Читать книгу Cordi O'Callaghan Mysteries 4-Book Bundle - Suzanne F. Kingsmill - Страница 6

“Ryan! Ryan!” My voice came out sounding like the croaking rasp of a cricket. Why is it that when you really need your voice it so often betrays you?

Ryan was lying slumped against the tree where I’d left him sound asleep, months ago it seemed.

“Ryan!” This time I put more force behind my voice but it still croaked, so I leaned over and grabbed his shoulder, the nausea rising again inside me so that I let go quickly and straightened up.

Ryan grunted and slowly propped himself up on one arm and looked at me, his eyes taking a long time to focus. Suddenly he sat up and rubbed them as if to clear away an unpleasant vision, and then he looked at me again.

“What’s up, Cordi? Jesus, you look awful,” he said. “What’s wrong? What’s the matter?”

I couldn’t seem to find any words that would work. My tongue felt thick and fuzzy and trying to make it perform balletic manoeuvres with words seemed impossible.

“What’s wrong?” Ryan asked in growing alarm. He stood up, gripped me by the shoulders. Nothing like a concerned brother to loosen my tongue.

“There’s a dead guy just off the portage trail, or what’s left of him,” I squawked. “Near where you took the photo.”

“‘Dead guy,’ as in human dead guy?”

I nodded. Ryan didn’t say anything at all, just reached out instinctively and hugged me.

“Or dead woman,” I added. “The animals have got at the body. There’s not much left to recognize,” I said into his armpit. “I don’t even know if it’s male or female it’s all so bloated and covered in grubs and twigs.”

When Ryan didn’t respond I pulled away and looked at him. He just stood there looking dumbly back at me, his jaw hanging loose, his eyebrows raised in an I-hear-you-but-I-don’t-want-to expression that ordinarily would have made me laugh.

“Who is it? What was he doing around here?” said Ryan.

“I found a food pack hauled up between two trees. It was crawling with flies.” I waited for some reaction, concentrating on my words to keep the images from crowding out my tenuous self-control.

“Flies on the food pack?” he finally asked.

“Yeah. Strange, isn’t it?”

“Who’d let food rot?”

“That’s what I thought,” I said, glad to find my voice returning to normal. “There’s a campsite over there. Two tents, one’s a mess tent and the other is for sleeping. Only there was no sign that anybody had been around for at least a few days. There’s a canoe hauled up and battered by the wind and it looks abandoned. But it’s all mostly so neat and tidy, so I looked inside the tent.”

I brushed a pine needle off my arm and watched it fall to the ground as I tried to obliterate the vision of the body before I continued.

“But there was nobody in there. No sign of the owner. So I came back and the smell hit me.”

“You think it’s the guy from the campsite?” When I didn’t answer he said, “Where is it? We’ll have to report this.”

“It’s down the path near where we picked up our grubs. It’s in at least two pieces along the trail and …” I suppressed a gag and pointed back the way I had come.

Ryan rallied at this. “Oh gross, Cordi, don’t tell me we took grubs off a dead body, a dead human body …”

When I didn’t answer Ryan stared at me and raised his hairy eyebrows.

“Better lead the way.”

“You sure you want to see this?” I said.

“You did.”

“Yeah, but I had no choice. I practically tripped over it. It’s not a pretty sight.”

He shrugged. “Maybe there’s a photo op here for the local paper. I owe them a favour.”

It was my turn to roll my eyes.

“And you call me gross. No paper in their right mind would print a photo of this unless they wanted to scare their readers away.”

“For God’s sake, Cordi, I didn’t mean taking pictures of the body. I was thinking of some pictures of the campsite, lonely, deserted. Imagine the pathos you could build up. And I could get a good writer to write the text: an article about camp safety and the dangers of camping alone. It could be very powerful as long as the writer doesn’t go all gushy and sentimental, and if we can find out how he died.”

I had to admit that the campsite did look sad and lonely and it would make a powerful picture, especially knowing what lay in the bushes this side of it.

