Scott Nicholson - The Gorge

“Hey,” the man, Pete, said. “Don’t shoot. We don’t have anything to steal.”

Castle gave them a subtle, trained scrutiny. The man was paunchy and balding, not the kind to be in the wilderness at all, much less parked by the river with no gear. The woman was clearly annoyed at something. Probably a number of things. Castle had a stock appraisal of women with tiny upper lips and pinched eyes, and his decision to avoid them had so far always been proven correct. Sometimes belatedly. She reminded him of his first wife.

He hadn’t realized he’d been carrying the Glock in his fist. Too late to pretend to be just another hiker, but no need to blow his cover yet. He tucked his weapon behind his back. “You folks okay?”

Pete kept his eye on the arm that held the gun. “So far. But we have nothing left to steal.”

“Who would be dumb enough to rob people in the middle of nowhere?”

Pete and Jenny exchanged glances. “You’re not with them?” the woman asked.

“I’m not with anybody.” Because a mythical monster carried off my partner last night.

“We’d feel better if you put that away,” Pete said. “If you don’t mind, that is.”

“What is it with hikers and guns?” the woman whined. “Christ, it’s not like there’s anything to shoot out here besides squirrels.”

“Seen anything strange?” Like maybe a man-sized flying thing that had no wings?

Pete opened his mouth but the woman beat him to it. “If by ‘strange,’ you mean having a gun stuck in our faces and our canoe taken away, yeah. If that doesn’t count, then we’re just sitting here waiting for the bus.”

“Will you stop with the mouth a minute?” Pete said to her. “If he wanted to hurt us, he would have done it already.”

Which wasn’t necessarily true. Castle had worked support on a California case in which the killer had befriended a family at a campground, spent several days sightseeing with them, shared a barbecue of hot wings, and then had cleaved the four of them into pieces with a hatchet. Most psychos didn’t want to kill strangers. That wasn’t much fun. Exceptions like Ace were driven by other motives, and The Rook could have recited a laundry list of them if he were still around. But he wasn’t.

Castle eased the gun under his armpit, into the shoulder holster. “Didn’t mean to scare you. It pays to be paranoid, that’s all.”

“You’re looking for him, aren’t you?” Jenny said.

Castle nodded. “Who was with him?”

“A girl,” Pete said. “A looker. Lean legs, decent tan, like she was on spring break from college.”

“She wasn’t that pretty,” Jenny said. “You didn’t look above her chest.”

“Stop with the mouth. This man’s a cop. I can smell them a mile away.”

“Why were you scared, then? He’s a little closer than a mile and you stink so bad you can’t smell nothing much.”

“Stop with it.”

Jenny was reminding Castle more and more of his ex-wife. He cut in. “You said he took the canoe?”

“About an hour ago.”

Castle glanced at his wristwatch. It was nearly 11 a.m. If Goodall and his companion had any paddling skill at all, they were probably two or three miles downriver by now. “Do you have a trail map?”

“No,” Pete said. “We thought we were sticking to the river.”

He didn’t have much chance of catching up with Goodall. Guiding the couple to safety would take the rest of the day, but at least it would be a form of public service. He hadn’t served much of anybody since entering the Unegama Wilderness Area, and had one big red mark in his ledger. And he should probably warn them that a weird gray flying monster might grab them.

But monsters aren’t real. They’re just shadows under the bed. And it looks like they’re plenty scared enough already.

Castle set down his backpack, knelt, and rummaged until he found one of the maps. He gave it to Pete, but Jenny promptly snatched it away. “You couldn’t find your ass with both hands and a flashlight,” she said.

“There’s only one major trail on the north side,” Castle said, looking at a point between them, where a large balsam pine towered over the rocky outcropping, its gnarled roots gripping the soil of the bank as if afraid of being set adrift. “Do you have a compass?”

Pete shook his head, and Jenny ran out her lower lip as if wondering what else he’d forgotten. She unfolded the map and said, “Straight north on foot and we’ll be in Atlantic City just in time to retire.”

“You can’t miss the trail. The sun’s heading west, so stay ninety degrees from its path across the sky and you’ll be okay.”

Pete cast a dubious glance overhead. “But the sun’s nearly straight up.”

Castle pointed north. “Just go that way, then.”

“‘Go that way,’ he says, Mr. Big Shot Cop,” Jenny said. “And if we don’t, are you going to write us a ticket?”

“Stop with it,” Pete said.

“I’m sorry, but I have to go,” Castle said. It was always possible that Goodall could have had an accident or spilled the canoe. If his traveling companion were a fraction as annoying as Jenny, then the Bama Bomber might have a short fuse already. Or had pushed her overboard.

“Thanks for the map,” Pete said. “This guy who robbed us? Is he big trouble?”

“Let’s just say, with any luck, you might be called as a witness in one of the biggest federal trials since the DC snipers. Assuming we all make it out of here alive.”

“The man’s an optimist,” Jenny said to Pete. “You should pay attention, you might learn something.”

Castle was already heading downstream, following the shore, watching the slick, wet stones at his feet, when he wondered if he should warn the couple about giant flying creatures with dishrag wings that could swoop down and carry them away. Nope. That was nuts.

Not “nuts,” said The Rook, who was apparently determined to ride mental shotgun for the duration of the journey. You’re just a person of psychological difference. A momentary case of schism, a delusional-disorder poster child, a shrink’s wet dream. Nothing to worry about.

“I’m beginning to worry about you,” Castle replied aloud. “Because you sound crazier than I am. And you’re probably dead.”

Why would you go and hold a little thing like that against me?

“Because I have a feeling I might be joining you soon.”

No shit, Sherlock.

Behind Castle, Pete and Jenny were arguing over the map, and Jenny appeared to be winning. Castle hoped, if those weird, bloodthirsty nightmare creatures really existed, they would find her. She probably tasted bad, but at least Pete would get the pleasure of watching her being dragged away across the sky. If he lived long enough to enjoy being a widower.

The Rook wasn’t quite dead, though the distinction made little difference to him.

In the pitch darkness, he couldn’t tell how many of the creatures had put their faces to his neck and chest. It could have been a dozen, or it could have been two or three repeating the act. It wasn’t the soft sipping sounds they made that was most disturbing; it was the lack of their breath on his skin, the coldness of the lips that nipped at his upper body, the occasional teasing of lazy teeth.

He was completely immobile. Not paralyzed, for he still had some feeling in his limbs and still sensed some motor control, though his lack of action was giving the lie to that belief. A deeper, more primal part of him was enjoying the surrender, perhaps in the same way a rabbit’s brain released relaxing chemicals when the animal was caught in the fox’s jaws. His erection hadn’t faded in the slightest during his fourteen hours of captivity, though it had long since stopped affording him any pleasure. Now it ached, persistent, throbbing, and promising no release.