memorizing much of the information. Caleb and Ted invited him for a smoke break, which he declined. He didn’t want to leave Faith’s side. His presence seemed to comfort her. She listened to the guide carefully, partnering with Javier to practice paddling. He did his best to look like a guileless outdoorsman. Every few minutes, he glanced up at the sky, searching for Gonzales’s helicopter.

Soon they’d be coming for him.

He hadn’t expected there to be women on this trip, and he felt conflicted about staying. On the one hand, traveling coed was a good cover. He enjoyed female company and he’d gone too long without it. On the other hand, he was running for his life. He’d waited months for an opportunity to break free. He’d shot and killed the last man who tried to stop him. If he had to do the same to Caleb or Ted, he wouldn’t hesitate.

Hurting women didn’t sit well with him, though.

That was why he’d never go back with Gonzales. He was going to escape or die trying. God help anyone who got in his way.

“You smell like peroxide,” Faith said, interrupting his thoughts.

Another problem with women: they were intuitive and observant. He shouldn’t have been standing so close to her. By gazing at her appreciatively and acting flirtatious, he’d invited her to ask him personal questions.

Denying the obvious was no use, so he tugged the beanie off his head and braced himself. “How bad is it?”

“Pretty bad.”

Stupidly, he regretted the dye job. He wanted her to think him handsome.

“Did you lose a bet?”

“Yeah. Sort of.”

She reached up to touch his hair, rubbing a few strands between her fingertips. He could see down the front of her tank top, which was disconcerting. “I could fix it,” she said, dropping her hand. “I’m a hairdresser.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Color’s my specialty. I do mine.”

He evaluated her pretty brown eyes and honeyed skin tone. “You’re not a natural blonde?”

She laughed, swatting him on the shoulder. “That’s for me to know.”

The guide presented a pair of life jackets, dispelling the mood. Any clothes they wanted to stay dry had to be placed in waterproof sacks. Javier removed his T-shirt, watching Faith pull her tank top over her head.

Coño.

Before she put on her life jacket, he got an eyeful of her breasts, covered by little scraps of fabric. They looked real. He wasn’t the type of man who cared either way, but he’d seen so many strippers lately that her subtle curves seemed exotic in comparison.

Tearing his gaze away, he shoved his T-shirt into his backpack and placed it in the plastic. His shorts weren’t for swimming, but they’d have to suffice. She stared at his bare chest, her lips curving into a smile.

Bring on the cold water. He needed it.

* * *

WHEN SAM PUT his arm around her, Hope buried her face in his shirt, shuddering.

He was a jerk, but his strength felt reassuring. She’d almost peed her pants a second ago. His heartbeat thumped against her cheek, alive, alive, alive.

“Any chance this was self-inflicted?”

She forced herself to move away from him and take a better look inside the cockpit. There was a handgun on the seat next to the pilot, and shells from two different weapons. It looked like a close-range gunfight. “No.”

Sam turned his back on the wreckage with a grimace, keeping his distance while she photographed the scene. Or maybe he was keeping watch. She noticed his eyes scanning the mountains and trees nearby.

There were few clues inside the fuselage. She didn’t see any illegal cargo or formal identification. From what she could surmise, the 9 mm next to the pilot wasn’t responsible for his death. He’d returned fire with his killer. She took pictures of the weapon and a pair of bullet holes on the opposite side of the fuselage.

She was about to report to headquarters when static buzzed over the plane’s radio. Her heart seized at the sound of a man’s voice. “Del Norte, come in. Ya, contesta.”

Hope rushed forward to pick up the receiver. Swallowing hard, she pressed the button to speak. “This is Ranger Banning of Sierra National Park. I need some information about this aircraft and pilot, over.”

The man ended the communication.

She replaced the receiver, her mouth dry. Careful not to touch anything else, she exited the fuselage.

“What was that?” Sam asked.

“Someone called on the plane’s radio. When I answered, they hung up.”

“You answered?”

“Yes.”

He thrust a hand through his short hair. “Fuck!”

“What?”

“I don’t like this. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

She wasn’t a big fan of the situation, either. There had never been a murder at Angel Wings. It could be days before a thorough investigation was organized. The logistics of processing a crime scene on a remote mountaintop were dizzying.

They also had a killer to find. He must have left the area on foot.

She walked away from the plane, examining their surroundings. A hiking trail led down the backside of the mountain and ended at the Kaweah River Campsite. Where she’d dropped off Faith this morning.

“I have to go after him.”

He gaped at her in disbelief. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m dead serious,” she said.

“You’re not a homicide detective.”

“No, but I have to protect the park’s visitors, and it’s my job to investigate any crimes committed here.”

“Alone?”

She frowned at his incredulous tone. Tracking a single assailant by herself wasn’t against procedure. Park rangers often worked solo, especially in the backcountry. But it was unorthodox, and perhaps unwise, to hunt down a murderer without help. “He’s got to be headed for the Kaweah. Faith is there.”

“Who’s Faith?”

“My sister.”

Hope would do anything for Faith. She loved her with the fierce protectiveness of an older sibling and the deep loyalty of a best friend. Faith had always meant the world to her, but their connection had become even stronger after a heartbreaking incident in her past. Hope had lost someone precious to her, and she’d vowed never to let it happen again.

Sam swore under his breath. There was no way he could talk Hope out of pursuing the suspect. “You can’t make it to the river before dark. Let’s rappel down, go back to Mineral King and call for help.”

She shook her head, stubborn. “I have three more hours of daylight. I won’t waste it by traveling backward.”

“You can drive to the Kaweah camp faster!”