We picked up our gear and I led the way. We walked back along the portage trail to where we had collected the grubs. Ryan grimaced at what we’d thought was part of a coon as I located the partly overgrown trail that led to where part of the torso lay half concealed in pine needles.

“Jesus,” whispered Ryan. “What the hell happened to the guy? He looks as though he’s been ripped to shreds.”

“He has. By scavengers.”

“Oh gross, Cor.” Ryan shivered. I heard the tremble in his voice and watched his face turn a paler shade of white as he struggled to keep his breakfast down. He took two deep breaths and turned away from the body. I felt somehow relieved that he was handling it as badly as I had and then felt ashamed of my thoughts.

“How’d the guy die?”

“Maybe he had a heart attack or hurt himself and couldn’t get to help,” I said, not wanting to say what was in both our minds. Of course, Ryan had no such qualms.

“You think it was a bear?” he asked, as he struggled with his pack.

Ryan’s voice quavered on the word bear. Ryan wasn’t afraid of much, but he did have a pathological fear of bears. He’d once blasted a poor little mouse with the flare gun outside our tent when we were kids, thinking it was a bear. After all the screaming and yelling in the dark had died down he promised our parents he’d never use a flare gun again. He now uses pepper spray, and I watched as he struggled to get it out of his pack.

“I’m getting the hell out of here,” said Ryan as he moved away from the body, shook the can of pepper spray, and checked the nozzle. Not for the first time I wondered what would happen if the wind changed direction just after he used it, or the spray bounced off the bear and back at us. Three blinded creatures lashing out in panic. Charming thought. Perhaps a flare gun would be better after all. What a team we made. I was afraid of rapids and we were both afraid of bears. So why wasn’t I afraid now?

We figured our best bet to get help and still get out of the bush by nightfall was to portage our stuff and then go report the discovery of the body. The topographical map showed a lumber road near the end of the portage. We hoped we could flag down a lumber truck or something. The portage got progressively worse, with large sections of mud and swamp in the lower stretches of the trail. The rain in the last few nights had made everything a boggy, mucky mess. There were no recent signs that anyone had passed this way before us, and I wondered if the last person to travel this trail now lay dead by its side. At the end of the portage we dumped our gear and I emptied the specimens from my collection pack to lighten the load. It was pure habit. I never went anywhere without a collecting pack. You never knew what you might find.

“Cordi, why not just leave it this time? We don’t have time to collect with a wild bear out there.”

I swung the pack over one shoulder and, with Ryan twitching and jerking like a marionette on the lookout for bears, we retraced our steps back over the portage to get the canoe.

It still lay peacefully in the water, safely tied bow and stern to some small boulders where the cliff that soared above had given up some of its weight.

“You take the bow. I’ll get the stern,” I said above the din of the rapids. I untangled and untied my line and, holding tight to keep the canoe near the ledge, bent down and grabbed the gunnel.

Ryan was still struggling with the bowline. The canoe still had some water in it. We hadn’t done a good job of bailing after the last set of rapids. When we pulled it out of the water it would all come my way first.

“Hang on,” I said, as Ryan prepared to hoist it out. “No way I’m going to get soaked.”

I grabbed hold of the rock ledge with one hand and stepped into the canoe, letting the water sluice by my feet to the stern. The bailer was behind the stern seat where my bug collection was strapped and I reached back with my free hand, retrieved the bailer, and began to bail.

Ryan squatted down and held on to the gunnel amidships to steady her.

Suddenly I heard a sharp intake of breath and looked up to see Ryan reaching his free hand into a crevice among the rocks. “Would you take a look at this?”

When he pulled his hand out he was clutching a roll of film. It must have fallen out when we’d taken the packs out of the canoe. I thought of the hours of patience represented by that roll of film. He must have spent twenty to thirty hours stalking things or waiting patiently in a blind. I mentally went through all the pictures he’d taken, wondering how many of the really good ones he had almost lost. Good pictures were worth a lot of money. He had one he had sold over a hundred times, grossing twenty thousand bucks.

