“What!”
“Shhh! We need to get a roll of that string. In the morning I’ll create a distraction to get the guards’ attention. You drop it down your coveralls. It’s over by the shovels. We need to take it with us when they take us to work. You follow my lead.” T.J. did not speak. Jake persisted. “Can you do it?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I can do it.”
“So then, tomorrow. We go tomorrow. First we escape. Then we find our dads.”
TWENTY-TWO
K
NOCK
-M
E
-S
TIFF
R
ANCH
G
OLD
C
REEK
, C
ALIFORNIA
S
heriff Barnes returned before dawn and brought with him three men from the Department of Fish and Wildlife. They wore camouflage pants and shirts and floppy hats and brought extra sets for Sloane and Molia. After introductions, the men waited outside on the porch while Barnes gave Sloane and Molia the lay of the land.
“Here’s the deal,” he said. “This isn’t an official investigation. So they’re not in uniform, and neither am I. This is their day off and I called in sick so we’re
not
on official business. As far as we’re all concerned we’re going hunting, looking to tag a deer or two, and we’re bringing you two along out of the goodness of our hearts. Capiche?”
Sloane nodded as he buttoned the shirt. “Understood.”
“For the same reason, if we do happen to find something, we aren’t going in guns-a-blazing. We mark it on the map, slip out quiet, and report what we’ve found. Then we come back with the cavalry. I’ve known these guys a long time and I’m not looking to get any of them shot. They’ll tell you the people guarding these grows can set up sophisticated booby traps and be heavily armed. They’ll tell you about a joint ATF and Fish and Wildlife raid in Washington State where the camp residents opened up with grenade launchers.” Barnes punctuated the remark with a furrowed brow.
“We understand,” Sloane said. “We’re not looking to get ourselves or anyone else killed.”
Barnes seemed to soften. “They’re good men, dedicated. Greg’s a marine, so he can be a bit of a cowboy when the adrenaline starts pumping, but he’s steady. Dean and Leonard are more subdued but just as passionate about what they do. We’re in good hands, gentlemen. If something were to kick-start, I’d go to battle with these guys.”
Barnes turned to the door and called for the three to enter. He unrolled the map across the table. He’d already gone over it with Dean, the shortest of the three and likely the oldest, at least from the amount of gray in his hair. Sloane noticed new pencil marks and notations on the map.
“Dean knows this area as well as anyone,” Barnes said. “I’m going to let him handle this.”
Dean set down a lidded cup of coffee and picked up a pencil, which looked small in his meaty hand. “There’s a forest service road here.” He pointed with the lead pencil tip at an area not far from Fresh Start. “It would be easily accessible from the facility and maintained well enough to drive a truck with an attached horse rig to about here. That’s where the road ends.” Again he indicated with the pencil. “There’s a trailhead, but it isn’t open to the public. Some hikers still use it, but it isn’t well defined or traveled. If someone wanted to get up around the back of the facility, it would be a good way to travel.” He shook his head. “From there it’s anybody’s guess, but there are a couple of streams that run through this area and feed the lakes. Growers like to set up their grows within a quarter mile of the water source and run irrigation lines downstream to the site, again to minimize the chances of a hiker or fisherman stumbling onto it.”
“Seems well reasoned to me,” Sloane said. “It’s as good a place as any to start.”
Dean laughed. “You’re an optimist. That’s rugged country up there, even for us. We have our work cut out for us today. The two of you sure you’re up for it?” He asked the question while looking at the cast on Sloane’s wrist. Sloane also still had the bandage on his head, and as the emergency room doctor predicted, he’d awakened even more sore than when he’d finally crashed for a fitful few hours of sleep. His lower back ached.
“Lead the way,” Sloane said. “I’ll be all right.” In truth he hoped the six ibuprofren would kick in because he didn’t want to take the Vicodin.
Dean didn’t look as convinced when he turned to Molia. “I might be big, but I’m slow,” Molia said, which got a laugh out of the group. “Don’t let the size fool you. I won’t slow you down.”
“I’m not worried about the size; what about that cough?” Dean asked. “You start hacking you’re liable to give us away. We need to go in stealth.”
The steroids had brought a marked improvement in Molia’s breathing and his coughing had been far less frequent, though it still persisted at times. Molia pulled his hand out of his pocket clutching a fistful of throat lozenges. “I’m loaded for bear,” he said. Then he got serious. “This isn’t my first rodeo, boys. I’m not about to do anything I thought might put any of us in jeopardy.”