That was true, but Faith wasn’t at the campsite. She was rafting down a river that intersected the killer’s path. “I might not be able to pick up his trail from there. I know I can track it from here.”

“You should wait for backup.”

She didn’t have time to argue, so she radioed Dispatch and relayed the details. “Send a couple of rangers to look for any suspicious activity at Kaweah. We need to contact the sheriff’s department, monitor the exits and put all park employees on alert.”

The dispatcher repeated her instructions and signed off. Although the ground was too dry and rocky for footprints, Hope noticed signs of a disturbance. “Drag marks,” she said to Sam, following them down the trail. They led to a pair of boulders about a hundred feet away. There was a crack between them large enough to hide another body.

While Sam watched her, his face taut as a bowstring, she removed her gun from the waistband of her pants.

In her five years as a ranger, she’d drawn her weapon only a handful of times. She’d aimed it once, last summer. A drunken idiot was shooting at marmots near the Giant Forest Campsite. When she’d shouted a warning for him to put down the gun, he’d swung around to face her, pointing his .38 at her chest. She’d damn near fired on reflex.

Incidents like that were rare, however. Most of the park’s visitors were law-abiding, nature-loving people. Guns were allowed inside park boundaries, but discharging a firearm was strictly prohibited.

That didn’t mean her job wasn’t dangerous. Hope was more likely to be assaulted in the line of duty than an FBI agent. Rangers stationed at the parks along the Mexican border were targeted by drug cartels, but the Sierras had their share of narcotics-related crime, as well. Secret marijuana fields, guarded by armed men, had become increasingly common. These brazen growers used federal land for their crops.

“This is Ranger Banning of Sierra National Park,” she called out, holding her weapon at her side. “Anyone there?”

Wind skimmed across the mountain. The sun was still bright, but the temperature had dropped and the air felt cooler. Hope shivered in her damp tank top. Gesturing for Sam to stay back, she crept forward, pointing her gun at the rocks. A jumble of dark shapes came into view. Her eyes struggled to identify a human form and failed.

Duffel bags. She was looking at a pile of duffel bags.

Hope lowered her weapon, releasing a slow breath. She made sure the safety was on and replaced it in her waistband. When she stepped close enough to reach between the boulders, Sam was right there beside her.

The duffel bag she removed was large and heavy. She unzipped it, revealing what appeared to be high-grade marijuana. It was in loose brick form, lightly compressed and wrapped in plastic to disguise the skunky odor.

Sam let out a low whistle.

Hope looked in another bag and found the exact same contents. Ten bags, each weighing about forty pounds, equaled...a whole lot of drugs. It was probably local. Sierra’s finest had a street value of about five thousand dollars per pound. She estimated the pot’s worth at over a million dollars.

“Someone will be looking for this,” he said.

“Yes.”

“All the more reason to go back to Mineral King.”

Hope agreed that the illegal cargo escalated the danger. Protecting park visitors—Faith included—was imperative. If she didn’t go after the suspect and someone got hurt, she’d be devastated.

Saying nothing, she photographed the evidence and replaced it. When she was finished, she updated Dispatch and requested a radio communication with Ron Laramie, the rafting guide. He wouldn’t be answering calls while on the river, but he was supposed to check in after the group stopped to camp.

She prayed for good news.

“I’m going to Kaweah,” she said to Sam, shrugging out of her pack. “You can head back to Mineral King. Just give me the overnight gear before you leave.”

He frowned at the trail that led down the mountain. How different he seemed from the man she’d met at Long Pine Lodge. That night, he’d been relaxed and charming. She’d known he was Sam Rutherford, reclusive Olympic champion, but he hadn’t acted arrogant or self-important. They’d laughed together and spoken of inconsequential things. She’d been fascinated by him. And wildly attracted.

But Jekyll had turned into Hyde after he’d gotten what he wanted. She still remembered waiting outside in the snow for a cab. Big, fat snowflakes melting in her hair. Hot tears sliding down her face.

And when she’d offered to forget about it, he’d flinched as if the suggestion pained him. What was his problem?

Other than making the foolish decision to go home with a man she didn’t know well, she’d done nothing wrong. She wasn’t in the habit of sleeping with strangers. It was a week before the holidays; she’d been tipsy and lonely.

Today, he was more Hyde than Jekyll. She understood that he considered their one-night stand a mistake, and that he didn’t want to be reminded of his boorish behavior. He felt so uneasy around her that it threw off his climbing rhythm. He’d appeared anxious on an ascent he could have done blindfolded.

Or at night. Without ropes.

To be fair, his current duress was probably related to the crime scene, not her. He couldn’t wait to get out of here.

“No,” he said flatly.

“No?”

“I’m not giving you the gear. Let’s go.”

“I’m going that way.” She pointed at the footpath.

“You’ll freeze tonight.”

“I have a jacket and a safety blanket in my pack.”

He made a skeptical sound. Even in the summer, temperatures at the higher altitudes often dropped below thirty degrees, and the weather could change at a moment’s notice. If a storm blew in, she’d be screwed.

“As long as I keep walking, I’ll be fine.”

“You can’t track in the dark.”

Her temper flared. Tamping it down, she forced a smile. “Then I’ll build a shelter and make a fire. I don’t need the extra gear.”

A muscle in his jaw flexed.

“I’m leaving either way, so you might as well give it to me.”

“No.”

She realized that he wasn’t going to budge. Annoyed with his attempt to deter her, she put on her backpack and started walking. He was lucky she didn’t commandeer the tent and sleeping bag at gunpoint. Bastard.

“Goddamn it,” he said, following her down the mountain.

She whirled to face him. “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like? I’m coming with you.”