William Rabkin - The Call of the Mild

A terrible idea hit Gus. Again, he fought to keep it from turning into panic. “What if he’s not the right guy?”

“We’ve decided he is,” Shawn said. “We put a lot of thought into that conclusion, and it seems premature to throw away all that work simply because we’re having a hard time making a brilliant career criminal expose himself on the course of a nature walk.”

“If by ‘a lot of thought’ you mean you made a snap decision based on a couple of physical and behavioral characteristics, it’s hard to argue,” Gus said.

“And you confirmed it through research.”

“I found information that reinforced my existing prejudice,” Gus said. “On its own, the fact that he specializes in technology doesn’t mean much of anything.”

They walked a few paces in silence as Shawn thought this over. “If you’re right,” he finally said, “we’ve picked the wrong suspect. And while we’ve been focused on Mathis, the real killer has been focused on us-and is planning to take us out.”

Gus felt a cold jolt of adrenaline surge through his system. At first he assumed it was from the awareness of the danger they were in. But then he realized his body was responding to a sound his conscious mind hadn’t noticed.

“What was that?” Shawn said as the sound came again.

It took Gus a second to recognize the noise that came drifting around the curve in the trail. At first he tried to figure out what kind of animal or bird made a sound like that.

Then it hit him. It wasn’t an animal. It was a woman.

And she was screaming.

Before his pack hit the dirt, Gus had launched himself down the trail and towards the source of the scream. Freed from the weight he’d been carrying for hours, Gus practically flew. He could feel himself hurtling into the air with every step. He realized this was incredibly dangerous-if he landed on one of the rocks that littered the trail, he’d break an ankle, and there was no chance the lawyers would carry him down the mountain. But he recognized the voice that was screaming, and he had to help.

If it had been Gwendolyn, perhaps Gus wouldn’t have reacted so strongly. But Jade exuded an ethereal vulnerability, and he couldn’t stop imagining her lying dead in Peter Pan’s hands as he begged the audience to clap if they believed in fairies.

Shawn was right next to Gus as they hurtled around the bend in the trail. When they got around it, they both stopped dead, shocked at what lay before them.

For the last few miles, the trail had hugged the side of the mountain on their left, and dropped off sharply to the right. But now the left side opened up into a wide meadow. A clear stream ran through it, and wildflowers bloomed yellow and red for as far as they could see.

The sight that stopped Shawn and Gus was what had been erected in the center of the meadow. Four tents, each striped in a different color, stood facing one another across a quad. Between them, a long table was set with a service fit for the White House-linen tablecloth, bone china, fine crystal, and sterling silver. A professional range had been set up a short distance away from the tents, and two young men in black slacks and white shirts stood by, while a woman in her mid-twenties, dressed the same way, unboxed a dozen bottles of wine.

Jade was standing, stunned, at the edge of the encampment. She let out another scream of joy. The other lawyers, who had taken their places around the table, ignored her.

“How did they get all this up there?” Gus knew there were other questions that were probably more pressing, but the surreal sight pushed them all out of his head.

“It’s really amazing how much you can fit in one of those helicopters when they’re not crammed full of egos,” Shawn said. “Hungry?”

Gus hadn’t thought he was. But now the air was filled with the delicate scents of sorrel soup and roast lamb, and suddenly he was starving. He started to move towards the table when a thought hit him.

“Our packs,” he said. “We’ve got to go back for them.”

“We’ll go back later,” Shawn said. “The food will be all gone.”

“It’ll be dark later. And in the morning we can’t take a chance that we’ll have to go back when the others are pressing on ahead.”

“So we’ll leave them,” Shawn said. “If they’re serving us meals like this along the way, why should we schlep all that dried stuff?”

“Maybe that’s exactly what Rushton wants us to think,” Gus said. “This is all a trick to get us to leave our packs behind, and then there’s no food for the next four days.”

“If he wanted us to starve, why would he put food in our packs in the first place?”

“I don’t know,” Gus said. “I don’t really understand anything about this trip. But I know I’ll feel better if I have my pack with me.”

Gus could practically see the little angel and tiny devil debating on Shawn’s shoulders. After a moment, Shawn nodded regretfully. “Let’s get the packs.”

Gus took one last longing look at the dinner table, then turned back to the trail. And walked into a wall.

At least that’s what it looked like up close. Gus stepped back quickly and realized it was his pack. His pack and Shawn’s. Standing behind it was an enormous figure that seemed to have been woven out of wiry red hair. The hair covered its head and flowed around its shoulders; it poured off his face in a long beard and mustache. The creature wore an old flannel shirt and filthy shorts that might once have been khaki, but now were mostly loose threads. Giant tufts of red hair poked through the holes in the creature’s clothes and around the straps of its sandals.

“Don’t trash my mountain,” the figure said, and threw the packs at their feet.

Now that he had a clear view, Gus could see that the creature was not Bigfoot, or the Abominable Snowman, or Gossamer, the tennis-shoe-wearing monster from the Bugs Bunny cartoons. It was a man. Aside from the species, however, Gus could tell almost nothing about him. All else was hidden by the hair.

“Sorry. We were just going back for those,” Shawn said. “Thanks for bringing them to us.”

“Don’t trash my mountain,” the man said again, and then he was gone back up the trail.

“Amazing that big a guy can move so fast,” Shawn said. “Of course, if he’s all hair, maybe he just blew away.”

Gus hoisted his pack and slung it over his shoulder, his muscles screaming in pain as the weight settled down on them again. A quick glance suggested that Shawn was feeling the same agony.

“I suppose we could just leave them here,” Gus said. “We’ll be able to find them in the morning.”

“Do you think that counts as trashing the mountain?”

“Not as much as setting up a four-star restaurant in this meadow.” This assertion came from a fourth server, who offered them a warm smile and two printed menu cards. He had curly black hair and a smile bigger than all outdoors, which was pretty big, given the context. “Hi, my name is Cody, and I’ll be your server tonight. That man has been hanging around here all day shouting obscenities at us. We finally bought him off with a case of Pinot Noir. But don’t worry-there’s plenty left.”

“Do you think he’s dangerous?” Gus said.

“My usual gig is in Venice,” Cody said. “He’s nothing compared to the homeless guys living on the beach. Just seems fanatical about keeping the mountains clean-and who can blame him?”

“He could start with himself,” Shawn said.

“Believe me, we offered him a shower along with the wine,” Cody said.

“There are showers here?” Gus said.

“We’ve got a sauna,” Cody said. He pointed at the female server, who was standing over Balowsky waiting for him to drain his glass so she could refill it. “And Maggie is a certified massage technician, if you’re feeling sore. I personally recommend her scalp treatment. I think she’s bringing back my hair.”