Donald Harstad: Known Dead

I started up the valley without it, and contacted Johansen on my walkie-talkie. ‘‘Where you at, Four?’’

There was a pause, and then he whispered, ‘‘Straight up, about hundred fifty yards, then off to the right. Stay on the path.’’ After a moment: ‘‘Be careful!’’

No kidding. I felt like a lightbulb in a well.

As I had trotted about fifty yards up the gentle slope, the grass had gotten deeper and the underbrush had closed in on both sides, forming the beginnings of a narrow path. I’d gone another twenty-five yards when I realized that staying on the path might not be a good idea. I moved a bit to my right, into the underbrush. I stopped. Shit. Underbrush, my ass. The crap was over six feet tall, and most of the stalks, stems, and branches were as big around as my finger. This was not going to work, not at all. It would take an hour to go through the brush, and I’d sound like a herd of elephants. Johansen was right, stay on the path and try to be as quiet as I could. Maybe a smaller herd of elephants. Damn.

Back on the path, I slowed way down, trying to pick up any sign of a shooter. Not much chance of that, and I really began regretting leaving my vest back at the car.

Another thirty yards or so, and I took off the raincoat. I was drenched in sweat, and my heart was pounding. My breath was becoming more and more labored, as much from allergies and humidity as the exertion. I just dropped the raincoat alongside the trail. I continued, but had slowed to a cautious walk. Shot. I just couldn’t believe it.

‘‘Three, where you at?’’ came crackling from my walkie-talkie. Johansen. I turned the volume down.

‘‘Just about there, Four.’’ I was panting. Nerves, exertion, sinuses… ‘‘Just about.’’

‘‘Okay, it might be clear. I can’t hear them moving around at all.’’ He was whispering now.

‘‘Okay.’’ I whispered too. Them. Not him, them. And if you can’t hear them, it doesn’t mean they’re gone, and it sure as hell doesn’t mean they can’t hear you.

‘‘He’s dead.’’

What? He was whispering, and it was difficult to understand him. ‘‘Repeat.’’

‘‘Dead. He’s dead. Hurry up…’’ He was whispering.

Dead. ‘‘Who’s dead?’’

‘‘Kellerman. He’s dead.’’

I had really slowed by now, from both exertion and caution. My pulse was making so much noise in my ears that I wouldn’t be able to hear a horse on the path. I stopped, and caught my breath, moving carefully off the trail and into the brush as I did so. Five feet from the trail, and I was invisible, even standing up. So, of course, was anybody else. I tried to catch my breath and adjust to the situation. Dead. Oh, boy. One dead state narcotics officer, a well-armed deputy sheriff somewhere up the trail who was scared, and an unknown number of hostile dope growers, armed to the teeth, somewhere in the woods. I took a very deep breath. And me. Didn’t want to forget me.

After a second or two, I heard a thumping sound, starting up the trial and going by me and off down the trail toward the road, at what seemed like a hundred miles an hour. I brought my rifle up to my shoulder, and froze.

Silence.

‘‘Three, are you moving?’’

Don’t talk to me now, Ken… I have to lower my rifle to use my walkie-talkie. But it was a question he had to have answered. ‘‘Negative, no. Not moving,’’ I whispered. ‘‘You?’’ My voice sounded funny, and my throat was dry. Rifle back up.

‘‘Negative.’’ Great. If he wasn’t moving, and I wasn’t…

I waited a few seconds, but there was no more noise. I found my left hand on the pistol grip of my assault rifle almost cramping. I took a deep breath, and slowly stepped onto the narrow trail. I stopped. I looked both ways, but saw nothing. Total silence. For the first time, I doubled over, and began to move very slowly up the little dirt track. It curved to the right. I knelt down on one knee just at the bend, and listened. Nothing. It was really hard to force myself to get back up, and go around that blind curve. I stayed bent over, and very cautiously started into the bend.

The shots just about deafened me. I threw myself into the brush, landing on my right side in the damp dirt and grass. Bits of shredded leaves were slowly falling around me, and dust motes filled the air. Then silence.

The quiet in the woods seemed even quieter, after the explosion of noise. I moved my legs slightly. I wasn’t hit. After a couple of seconds, it stopped raining leaf bits. I realized I was holding my breath, and let it out slowly. The shots, three or four of them, must have been high. Then I remembered the tops of the bushes were just over my head. Not that high.

‘‘Carl…’’ came a whisper on the walkie-talkie. ‘‘Carl…’’

Cautiously, I reached down and brought the little radio up to my mouth. I wanted to scream at him to shut up, but I knew he needed information. ‘‘Yeah, go ahead,’’ I whispered back.

‘‘They’re still here,’’ came the whispered voice. ‘‘Be careful.. .’’

No shit. Thanks for filling in the gaps.

‘‘Where are you now?’’ he asked, in a barely discernible whisper.

‘‘Right at a sharp bend to the right…’’ I whispered back. The best I could do.

There was a long pause. ‘‘Come on ahead, I’ll cover you, we’re just past the bend.’’

Fine. Why didn’t you cover me before? ‘‘Ten-four,’’ I whispered. Yeah, come on ahead. Sure. All I had to do was force myself to get up, at least into a crouch. That was difficult, because all my instincts told me to keep down and still. But I had to get to Johansen. He needed assistance.

When I got to my feet, I found I was only about one step off the trail. Very carefully, I stepped out. I stopped, crouched down, and looked around, my rifle pointing ahead of me. Nothing. But… I didn’t have my first-aid kit. Where in the hell had I lost it? I backed back into the tall brush, and glanced down. It was to my right. Holding my rifle in my left hand, I picked the metal kit up and stuffed it partway down the front of my jeans. Both hands on the rifle again, I got back on the trail.

‘‘Carl,’’ I heard from the walkie-talkie. ‘‘You comin’, Carl?’’

I didn’t bother to answer, because I would have had to take one hand off my rifle again to do so, and I was feeling eyes on me all the time. Instead, I crept around the corner to the right. About four steps into it, and I saw them.

Johansen was about a foot off the trail, kneeling by a body that had to be Kellerman, although I could only see his lower half. They were both in camouflage clothes, and Johansen was as white as a sheet. They were shielded a little by a grassy mound about two feet high and a dead tree that stretched into the brush just past them. There were several pale blue paper wrappers strewn on the ground… first-aid kit compresses. They reminded me of flowers. I was to them in two steps, and knelt back down just off the trail.

‘‘You all right?’’

‘‘Yeah,’’ said Johansen. His eyes were wild-looking, and his head was moving constantly, scanning the area. ‘‘They fuckin’ killed us, man. They killed us.’’

Shock does strange things. I moved slightly, and reached out to try to find a carotid pulse on Kellerman. Johansen blocked my hand.

‘‘He’s dead.’’

‘‘Just let me check, Ken. Just for the record.’’

He thought for a second. ‘‘Yeah, yeah. Okay.’’

I reached out and pressed two fingers into Kellerman’s neck. Nothing. Cool to the touch, but damp. His color and texture reminded me of pale cheese. I noticed he hadn’t shaved that morning.

‘‘Okay,’’ I said softly. I wiped my hand on my jeans, and pulled the first-aid kit out before it cut me in half. ‘‘What happened?’’ I asked, keeping my eyes focused opposite Johansen’s, peering uphill. It occurred to me that, crouched down as we were, we couldn’t see much more than a few feet, except uphill, and up the trail. ‘‘You sure you’re all right?’’