How the hell could he be so careless? As I went back to bailing, an osprey called out a short sharp squawk of alarm, and I looked up to see it veering away from the cliff that soared straight up above the rocky ledge where we’d moored the canoe. There was a blur of something purple on the clifftop, and as I looked I saw the cliff move; I watched as if in a trance as a boulder the size of a basketball tumbled down toward us against the cold blue sky and the unforgiving granite of the cliff face.

“Above you! Look out!” I yelled at Ryan, shaking myself out of the confusion of what I thought I had seen.

He looked up in alarm, twisting his body at the last moment, his face grimacing as the boulder glanced off his right shoulder. He slipped on the rocky ledge and fell sideways into the canoe.

The weight of his body jerked the canoe against the rock in an ugly scraping of fibreglass. My body was flung toward the rock as the canoe began to tip in toward it. I flung out my hands to grab the rock and prevent the gunnel from going under, but there was nothing to grip, and the canoe suddenly tilted dizzily in the other direction as Ryan tried to sit up.

I fought to keep myself from being flung out of the canoe and grabbed a paddle just as the current slammed against the canoe, catching the stern and swinging it around to face the rapids below.

“We’re going down backwards.” I yelled at Ryan. “Turn around!” He scrambled on all fours to the bow, now suddenly the stern, and grabbed his paddle. I just had time to glimpse an angry open cut on his shoulder and the blood streaming down his forearm before the river had us. I grabbed the gunnels, clutching my paddle firmly in my right hand, and swung my legs around in my seat so that I faced downstream.

“Jesus, Ryan, we’ll never make it!” I yelled, but my words were lost in the roaring of the raw power of the river. I looked ahead and stifled the panic building inside me.

The whole river ahead of me was torn up, shreds of water spewing everywhere, boiling, seething, and we were barrelling down toward that cauldron at a break-neck pace. Huge standing waves were breaking up in front of us, and two boulders were causing angry waves to jerk and thrash.

I gripped my paddle, eyeballed the river, and made a quick judgment, trying to remember what I had seen from the head of the rapids when we had joked about running them and I had thought about immortality. We would have to go right between the two boulders. Going left meant huge standing waves, and I could see water leaping up, the telltale signs of shallow water just beyond them. We’d never get by that. The boulders it would have to be, but we were too far right. We had to get the canoe over.

I thrust my paddle into the water, leaning way over the side of the canoe, and pulled the blade back toward the canoe to draw the bow to the left, waiting for Ryan to rudder the stern around to line us up so that we were pointed right between the boulders.

I could see the air bubbles churning over one of the rocks as the canoe swept down upon it, and just when I figured we were going to broadside Ryan pried the stern out and the canoe swept by the right boulder, missing it by inches.

I tried to remember what came after the boulders. What had Ryan pointed out? Hug the shore, take the ledge on the right, and eddy out before the waterfalls — or was it take the ledge on the left? I couldn’t remember what path to take. Everything looked so different now we were in the rapids.

Just ahead and to our right a jagged rock suddenly reared out of the water. I hoped I was right: we needed to go to the right of it, to give us a good chance of avoiding the ledge. I started paddling to draw the bow to the right, but the current was too fast and I frantically switched sides and pulled the bow left to avoid broad siding the rock. Ryan took my lead and we flew by on the wrong side.

We were in the centre of the rapids now, heading for the shelf, which I still couldn’t see. The foam and the spray washed over me as I strained to pick out our route.

And then, suddenly, I saw it: the long, low uninterrupted line of the shelf. We were too far to the right. We were on a collision course.

“Left!” I screamed into the wind, frantically leaning way out and pulling my paddle in toward the canoe to pull the bow over. The clamour of the rapids killed all other sound and my words were whipped away on the wind, but I knew, as long as Ryan was watching, that the meaning in my wildly pumping arms made it very clear just exactly what was expected of him.

