Aaron Elkins: The Dark Place

"It sounds like paradise," Blackpath said.

"It is. It’s lovely. And there isn’t a trail within five miles. Oh, it’d be perfect!" she said excitedly. "Why didn’t I think of it before? I can show you where it is on the map." She frowned. "Rats. The map’s back at our camp. It’s two hours from here, at least."

"It’s twenty minutes. You were following the old man’s tracks, and he was being careful. That’s one thing they didn’t forget. Let’s go."

"What about the others?" Gideon asked. "They’ll be waking up. It’s light."

Blackpath looked at the dripping, gray sky. "Not for another hour."

"You mean they don’t get up at dawn?" Julie asked ingenuously.

"If you lived in a hut," Blackpath said, "and two out of three mornings were like this, what would you do?"

It took them exactly twenty minutes to get back to their camp. Julie spread the map on the floor of the tent, out of the rain, and Blackpath bent over it while Julie traced with a pen the best way to get to Hayes Pass. He nodded at last and looked up, staring into her eyes for so long that she finally dropped her own. Then he looked hard at Gideon.

The question was unasked, but Gideon answered it. "You can trust us," he said.

"I guess I have to." The veiled eyes studied Gideon longer still. "I do trust you," he said more firmly. "We’ll go there. Now. As soon as we bury Clear Water. That was his name. Clear Water. Not Startled Mouse." It was an offering, a gift to them.

They were startled by a thumping drone and looked through the tent flap to see a helicopter skimming grasshopperlike toward them through the gray rain, coming from Lake Quinault.

"It’s John," Julie said. She saw Gideon’s surprise. "What did you think, they were going to hike in?"

That was just what he’d thought. He’d forgotten this was the twentieth century and had expected to have another five or six hours before John got there. "They won’t be able to see the cave, but they’ll spot this tent right away," he said. "They’ll be down here in five minutes."

He grasped a suddenly distrustful Blackpath by the elbow and hustled him out of the tent, across the small clearing, and into the thick, green forest. Julie ran after them.

"We don’t have much time," Gideon said to Blackpath. "Listen, it’d be better if you left Startled-Clear Water-where he is. We’d have a body to show the FBI, and they could close the case and forget about the rest of you."

"We can’t!" It was the first time Gideon had seen him upset. "He’s got to be buried. He ought to be cremated. His spirit can’t rest until he’s buried. I mean," he added quickly, "that’s what they believe." Agitatedly, he looked up toward the rapidly increasing clatter, but the helicopter couldn’t be seen through the forest canopy.

"I’ll see to it that he’s buried!" Gideon shouted over the noise. "And cremated! I promise!"

Blackpath was irresolute. Gideon had the feeling it was a rare condition for him. Again Blackpath looked up toward the sound. The helicopter was hovering. The tent had been seen. He nodded quickly and stuck the map in his waistband.

"Thank you!" he shouted. Obviously, it didn’t come easily.

He began to turn away. The invisible helicopter was coming down, apparently on the nearby gravel bar. Julie touched the bare arm and leaned forward to speak in his ear. Gideon read her lips. "Tell Gray Sparrow good-bye."

He nodded. "Thank you!" he shouted again, but the words were lost. He turned and darted into the brush.

Gideon wondered how long it would be before he spoke English again, or if he ever would. He glided smoothly among the trees, the rain glistening on his naked back, and melted into the dripping, green forest. Already he seemed to have shed the persona of Dennis Blackpath and left it at their feet, becoming part of the rain forest again; a Yahi, Ishi in reverse.

"What will he do when they all die?" Julie asked.

Gideon shook his head. "Beats the hell out of me. I hope he can find another lost tribe. Let’s go greet John."

Julian Minor bustled prissily about the body along with another agent, a big-nosed, solemn young man named Simkins. A few yards away, John stood talking quietly with Julie and Gideon. Gideon’s eyes strayed above John’s shoulder to the cleft where the sleeping bag had been. It was no longer there, but lay wet and crumpled on the ground. Blackpath must have thrown it down, realizing that anyone who climbed up to where it had been would have seen the huts on the other side of the big boulder. The gifts-the ax and the basket-were not there either. He and Julie would have to come back someday to see if they were in the cave. Someday. Not for a long time.

"Doc," John was saying softly, his head tilted to one side, "your story doesn’t make a whole hell of a lot of sense." He was referring to Gideon’s considerably abridged description of the night’s events, from which mention of anyone but Clear Water had been pruned. He was leaning with one hand against the huge monolith, on the other side of which-no more than twenty feet away, if one knew how to get to it-lay the deserted Yahi huts.

"I know, John. Look, would you believe me-and just let it go-if I tell you that little guy really is the murderer? And if I can guarantee there won’t be any more killings?"

"I don’t know. Is it true? No one else was involved?"

"It’s true," Gideon said. Depending on what you meant by involved.

He said it a little too hesitantly. "But there is more to it," John said flatly.

"Yes, there’s more, but it isn’t relevant."

"It isn’t, John," Julie said. "Really."

John shook his head. He was hatless, as they all were, and a few rivulets of rain ran down his wide forehead. "I don’t know," he said. Gideon could see he was offended at being excluded. And rightfully so. He and Gideon had shared a lot of sensitive secrets.

"John, I’d be glad to tell you the rest as a friend. In fact, I’d like to tell you. But the problem is, you’re also a special agent of the FBI."

John nodded. "And with my well-known, true-blue integrity, you know I’d report anything you told me, and then whatever you didn’t want to get out would get out."

"That’s it. But I’ll tell you anyway, if you want."

John laughed and relaxed. "Nah," he said. "If you tell me the killings are over, and we’ve got the guy who did them, that’s what counts, right? Don’t tell me any more. I put enough strain on my integrity as it is. You can tell me the rest after I retire."

"I will," Gideon said.

"Fine. I’m going back to the chopper in a few minutes. Got to fly back and get a medical examiner. We’ll give you guys a lift."

"Great," Julie said.

"No, thanks," said Gideon. "We’ll walk back."

John’s eyebrows went up. He waved a hand at the wet forest. "In this?"

"We have things we need to talk about," Gideon said. "A nice long walk will give us the chance."

John wiped the collected moisture from his face and flicked it to the ground. He addressed Julie. "You’re really going to walk back?"

"I guess so. He’s very masterful, you know."

"Suit yourself," John said. He shook his head, looking at Julie. "You’re getting to be as crazy as he is." He clapped Gideon on the back and squeezed his shoulder. "Let’s all get together for dinner at the lodge-if you’re back by tonight." He shook his head again and went back to the others.

Hand in hand, they walked silently through the drizzle for a few hundred feet. "Gideon," Julie finally said, "what do we need to talk about that will take six hours?"

"For starters, how about the next forty years?"

"All right," she said again, her voice as misty as the rain. "That’ll do. For starters."