Page 36 of God’s Country

I thought that might earn me another kick, but Stan said to his brother, “Jesus, just do what he says.”

Because of the rain the night before, the day was humid already. And because tall rock walls offered protection on every side, there was hardly any breeze to carry pests away. The mosquitoes and blackflies had begun to let their presence be known. Although they torment almost everyone, there are some people whose body chemistry seems to be more attractive to these insects, and Ollie, much to his misfortune, was one of the chosen. He stood there, swatting as the little devils swarmed around him.

“God damn it, let’s just get this over with,” he said.

The canoe they’d damaged still sat in the bay, half full of water now. Stan led me to the other canoe. There was a white ball cap sitting on the bow seat. In bold blue across the crown was printed the word CRISPIN. The cap was spotted with bloodstains.

“I’m guessing you and Crispin weren’t close,” I said.

“He was a conniving son of a bitch,” Ollie said. “And he had what we want.”

“But we didn’t get it, thanks to you,” Stan said.

“Take the bow,” I said to Stan.

He shook his head. “I’ll be in back. I want you where I can keep an eye on you.”

“I’ve seen how you paddle a canoe. There’s a strong current running through Devil’s End. If we want to maneuver safely out there, you’ll let me take the stern. If I try anything, your brother here will shoot me, am I right?”

I looked at Ollie, who was still slapping at a swarm of insects. “You’ll be dead before you know it,” he said.

“Good enough?” I said to Stan.

I could see that he wasn’t happy, but he said, “All right.”

“Get in,” I directed him. “I’ll keep the canoe stable.”

He got in but so clumsily that he almost tipped the little craft. He finally settled in the bow seat and grabbed the paddle that lay there. I eased the stern off the rock and then stepped into the canoe, keeping myself low, my weight evenly distributed.

“Let’s go,” I said. “You paddle on whatever side you want. I’ll paddle on the opposite side. When you need to change sides, do that and I’ll adjust back here. Got it?”

“Got it,” he said, though with a begrudging tone, like a child unhappy to be tutored.

We moved smoothly into the bay, the current from the cascades giving us momentum. I glanced back. Ollie stood on the flat rock, flailing away at the mosquitoes and blackflies but with the Glock firmly in his grip.

We headed out seventy yards or so, then I worked against the strong current running down the center of the bay and swung the canoe around so that I could scan the wall behind the campsite, get a good look at the fold in the rock that a legion of canoeists before me had unofficially dubbed Devil’s Bottom. I still had my binoculars in the sheath on my belt. I laid my paddle across the gunwales and took them out so that I could study the rock formation. Almost immediately, I spotted what I was hoping to find.

“Your father must have been in good physical shape when he came here,” I said.

“Why?”

“See that fold in the wall back of the campsite?”

Stan looked where I was pointing and squinted hard. Then he got it. “Devil’s Bottom?”

“And see that hole in the fold?”

“Not really.”

“It’s halfway up the cliff face, maybe sixty feet. Sheer rock above and below. Tricky foot- and handholds, if there are any at all. It would take someone lithe and strong and maybe desperate to climb up there.”

“Give me your binoculars,” he said and half-turned, his arm outstretched but his eyes still riveted to the fold in the cliff face, searching hard for what I told him I’d seen there.

I glanced at the shoreline and saw Ollie deeply involved in battling the insects that were tormenting him. I considered clobbering Stan with my paddle, but from my place in the stern, I couldn’t reach that far. Instead, I slipped my binoculars back into the belt sheath and, with a hard lean to the left, tipped the canoe so that Stan and I both went into the water.

CHAPTER 22

We were seventy yards out when I opted to tip the canoe. I’ve hunted all my life. With a good rifle and reasonable ability, making a successful kill shot at seventy yards isn’t a big deal. The effective range of a Glock, even in the hands of a skilled shooter, is about fifty yards. I was hoping Ollie didn’t spend a lot of time on a firing range.