Ryan held the canoe angled, with the bow pointing to shore, and it looked to me like we would broadside. I jabbed my paddle again and again into the churning white mess, blade parallel to the canoe and as far out as I dared reach, then hauled back on it to draw the bow forward and to the left. My arms screamed for rest and my jaw ached from being clamped tight while my adrenaline raced the river for how fast it could drown me. The bow was clear, but it was touch and go if I was really clear enough for Ryan to start bringing the stern around. If he did a strong pry too soon, the canoe would swing around and we would hit the shelf. He held off till the last possible minute and then, with a mighty pry, the stern swung around and the canoe shot past the shelf, so close that I could see the flecks of quartz on the rocks that would have claimed us.

I could see the churning cauldron to my left and the easy, smooth, fast-running water to my right, but to get to it we had to go to the right of a big boulder fast approaching. We had shipped some water, and the canoe was sluggish and not responding as quickly to steering. We hit side on.

The canoe tilted crazily. I reached out and slapped the water hard with the flat side of the paddle blade. The canoe came upright, shipping water as it entered a rolling field of haystacks, huge standing waves sculpted by the hidden boulders beneath. We back paddled to keep the canoe riding the waves.

The eddy we had seen from the shore had to be somewhere ahead, somewhere we could take out — had to take out before the falls. And suddenly there it was, the big boulder and beyond and to its side the small square of dead water and safety. But to my horror, straddling the rock and pushing out over the water to block our route was a “sweeper,” a great bloody pine tree, partly submerged.

If we hit it broadside the canoe would tip and fill. We’d be swept under and held by the sweeper. But there was no time to go around it. If we hit the sweeper bowon I could leap onto it, if it held, but Ryan would swing around or, worse, dump as I leapt.

Broadside it would have to be. We would have to leap in unison, just before it hit. I made the decision, drawing frantically to pull the bow around as Ryan pried, hoping to God we could time it right, that Ryan was reading my signals properly. I braced myself as the canoe hit broadside, flinging my weight downriver to counteract the canoe’s crazy tilt upstream into the current. I could see Ryan, closer to shore, flinging his body onto the tree, even as I felt my hands close around a limb. I felt the branches beneath me ripping through my shirt as I grabbed the ones on the surface and then felt the weight of my body dragging them into the water, its power slamming into me like a freight train. I could feel my grip slipping as the water grabbed my legs, pulling them down, dragging me with them. I felt the canoe broach, felt my hands slip. I grabbed wildly for another branch and struggled as my legs were pulled along by the water. I hung on desperately, but the branch was pliable, soft, and my weight pulled it under; I felt my body being pulled under the branches, still with their needles untarnished by death, and then my momentum stopped suddenly as I was jerked back by the straps of my pack.

I was face up and felt like a pinned insect amongst the submerged branches of the tree, barely able to breathe as the water sluiced over my face. I was afraid to move, for fear the backpack would suddenly let go, my left hand in a rigid grip on a small branch, my right hand and arm pressed up against another branch. I stayed as still as I could and waited. Where was Ryan?

I could feel my energy dwindling away as the force of the water pounded me mercilessly. And then he was there above me on the main tree trunk, reaching down, touching my face. I could see his lips moving but heard nothing, just felt the water pressing hard against my ears like a vice; I couldn’t move my head in any direction, as it was braced by the water on both sides and was being pushed down against the ominously flimsy branches beneath. Ryan said something again but it was useless — I couldn’t hear him and suddenly he was gone.

I timed my breathing to coincide with the least amount of water sluicing over me, terrified that I would start to choke. I felt the panic in me begin to rise and forced myself to think of something else.

And then Ryan was back and I watched as he pulled out his knife and cut the end off a plastic Coke bottle. He reached over and indicated that he wanted me to breathe through it. I started to lose it. I was sure I was going to drown, the bottle would be wrenched from my mouth by the power of the water and I’d be gone. Ryan grabbed my free hand and pressed it, and then pointed to the sturdy branch right above my head. He placed the bottle upriver of it and fed it into my mouth so that the branch braced the bottle. I clamped down with my teeth on the rim of the bottle and took a tentative breath through the tube, fearing water, getting air.

