Читать книгу Canyon Sacrifice - Scott Graham - Страница 8

ONE

7 a.m.

A group of middle-aged Japanese tourists gathered in a tight knot twenty feet from the edge of the Grand Canyon, focused on something Chuck Bender could not see. The tourists should have been soaking in the dazzling dawn view from the South Rim of the canyon while spread along the waist-high railing around the Maricopa Point overlook. Instead, they stood huddled together in their matching navy windbreakers, tense and vigilant, cameras forgotten in their hands.

Chuck slowed his jog and peered around the group. The tourists were staring at a couple standing together at the metal railing. The couple—a heavyset Latino man in his late twenties wearing a hooded sweatshirt and baggy jeans, and a woman about the same age, heavier still, in a tent-like sweater and tightly stretched nylon slacks—leaned against the railing at the edge of the canyon, their backs to the tourists. The two were the sort Chuck would have placed far from the park—in a suburban strip mall, maybe, or at least among the hordes of late-rising tourists who would pack the overlook later in the morning. But here they were, among the few who knew to get up early and catch a shuttle out along Rim Drive to take in the enchanting view of the canyon at sunrise.

Intrigued by the transfixed tourists and out-of-place pair, Chuck came to a stop. He stood, catching his breath, in his running sweats and T-shirt, hands on hips, as the man picked up a stray piece of gravel from a depression in the rough sandstone surface of the viewpoint and launched the rock, underhanded, out and over the railing. The woman sniggered as the stone disappeared where the leading edge of the canyon gave way in a series of narrow ledges. The tourists leaned forward as one, intent on the couple.

“Just missed,” the woman said. “Try again.”

The man turned and shot a smug look at the group of tourists. The breeze, coursing up and out of the canyon with the start of the day, swept a strand of black hair across one eye. He threw back his head, returning the strand to its place and revealing a scythe-shaped scar across the left side of his face. The long, ragged slash was pink as a slice of watermelon against his brown skin.

Chuck moved closer as the man retrieved another piece of gravel from the ground and lobbed it over the railing. Chuck halted between the tourists and couple, close enough to see that the man was targeting a chubby ground squirrel perched on a rock ledge a few feet below the edge of the promontory. The squirrel, easily as fat as the couple, was the obvious recipient of chips and candies thrown its way by scores of park visitors. The stone struck the squirrel a glancing blow on its shoulder.

“Got him,” the man proclaimed.

The squirrel jerked at the strike from the small stone. Rather than run off, however, it rose on its hind legs and sniffed at the cool morning air, forelegs aloft, awaiting the food it was accustomed to receiving.

“Check it out, pendejo,” the woman said, smacking the man on his shoulder. “Ain’t goin’ nowhere.” She stepped back and raised her phone, ready to take a picture. “Again,” she demanded.

The man picked up another stone, bigger this time. Behind him, Chuck stooped and picked up a walnut-sized stone of his own.

No longer content to target the ground squirrel with underhanded tosses, the man reared back and let go with a hard, overhand throw. Chuck threw overhand, too, but with much less force. The man’s stone struck the ledge to the right of the squirrel with a solid chock and caromed into the canyon. The sound sent the squirrel scurrying from sight.

Chuck’s stone struck the man squarely in the back. The man’s thick sweatshirt assured the chunk of gravel did no harm, but the stone’s impact caused the man to jump. He whirled and glared at Chuck. The logo of the Isotopes, Albuquerque’s minor-league baseball team, emblazoned the front of his gray sweatshirt. “What you think you’re doing?” he spat.

Chuck eyed the man. “You don’t like having rocks thrown at you?”

The scar on the man’s cheek turned from pink to violet as a storm of emotions crossed his face. Confusion, then dawning recognition clouded by disbelief—then rage. He took a threatening step toward Chuck, who squared his shoulders. The man drew back his fist as he advanced, the woman following.

Chuck steeled himself. He used his long, solo runs these days to burn through “all the stuff eating at him,” as Janelle put it to the girls. His morning runs were a help, but what Chuck really needed was exactly what this guy in the Isotopes sweatshirt offered.

The seconds drew themselves out as the man aimed a roundhouse at Chuck’s nose. Chuck reminded himself not to go for the man’s face in response, to avoid the battered knuckles that would result from such a blow. Acting on instinct and adrenaline, he rose on the balls of his feet, pivoted, and released. He threw his punch straight from his waist, using every bit of his coiled energy, which had built steadily in him for weeks now, despite his daily runs.

Before the man could complete his swing, Chuck buried his fist in the man’s solar plexus, treating the blow as the final, all-out shot at the end of one of his workouts, the man’s gut a stand-in for the heavy bag at the gym. Despite the man’s sweatshirt and layers of fat, Chuck’s blow found its mark.

It was good to know he still had it in him—the ability to defend himself, his honor, ground squirrels, whatever. It had been years since his last fight. He was north of forty, his sandy brown hair thinning, his blue-gray eyes covered by contacts, the pace of his runs slipping ever so slightly year by year. Regular workouts kept him fit, but age and gravity were taking their toll nonetheless, wrinkles pulling downward at the corners of his mouth, waistline gradually losing its sharp definition of youth, wrists aching after each workout from too many shots to the heavy bag over the years.

The man exhaled in a single, drawn-out ooof from the force of Chuck’s blow. The man’s hands dropped to his sides, his legs buckled, and he sank to his knees. Chuck had time to consider a follow-up punch before the woman came at him. Her eyes, framed by thick black makeup, were hot with fury. She lunged over the man and swiped at Chuck’s face. His backward leap wasn’t quick enough to avoid two of her long, red fingernails. They nicked his neck above his shirt, leaving parallel, inch-long cuts just deep enough to draw blood. The woman spun as she completed her swipe, losing her balance and toppling over the downed man. The two formed a tangled heap on the ground.

Chuck savored the sight of the collapsed couple before he returned to Rim Trail to resume his run.

Applause sounded behind him. He’d forgotten all about the Japanese tourists.

Cameras clicked and cheers burst from the group as he departed. The tourists would have a fine story to tell when they got home, wouldn’t they? The American West, a place where even lowly ground squirrels are treated with respect.

He jogged off along the rim of the sunlit canyon, more than ready for the day to come, looking forward to watching Rosie dive into the pancakes he’d promised to cook up for breakfast.