Scott Nicholson - The Gorge

Either way, he couldn’t deny Dove’s appeal. But he could ignore it.

“Let’s get this show on the road, folks,” Whitlock said, pumping up the second raft. “We should make it to Babel Tower by late afternoon and we can set up camp there.”

Babel Tower. A sacred site for the Cherokee, which they had called Attacoa. How like the White Man to impose its own religious name on the mountain.

“We’re not going to stop on the way?” McKay said.

“What do you think this is, a ride at Disneyland?” Farrengalli said. “You’re a long way from California. And Paree, too.”

“Fuck off, Farrengalli. I’ve had enough of your mouth.”

Farrengalli dropped his backpack and leaped across the fire to McKay, moving so swiftly that Raintree barely had time to register the action before Farrengalli had McKay by the shoulders, shaking the cyclist so hard his head wobbled. Whitlock moved almost as fast as Farrengalli, stepping between the two struggling men and driving his forearms against their chests. “Cool it,” the tour guide said.

McKay backed away, but Farrengalli lunged at him, throwing Whitlock off balance. “I don’t have to take that shit from a sweet boy like you.”

Whitlock got Farrengalli in a bear hug. “Easy, easy.”

Raintree debated helping Whitlock, but decided it was too early in the game to choose sides. Travis Lane stood with clenched fists, anguish curdling his face. Farrengalli jerked free of the restraint hold and spun, squaring off with Whitlock.

“Bring it on,” Farrengalli shouted, spittle flying from his lips as his eyes danced from face to face. “Any of you. All of you.”

Whitlock raised his arms and showed his open palms in a gesture of surrender. “Don’t blow it, Vincent. We’ve all got a lot riding on this, especially you.”

“You don’t know what the fuck’s riding what.”

“Mr. Farrengalli, the company won’t be pleased if this test run fails before the Muskrat even gets wet,” Lane said. “Don’t forget the bonuses.”

Dove Krueger approached him, calm, her mouth twisted. “Remember what we talked about before?” she said to him, just loud enough that Raintree could hear. “You’re the real story.”

Farrengalli rubbed at his face, then stepped toward the fire and kicked one of the smoldering logs. “Just everybody stay off my back, okay?” He stormed off to collect his gear.

McKay’s shoulders sagged. “Honeymoon’s over, I guess.”

“We’re still on schedule,” Lane said. “We all knew this would be stressful. We’re in good hands, right, Mr. Whitlock?”

Whitlock ignored him. He said to Dove, “What did you mean, he’s the real story?”

“An ego thing. Nothing you’d understand.”

Whitlock blinked, muttered something under his breath that Raintree couldn’t hear over the hissing rush of water. Raintree finished inflating the raft, listening to the harsh gasp of the hand pump.

“Okay, people,” Bowie shouted. “Let’s rock ‘n’ roll. Dove, kill the fire. McKay, finish pumping up the second raft. Lane, secure the gear in Raintree’s raft. Farrengalli…”

The Italian turned his back, fumbled with the front of his shorts, and moments later his urine arced into the dying campfire. “Hey, Dove, you heard the man,” he said as stinking steam arose with a hiss. “Come give me a hand with this hose.”

“You know where you can stick it, jerk,” she replied.

Farrengalli’s laughter echoed off the trees and boulders. Raintree figured the man’s mood swings would lead to a few more confrontations before the trip was over. But that was Whitlock’s problem. Raintree had only one problem, the one inside his head, where the medicine swam, where crows flew and deer raced and mice scurried and snakes slithered, and nowhere, nowhere in the only-fuckin’-natural world, was there a place for him.

Castle found the discarded backpack just after sunrise.

It lay about ten yards off the trail amid scuffled leaves. The bac kpack held an empty cardboard toilet paper tube, a quart-sized zip loc k baggie that held some granola crumbs, and a dog-eared novel by someb ody named Charlaine Harris. Judging from the pastel colors on the cove r, Castle figured the book belonged to the girl. He couldn’t imagine G oodall reading much of anything besides survival manuals and the Bible.

Except his own headlines, he heard The Rook’s voice say in his head.

The zippered section of the backpack contained a sealed condom, a can opener, and a pack of matches from the Bull’s Eye Bar amp; Grill in S tone Mountain, Georgia. Goodall had been careful in his first bomb att ack, leaving few clues despite the heavy concentration of agents assig ned to the case. Some believed if Goodall had been content with that o ne blow for perceived justice and had slipped back into the remote wil ds of the upper Midwest, his identity would still be a mystery. Instea d, he had grown increasingly reckless, and now that he’d been discover ed, he had nothing to lose.

He never had nothing to lose in the first place, said The Rook’s voice.

“Look,” Castle said, feeling stupid for talking to himself. “He le ft this here for me to find. He doesn’t care that I’m after him.”

Oh, he does care. Remember the assessment. Everything’s a cry for attention with him.

“Oh, yeah, if you’re so smart, why did your ass get hauled off by some weird bat-winged creature that doesn’t exist?”

I respect your experience, partner, and you’re about the squarest man I’ve ever met. If I were your shrink, I’d lie down on the couch an d let you do the analyzing, then gladly pay the bill later. But ri ght now you can’t trust your own head. You haven’t had a wink of sleep, you’re delirious, you’re hungry, and three weeks in the wilderness c an do strange things to anybody.

Above, the treetops veered in an autumnal spin of rust, gold, and dying green.

“Fuck,” Castle said. “I’m talking to myself.”

It’s okay to talk to yourself, came The Rook’s voice-that same combination of sidekick pep and college-professor smugness that plagued some behavior science guys and pissed off the SWAT types. After all, this is your show.

“That doesn’t bother me so much,” Castle said. “The thing that bothers me is you’re probably dead.”

You’re probably right.

“What the hell happened to you?”

You know as much as I do.

“That’s a stretch. You’ve got three degrees, as you like to keep reminding me. I’m just a dummy with a narrow set of skills that happen to come in handy if you ever need to kill a man. Oh, and I have clumsy feet.”

They didn’t teach about monsters in college.

“I don’t believe in monsters.”

Audible sigh here. You can’t lie to me. I’m inside your head, remember?

“Reckon so.”

You’ve always believed in monsters.

“What on Earth would the Bama Bomber be doing with a condom?”

Maybe he likes to make funny animal balloon shapes. I’ll bet he does a great poodle.

“You’re not taking this seriously.”

Why should I? I’m probably dead, remember?

Castle peered down the trail. He couldn’t see the river, but he could hear it and sense its power behind the wall of trees. He tossed down the backpack. “I’m talking to myself.”

I don’t know, just postulating a theory here, but I’m betting the monsters only come out at night. So you can relax a little. You have about eleven good hours of daylight left.

“I’ll get him for you.”

No, you’ll get him for you. I’m just a figment of your imagination and therefore have no influence on your behavior.

“Whatever. Just shut the fuck up, will you?”