Ryan disappeared for what seemed like hours. The water was sluicing constantly now over my face, and my teeth ached from their iron grip around the bottle. Suddenly I felt Ryan’s nails digging into my hands.

“Cordi, can you hold on?” he yelled over the raging of the river. He was gone and then was back with a coil of rope, one end of which he tied with a bowline to one of the tree’s branches that soared out of the water. Struggling, he lay over the partially submerged trunk and reached down into the lunging strength of the current. After what seemed like an interminable amount of fumbling he finally got the other end of the rope under my arms and tied another bowline.

“I’ll pull the rope tight first,” he yelled as I struggled to hear him. “Then I’ll have to cut through your pack before I can pull you up.” He looked at me, and I saw the fear etched in his face.

Jesus, what was I doing here? This couldn’t be happening to me. I felt as though I was being pulled apart and I was getting tired. All I wanted to do was sleep. The sun was overhead now, lunchtime. It seemed that years rolled by and I lived in a dream, and the dream got lighter and lighter, and then I felt the pressure of the rope and saw it tighten over the horizontal trunk of the tree above me. I felt some branches in the water tighten over my chest and the pull of the backpack on my shoulders. I lay suspended between two forces and waited. Suddenly Ryan was back, his hunting knife in his hand.

He yelled something at me and motioned to the straps on my shoulder. I felt his hands then as he groped for the straps and suddenly I swung forward with the current as the backpack released me. The branch slid through my hand as I struggled to hold on. And then the rope jerked me to a halt.

Ryan was hauling on the loose end trying to winch me out of the water, but my mind was floating up there with the sun as I clutched the underwater branch in my hand, as if it were the lifeline and not the rope.

“Let go, Cordi!” bellowed Ryan “Let go. For God’s sake, Cordi, let go!”

I could feel the sun and wind on my face and the roaring, rasping power of the water. I didn’t want to let go of my branch. It was my lifeline, wasn’t it?

“Let go!” The terror in Ryan’s voice seared into my brain; like an automaton, I reacted instinctively to the insistent fear in that voice, and I let go. Suddenly I was free of the river, winched back to safety, coughing and retching in the blessed sunshine, my mind numb. Ryan hauled me out of the water onto the tree trunk and hugged me in a grip almost as fierce as the river had hugged me moments before. I was awed by the tiny distance between life and death.

My legs felt like cement blocks as we struggled together along the fallen tree toward shore. We collapsed in a heap in each other’s arms on the sunlit rocks, inches from the water. We lay there side by side, holding each other, shivering, and neither one of us spoke. The sun still shone, warming us. The wind still blew as though nothing had happened, and yet we had nearly died.

I watched the slight breeze shifting the leaves overhead, smelled the soil and the leaf litter, felt the soft, rich earth beneath my clammy, clothes-covered body, felt the scratches on my face, the ache in my limbs, the warmth of the sun as the roaring surge of the rapids, constant and rough, thundered in my ears, setting my whole body on edge, the vibrations of that power dancing in my head, my body like a dishrag. I was limp and spent, but my mind was suddenly a kaleidoscope of thoughts, each one leading inevitably to the next, like water over the falls. I saw again the cliff that had risen straight up out of the bedrock by our canoe, jagged and crumbling, a scree of broken rock with boulders at its feet. I saw again something move at the top of the cliff and a flash of purple, caught and held by the sun, just before the boulder had come crashing down.

I lay there and heard the rapids calling my name, whispering death. I saw again the dead body, the pack in the tree, the aching emptiness of the camp, the golden fathomless stare of the cat, the chocolate bar — and the flash of purple where purple shouldn’t have been.

“We could have been killed.” Ryan’s voice was quiet, almost a whisper, and he rolled over and stared at me as he cradled his injured shoulder. His words hung between us, riding the roar of the rapids and magnifying the uneasiness I had felt at that deserted camp into the first tiny germ of fear.