As they leveled out on the river valley floor and crossed a small stream before entering the trees, Joe punched off his cell phone and squelched the volume of the radio to a whisper. Both windows were open in the pickup, so he and Nate could get a better sense of the surroundings. Joe drove slowly, keeping the sound of the motor at a minimum. He wanted to enter the campground as quietly as he could.
They passed a brown Forest Service sign nearly obliterated by years of sniping and shotgun blasts that read PICK PIKE CAMPGROUND.
Inside the trees, it was dark and it smelled damp, with an edge of forest- floor decay. Pale yellow cottonwood leaves blanketed the soft black earth. Small splats of sun pierced through the wide canopy of trees and formed starbursts on the surface.
Nate gestured toward the two-track in front of them, and mouthed, "Fresh tracks."
Joe nodded. He had seen the tracks as well, noting that they were so new that the peaked impression of the tire treads was still sharp.
Nate had his.454 Casull in his right hand, the muzzle pointed toward the floor. Joe's.40 Beretta was on the seat next to his thigh. Joe's palms were icy with apprehension, his breath was quavery and shallow. He found himself clenching his jaw so tightly that his teeth hurt.
Before turning toward the campsites, the road passed a rusting metal fish-cleaning station near a boat takeout point on the riverbank. They were past it when Joe sniffed the air and eased to a stop. There was a smell that didn't belong, he thought.
He opened his door as quietly as he could, and approached the station. Nate did the same, but walked toward the bank of the river. The fish- cleaning station was old and simple; a flat metal work area perched on angle-iron legs. The cleaning area could be washed clean by a river-water faucet. Usually these things smelled bad, he knew, but the normal odor was of fish guts, fish heads, and entire rotting skeletons if the fisherman filleted the trout and left the rest. The problem with this station was that it didn't smell like that at all, he realized. Instead, there was the pungent odor of ammonia bleach.
Indeed, the metal cleaning counter was scrubbed clean. In the center of the counter was a drain hole. The drain led to an underground pipe that discharged into the river itself.
Either the station had been used by unusually sanitary and obsessive fishermen, he thought, or it had been used for another purpose.
His stomach clenched.
Joe looked up to see Nate gesturing at him furiously to come over to where he stood at the water's edge.
As Joe walked over, he had a sickening premonition of what he might find.
Nate bent down and pointed toward the discharge pipe several inches below the surface of the river. A long white ribbon of some kind had caught on an underwater twig and undulated in the flow. Nate reached into the water and pulled the ribbon free, stretching it across both of his hands so they could look at it.
It was human skin. White human skin. On the bottom of the ribbon was a dark blue stencil of some kind, a series of three consecutive horizontal lines. Through his horror, Joe realized what they were. "Oh, my God," he whispered. "That's the top of some lettering, T-E-E." He looked up at Nate. "From the word 'ABDUCTEE.' It's from Deena. She had it tattooed across her abdomen. The son of a bitch skinned her."
Now, Joe was angry. Everything he had been feeling previously- frustration, embarrassment, outright fear as they descended into the trees-channeled into rage. "Let's find him and take him out," he said over his shoulder to Nate as he strode to the pickup. Tilting the bench seat forward, Joe drew his shotgun from its scabbard. It was still loaded with double-ought buckshot shells. Nate followed. "Joe, calm down." "I'm calm," Joe said through clenched teeth. He was thinking of Deena, of Not Ike, of Tuff Montegue and Stuart Tanner, of the circus of humiliation and depravity Cleve Garrett had brought into his valley. "Let's talk about this for a second," Nate said. Joe racked the pump. "We need a strategy," Nate said. "So take a breath."
