River of No Return : A Jake Trent Novel (9781451698053) (13 page)

The car fired up by start button. Terrell floored it in reverse up
and out of the structure. The front-desk agent was running up the ramp, firing. A round hit the windshield, but deflected away.

Slamming the transmission into Drive, Terrell rounded the corner of the building, headed toward Main Street and eventually the ingress road.

As he made the right turn onto Main, Terrell's heart sunk. Blocking the road were the giants and an assortment of other men in quasi-military garb clutching AR-15s.

When Terrell stopped, the men parted to either side and Xiao emerged.

“Get out,” they heard through the windows. This was the angriest they had heard or seen their captor.

Terrell took the keys from the ignition. The car beeped like a countdown for their last moments on earth. “Move slowly, honey. Don't do anything rash.”

Charlotte nodded.

Terrell looked in her eyes for a second. Here was his life. Everything he had ever cared about. Guilt overwhelmed him. He had no more cards to play. He grabbed his wife's hand and squeezed hard.

“Okay. Let's go.”

The giants wrestled Terrell to the ground, giving him several hard pops to the face.

As Terrell writhed on the ground, the giants rushed around the car and restrained Charlotte, who was quickly becoming hysterical.

Xiao walked to the bloodied chief.

“I'm sure you know how the West was won?” Xiao's tone was even now. He tapped the shiny silver revolver on his hip.

Terrell looked at the bright moon and, for the first time in a while, prayed. He reverted to his police-academy persona—­unflappable, beyond persuasion.

“My family homesteaded in the American West starting in 1810.
Sir
.”

Charlotte cried out toward Xiao. “Let him be!” Their captor didn't respond.

“A real Buffalo Bill,” said Xiao.

“To you, maybe.”

Xiao laughed. “Then I am sure you are fastest draw in the West. Are you armed?”

Terrell lifted his shirt to show the stolen revolver in his waistband.

“Ten steps, then draw. Do you understand?”

Terrell nodded, then looked at his wife, trying to convey a lifetime's worth of feeling. He knew there was no chance. If he happened to beat Xiao, the giants would kill him before he knew it. At least he could die in peace, now that he knew it was Charlotte they wanted. Their last bargaining chip. She would have to be kept alive.

“Are you ready?” Xiao interrupted Terrell's thoughts.

“Yes.”

“Max, would you be so kind as to start us?” One of the giants nodded in response.

“Three.”

“Two.”

“One.”

The chief tried to count the steps to himself, but it was difficult to stay focused. He must have been off. For the second between what he thought was eight and complete darkness, he wondered:
Did Xiao shoot early? That
son of a . . .

26

SALMON RIVER, IDAHO. OCTOBER 23.

9:45 A.M. MOUNTAIN STANDARD TIME.

Jake left the hotel and walked to his 4Runner, which he'd moved back to the hotel late the night before. The wind tossed an array of orange and yellow leaves across the parking lot. Crossing the river at the boat launch above the bridge, anglers were rigging their rods and launching their boats.

The ignition gasped in the bitter morning air. After it fired up, Jake hit the seat heater with a numb finger and gave the engine a moment to warm.

From what he'd overheard on the way to his SUV, the fishing was good. The spawning steelhead had finally decided the temperature, weather, and water level were right. The stars were aligned. Whatever innate switch existed in their tiny brains had turned on; it was time to move upriver and do the deed. Ensure the health of
their population. There would be thousands of sea-run fish spread out through the Salmon River system.

Maybe one in a hundred of these fish would decide a properly presented fly deserved a little knock. Nobody knew why. They didn't feed during the spawn, so why the bite? Some compared it to teasing a kitten with a string. When the kitten wanted to play, game on. More often than not, steelhead played the part of the lazy tomcat—uninterested in games, focused on copulation.

Jake's phone buzzed with a text message. Don Hoozler.

Amy says you registered at the hotel last night. Got the day off.

Don was a steelhead guide in Salmon in the fall, and a trout guide on the Snake in the summer. His girlfriend, Amy, was a manager at the hotel. He obviously wanted to go fishing.

Jake wrote back.

Wish I could. Just in town seeing a friend.

An immediate response—a cartoon emoji thumbs-down.

Jake was now waiting to pull out onto the main road, en route to the hospital. He texted Don an apology and turned off his iPhone.

J.P. had already headed out to see Esma. Jake wanted to give them a few minutes alone. Then he would pay his respects, give a statement to the police, jump back in the 4Runner, and head to St. John's in Jackson to see Allen. Bring him some real food. Apologize for ruining his life with shitty decision making.

In her room in the tiny hospital, Esma looked beautiful, but not in her usual way. Instead of seeing strength in her eyes, Jake saw
fear, vulnerability. Still, her black hair shimmered under the bright lights, and her face was kind and lovely.

An IV was taped into her arm for hydration. On her bedside table sat uneaten eggs and ham. J.P. knelt next to her, holding her hand. He'd found flowers to bring—quite a feat in a small town in the early morning.