Just after six, the sun not yet up, they loaded into Greg’s SUV, an older model Suburban that looked to have been driven its fair share of hard miles, dinged and dented and rusted in patches, but also big enough with the third bench seat for the six men to ride comfortably and to store their rifles and supplies in the back.
“It’s never failed me,” Greg said, spitting through the hole in the plastic lid of his cup. His bottom lip bulged with a pinch of chew. He smiled in the rearview mirror at Sloane, seated beside Dean in the middle seat. Molia and the third man, Leonard, sat in the back. Barnes sat in the passenger seat. “And I’ve taken it places I never should have,” which Sloane deduced to be the reason for the winch and cable mounted to the front bumper.
After that, nobody spoke much. In their camouflage uniforms they looked like a military unit, and the gravity of what they were about to do weighed on them. They could pretend they were just six men out hunting for deer, but if they stumbled into the wrong area they might have a hard time convincing people stationed to guard the site of that, and might not even get the chance to explain before someone started shooting or one of them had a leg blown off stepping on one of those booby traps Barnes had mentioned.
Greg turned off the county road onto dirt and gravel, the SUV continuing to ascend, its tires crunching and spitting up rocks with a ping beneath the chassis. Out the back window a cloud of dust spewed, and occasionally the car pitched and rocked when Greg failed to avoid a pothole. They hadn’t seen another car on the county road, and Sloane didn’t expect they would now that they were on the dirt and gravel. The sun began to shine, but only on the peaks. They drove in the shadows.
Almost two hours from the time they had packed into the car, Greg came to a stop. He didn’t have much choice since the road came to an end at a turnabout. Large boulders, which looked to have been strategically placed around the edge of the road, acted as a further impediment to a vehicle proceeding any further.
“This is where the trailhead starts,” Dean said as they exited and stretched the ride from their muscles. “It’s a steep pitch out of the chute, but fifteen minutes or so into it, the grade levels out a bit.”
Greg lowered the back window and started handing out rifles with shoulder straps as well as backpacks loaded with water, protein bars, and ammunition. Dean had walked off toward the trailhead. When he came back he held pieces of hay and straw. Barnes considered it before glancing in Sloane’s direction.
“Horse manure also,” Dean said. “Someone cleaned it up, but not perfect. And hoofprints.” He looked to Sloane. “You may very well be on to something.”
Greg continued handing out the supplies, distributing them equally in the backpacks. In between he spit a coffee-colored stream into the dirt. They slung the rifles over their shoulders and fashioned sidearms on their hips. Greg pulled an eight-inch serrated knife from a sheath.
“What do you use a knife like that for?” he asked Dean.
“Huntin’,” Dean answered, deepening the tone of his voice.
“Hunting? What do you hunt with a knife like that?”
“Name it,” all three said in unison, smiling.
“First Blood.”
Greg explained to Sloane and Molia they were quoting lines from the movie. Sloane had watched it with Jake.
“Still Sylvester Stallone’s best movie,” Greg said fashioning the knife in its sheath against his thigh.
“We have to carry our own personal weapons since this isn’t part of our official duties,” Barnes said. He handed Molia a rifle. “Detective, I assume you’re familiar with a Remington?”
Molia took the gun and considered it. “Model seven, bolt action, twenty-inch barrel, three-oh-eight caliber.” He smiled. “I’ve shot a few deer in my time, Sheriff.”
Greg pulled out another rifle, started to hand it to Sloane, then hesitated. With the cast on his wrist, there was no way Sloane would be able to shoot anything.
“I can carry it for somebody,” Sloane said. “In case we need it.” He slid the strap over his shoulder.
Greg handed Dean and Leonard backpacks, adjusted his to fit, slid on wraparound sunglasses, spit another wad of liquid, and gave Sloane a stained-teeth smile. “Time to hunt,” he said.
E
LDORADO
N
ATIONAL
F
OREST
S
IERRA
N
EVADA
M
OUNTAINS
Jake did his best to eat his oatmeal, but his nerves made his stomach upset and his taste buds screamed in protest. T.J. also sat stirring the pasty substance with his spoon, but not otherwise bringing it anywhere close to his mouth. Bee Dee had his head up, eyes shifting between Jake and T.J., as if he knew they were up to something. Only Henry ate, head down, shoveling it in and swallowing with a look of disgust.