“The hero,” Esma said in a raspy, weak voice. “C'mon over.” Jake had been standing in the doorway, feeling sheepish.

“He's the hero,” Jake said earnestly. “He's the one who heard you scream.” Jake winced at his word choice. “He's the one who found you.”

“You are both my heroes. C'mon.”

Jake left his awkward position at the door and walked to the hospital bed. He bent down and hugged Esma. As he did so, J.P. gave him a few hard slaps on the back. “Love you, buddy,” his friend said softly.

It was a lot for Jake to handle. The trauma of a gunfight was taxing enough, and the duress of having had two people close to him in such peril almost sent him over the edge. He stood and took a moment to compose himself.

“Tell me,” Esma said with tears welling in her eyes, “how is it that I came to befriend the two most courageous men in the world?”

J.P. blushed. “I'm not courageous, just dumb and in love.”

Esma knocked him on the shoulder. “I don't think so,
mi
amor
.”

Jake stood and kissed her on the forehead.“I should be going. I've got a meeting with the cops to explain all this.”

He gave Esma another hug, and then shook J.P.'s hand. “When will you be released?”

Esma shrugged. “Tomorrow. I have everything I need.” She tousled J.P.'s already bedraggled hair.

“Take care of yourselves.” Jake walked out of the room.

He exhaled. Things were looking up. Esma was safe and happy, and Allen, the true hero, was going to be fine according to Esma's nurse, who had just talked to the folks at St. John's. Fishing with Don was sounding better and better.

Jake parked behind the library and walked into the police station later that morning. The receptionist was a woman who looked to be about a hundred and two.

“Yes?”

“I'm Jake Trent. I have an appointment.”

The old woman said nothing, but slowly picked up the phone and mumbled something into the receiver.

A few seconds later, a fortysomething man with broad shoulders strode forcefully toward Jake.

“Mr. Trent.” He held out an enormous hand. “Nice to see you again.”

“Likewise.”

“Follow me.”

The detective's office was sterile. No pictures. No desk gnomes.

“We'll make this quick. Have a seat.”

Jake shrugged, meaning
Do what you
gotta do.

“First, just a formality. Do you have a Concealed Carry Permit?”

Jake took out his wallet and handed Rapport his card from Wyoming. “Idaho has reciprocity, I assume.”

Rapport smirked. “Yep, no problem here.”

“I also have this.” Jake handed the chief his old Department of Justice identification card. Across the front, it was stamped
RETIRED
.

An incredulous look from Rapport. After flipping it over a few
times, he spoke. “I don't know what this is.” He handed it back to Jake, who put it in his wallet.

“I used to work under the Justice Department. Investigations.”

“But now you're retired?”

Jake nodded.

“Listen.” Rapport leaned over his desk toward Jake. “I got the lowdown already. It doesn't matter who you are. What you did out there was hella impressive.”

This reaction was about 180 degrees from what Jake figured he deserved.

“Tell you what, we've got a little award in Lemhi County we call the Spirit of the Grizzly. I'm gonna nominate you this winter.”

“That's not necessary. I—”

“I insist.” He gave Jake a satisfied smile.

“Is that all? No statement?” Jake was shocked there wasn't more hoop-jumping.

“We got plenty last night. I'll give you a minute to review this for details and then sign the bottom.”

Jake looked over the report. It seemed accurate, if vague. He looked up before he inked his name.

“You're satisfied with the amount of detail here?” One of the few specifics was the caliber and type of Jake's sidearm, which the detective had inspected last night. “You'll be able to go after this guy? Kidnapping, everything? Rape?” Jake had guessed the last part from the look in Esma's eyes.

“Oh hell yeah. We get a lot of crazy people in these woods out here. These particular guys have warrants out the ass. A few states.” The detective was looking down, clipping his fingernails. “Drugs, robbery, all that. He'll be in for a while.”

“What're their names?”

A pause. The detective knew them from memory. “Timothy Corfie is the deceased. Layle Neville is in stable condition.”

Jake threw that in the memory bank, grabbed a pen from the desk, and signed the document.

They shook hands, and Rapport gave him a quick salute, probably thinking this was a daily occurrence at the DOJ. Jake awkwardly saluted back.

It was warmer outside when Jake walked out of the station. Sunny, the air smelling of fallen leaves, and rain spitting from a few straggling clouds. Jake was right across from the bronze bear statue in the center of town. On a heap of river rocks, the grizzly stood, watching the salmon and steelhead migrate past his feet, looking for an easy meal.

Jake reached down and touched the nearest fish. It was smooth and ice-cold—not unlike the real thing. The sensation gave him a moment of peace.

He took out his phone and gave Don a ring. “All right, I'm in.”

They met at Tower Rock, a few miles downriver from town.

“Still got the Dodge, I see.” Jake shook Don's hand. He wasn't a tall man, but the width of his rowing shoulders made him appear bigger than he was. His hair was jet-black, like his scruffy beard.

“Yep, one hundred twenty-one K on her.” These were the sorts of things fishing guides liked to talk about. Good, dependable truck, a boat that had withstood years of abuse. It all meant your rod was longer than the typical weekend warrior's.

In this case that was accurate—Don took two thirteen-foot Spey rods from the magnetic holder stuck to the roof of the Ram.

“I can grab something.”

Don handed the rods to Jake, who stared at the reels on the outfits. “Old loops?” The reels adorned seven-weight Beulah Classics.

“The originals. Made by Danielsson Innovation. Salmon series.”

“Nice. Where'd you find those?”

Jake was walking alongside the truck as Don backed the trailer in.

He shouted back through the window and over the diesel. “An old client. He croaked. Widow called and said he always wanted me to have them.” A little laugh.

“Quite a compliment. And you use them with clients?”

Don stopped the truck abruptly and killed the ignition. “Are you outta your mind? Clients get the snickelfritz.” Don's term for the cheap gear. “Haven't even had the loops out yet. Just put new line on 'em.”

“Wow. Thanks.”

Don's old High Side was heavy and the roller bar cranky. It took both of them to push it off the trailer and into the river.

“Be right back.” Don accelerated off the ramp to the parking area.

Jake took stock of his surroundings. It had turned into a beautiful day. Tower Rock, the landmark crag where Lewis and Clark once camped, stood behind him, glowing warm orange in the autumn sun. The water was a complementary emerald hue, a little cloudy from the recent precipitation. Sometimes this was a boon; it stirred things up, got the fish going. A steelhead's normal mood was somber and unimpressed. Any change in the conditions might make them happy, mad, annoyed—whatever it was that sparked them to lash out and strike a fly.

Don was back at the ramp. He tossed some loaner waders at Jake.

“Snickelfritz?”

“You'll find out when you get in the water.” Which was hovering around forty degrees. Plenty cold enough to feel a leak.

Jake laughed and pulled on the bootfoot waders and carried the rods into the drifter.

Don pulled up the thirty-pound anchor and nudged the craft out into the current.

“Purple on both rods; I know you wanna change to black, so just go ahead.” Color was everything—and nothing—in steelhead fishing. In a sport where your odds were so low, people obsessed over minute details: “The one you got last Thursday, did he eat the dark-pink one or the light-red hackled one?” At the same time, logic pointed to the fact that it made no real difference.

Jake was one of the many who subscribed to the notion that any color works for any fish as long as it's black. He took the clippers and the black Hobo-Spey pattern that Don was holding up for him and made the change.

Casting a long Spey rod required a touch more artistic flair than your normal nine-foot fly rod. That, and it brought the fly damned close to the person rowing if you tried to cast from the boat. So the strategy was to use the boat as transportation from likely run to likely run, then anchor and fish thoroughly.

The first few runs were crowded with fishermen. “Bank maggots,” Don mused. “Every year I'm amazed that the fish even come back. They run through nine hundred miles of land mines—lures, flies—to get here. This is a mighty strong river to support all the pressure from fishermen.”

Jake nodded. He wanted to laugh at the typical frustrated-guide talk, but he'd heard Don do the “mighty strong river” bit before, and he knew his friend took it seriously.

“Mighty strong,” Don said again. “Hell of a burden, all these fishermen. 'Course, I'm not helping, I 'spose.”

“You act like you actually catch fish.”

Don chuckled, and they sat for a few minutes, contemplating the burdens they placed on the land they loved so much.

“This one around the bend is a sleeper hole. Won't be anyone in it.”

When they got to the spot, Jake could see why it didn't get fished. “Sandy bottom,” Jake said. Steelhead notoriously hated sandy bottoms.

“Looks that way, doesn't it?” Don was pulling the drift boat over into an eddy on river left, working hard. When the boat was in the calm, shallow water close to shore, he dropped anchor. It stuck in the mucky substrate.

“C'mon.”

Jake hopped out and handed a rod to Don. Then he followed his friend down the bank.

“The good water is just here at the bottom of the run. That sand and mud give way to three big boulders on the current seam out there.” He pointed his rod tip toward the center of the river and swept it downstream. “One, two, three.” They were spread out with fifty yards between them.

Jake could see the giant rocks' effect on the current. Three sofa-sized hydraulic swirls along the seam.

Don continued. “That upper part of the run is garbage, but down here if you can send a cast out beyond the rocks and let it swing back through, you've got a good chance. Go ahead and hit it first; I'll jump in behind you.”

“Got it.” Jake eyed the distance—about seventy feet, not very long for a Spey cast. He walked back into the water and unhooked the black fly from the rod's first eyelet.

“And let that thing swing the whole way to the bank; they'll follow it way in here.” One last piece of advice from Don.

It sounded so promising before you fished it, and that was the charm of steelheading.

It was all about covering the water. Since one eager steelhead might be two miles from the next one, the angler presented only one cast from each spot he stood in, then took two steps downriver and repeated. If you got a bite, a pull, a tug, a whack, but didn't connect, you got a free pass to spend an extra five minutes on that spot, changing flies and trying to convince the fish.