The other guard was somewhere in the bushes, taking care of his morning business, but the cook stood watching them with eyes so bloodshot they were more red than white. He scowled, indicating he was not too pleased with their reaction to the food. He looked from Jake to T.J. and apparently decided he’d waited long enough. He said something in Spanish Jake didn’t understand but interpreted to mean, “Fuck you, you don’t want to eat,” and knocked the cup out of T.J.’s hand. The spoon went with it and landed on the ground beside the upturned cup. But not a bit of the gooey substance
had come out, not even when the cook snatched it from the ground. The oatmeal clung inside like glue.
The cook eyed them, as if daring them to say a word, knowing exactly what they were all thinking. “You think it funny,” he said in his broken English. “You don’t eat nothing!” He grabbed the cup from Jake’s hand. “You see how funny.” He continued eyeing them as he walked back to his makeshift kitchen and popped the lid on a plastic container then attempted to shake out the contents. When it still didn’t budge he shook more aggressively, and a small amount flew out, only it didn’t drop, it flew up and struck the cook in the face. It was like a fart in church. Bee Dee burst first, and that set the rest of them off. Henry laughed so hard he lost his balance, toppling off the stump backward, which only made everything funnier. Tears streamed down Jake’s cheeks. The cook threw the cups hard into the bucket, water splashing. Then he grabbed his sharpened machete and took three quick strides toward Bee Dee, shouting in Spanish, machete raised. Jake thought for certain the next thing he’d see was Bee Dee’s head rolling on the ground.
He shot to his feet. “No!”
The cook, thinking it an attack, turned and swept the machete through the air. Jake bent his knees and leaned back, like a man stooping beneath a limbo bar. He felt the wind from the blade against his neck and tumbled over, falling onto his back. The cook advanced, whipped the blade through the air, and brought it high overhead like a snake coiled to strike.
A shot rang out.
The cook froze, the shot reverberating. The guard, who had been in the bushes, walked slowly back into camp with the rifle pointed at the sky. The button of his pants still undone, zipper down, and his stained white tank-top T-shirt inched up his stomach to reveal more of the blue ink of his tattoo, some demonic-looking snake. His eyes took them in, then shifted to the cook. He spoke in Spanish. The man, still breathing hard, glared at Jake and Bee Dee before turning his back to them and returning to his kitchen.
“Work,” the guard said.
He directed them to the shovels and pickaxes and told them to bring the last of the black hoses. Henry got up off the ground looking pale, and Jake expected T.J. to look even whiter, but T.J. gave him a small smile and glanced down at his chest. Jake noticed the small bulge in the coveralls.
T.J. had the ball of string.
E
LDORADO
N
ATIONAL
F
OREST
S
IERRA
M
OUNTAINS
Dean had not lied. The first half hour was rough, a steep ascent on a trail that wound back and forth with endless curves and switchbacks, but it was the only way up the steep pitch. Dean stopped occasionally to put his fingers in the dirt and trace the faint outline of a horse’s hoof, or to check his topographical map. Sloane was grateful for each respite. His muscles and joints, still remembering the accident, hurt worse than he thought they would, and the exertion had caused his wrist and the cut on the back of his head to throb. He knew the others were keeping a close eye on him, and he didn’t want to give them any excuse to leave him behind. Barnes handed him a water bottle at each stop and asked how he was holding up.
Molia had also been true to his word. He hadn’t slowed them down. Though the detective was a big man, he moved with them step for step and had only infrequently coughed. He looked to be in deep concentration. Sloane deduced it was sheer willpower and mental determination pulling Molia up that mountain more so than physical prowess.
When they reached the summit Sloane looked out over an incredible, panoramic view. The rolling sea of green seemed to reach all the way to the rust haze on the horizon, an expansive carpet that was both awe inspiring and disheartening. He knew now what Barnes had been trying to tell him, a picture in this case definitely being worth a thousand words. Finding a grow site wouldn’t be like finding the needle in the haystack. It would be harder. The haystack might take time to cull through, but at least you could pick your
way through each piece to a logical end. As if reading Sloane’s mind, Barnes walked over and handed him a fresh water bottle and a protein bar. Thankfully, he didn’t say “I told you so.”