Cleve Garrett's Airstream Trailer was still attached to his pickup and it was pulled into the fifth and last space in the campground. It looked like a big, slick metallic tube in the dark trees. Behind the trailer, through thick stands of willows, the river flowed wide and shallow. Joe cranked the wheel of his truck to block the road, and turned off the motor. Garrett could not drive out of his site now, and there were too many thick trees all around for him to use an overland escape route. The blinds were pulled down tight on all of the trailer windows, and Joe wondered if he had been either seen or heard by the occupants inside. Joe and Nate slid out of the cab. As they had planned, Nate pushed his way into the brush and vanished within it to take a position behind cover near the front of Garrett's pickup. This way, Nate could cover Joe as well as see if anyone inside tried to escape out the back of the trailer. Joe stood behind his pickup, keeping it between him and the trailer. He had switched his radio to PA and the mike cord stretched across the cab and out the open window. When he assumed Nate was in position, he keyed the mike. "Cleve Garrett, come out of that trailer now." He watched the windows carefully, saw one of them near the front shiver as someone looked out. "IF YOU HAVE ANY WEAPONS, LEAVE THEM INSIDE. OPEN THE DOOR AND COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR, PALMS OUT." The front window blind shot up. Joe crouched down and raised the stock of the shotgun to his cheek. He put the bead on the front sight to the window. A face appeared, pressed against the glass. "Joseph?" Not Ike mouthed. "Joseph?" His words were silent on the outside. Not Ike looked confused but okay, Joe thought with a rush of relief. Garrett probably had a gun at Not Ike's head, shoving the big man's face into the glass. Not Ike was mouthing something through the glass. Joe could read it: Creepylike guys, Joseph. A louvered pane near Not Ike's head was being cranked open. Joe hoped Nate had a better angle on the window from where he was hidden in the brush. Maybe, Joe thought, Nate would be able to see Garrett inside and fire if Garrett lowered his gun or was distracted. "Joseph, that's you, isn't it?" Joe could now hear Not Ike. "It's me," Joe said, talking into the mike so that Garrett would be sure to hear him as well. "Plus about twenty officers more on the way. The trailer is surrounded." There was a beat and Not Ike's face was pulled from the window. Maybe Garrett would speak now, Joe hoped. Maybe Garrett would try to make a deal. "Nobody needs to get hurt," Joe said, willing confident gentleness into his voice. "No one needs to get hurt at all. Just leave any weapons inside and come out." There was movement inside the trailer, and it rocked slightly. With a metallic click, the door burst open. Joe swung the muzzle of his shotgun to it, saw the door slam against the outside of the trailer, saw the doorframe filled with Not Ike. Garrett was behind Not Ike with his forearm around the big man's throat and a pistol pressed into his ear. Because Garrett was much shorter, all Joe could see of him were his eyes over Not Ike's shoulder.
"We're coming out," Garrett shouted.
Not Ike stepped out of the trailer, Garrett pressed tightly behind him. Not Ike took several steps forward, grinning at Joe as if he didn't fully comprehend what was happening. Joe didn't lower his shotgun. For a brief, electrifying moment, Garrett's and Joe's eyes locked.
"Let him go," Joe said, close enough now not to need the microphone. "Lower the gun and drop it into the dirt."
Garrett looked furtively to his side.
"I don't see anybody else," Garrett said. "Where're your troops?"
"They're out there," Joe lied, thinking: Nate, where are you?
Garrett pushed Not Ike forward another few steps toward Joe. The pistol was jammed into Not Ike's ear, tilting his head slightly to the side. Joe could see that the hammer was cocked. Not Ike looked strangely serene, Joe thought. Somehow, it made the situation seem worse.
"We're going to walk right up to you," Garrett said, his voice gaining confidence. "And we're going to take your truck out of here. You are going to lower that shotgun and step aside."
Yes, I was, Joe thought. He had no other choice. Unless… Nate?
Then the door to the trailer filled with someone else, something else, something unspeakably horrible.
It was Cam Logue, with most of his face peeled aside. The front of his shirt was soaked with blood, and his head slumped forward, his arms limp. He was being held up from behind by a big, dark man with a beard, wearing a bloody camouflage jacket.
"Oh, my God," Joe heard himself whisper. Why is Cam here and what have they done to him?
The man behind Cam Logue moved out of the trailer. He appeared to be carrying Cam, keeping him vertical with one arm wrapped tightly around Logue's chest. In the other hand was a scalpel, which was pressed against Logue's throat.
"You din't fo'get about me, did you, Doc?" the man asked Garrett. His speech was garbled and slurred. The man's poor speech and the camo jacket clicked in Joe's mind. It was Nurse Bob, Joe realized.
"Of course not," Garrett said to Nurse Bob, not looking around. To Joe: "It's a messy business, this."
Joe was stunned, unable to process the horrific scene in front of him. Nothing made sense. BOOM.
The left half of Nurse Bob's head disappeared, blood and pieces of flesh splattering the side of the trailer with a sickening, wet sound, while his body toppled over backward like a felled tree. Cam Logue fell forward, released from the man's grip, landing facedown on the ground.
Instinctively, Joe straightened up and moved to his left behind the truck to get an angle on Garrett. Garrett had wheeled Not Ike around toward the sound of the shot, and Joe could see Garrett clearly now. But Garrett still had the pistol jammed into Not Ike's head.
"Who did that?" Garrett screamed, stealing a glance toward Cam's prone body.
"Drop the weapon!" Joe shouted.
But Garrett didn't. Instead, he began backpedaling, pulling Not Ike along with him. Garrett backed up until he was nearly at the trailer again, but veered toward the rear of it. Not Ike was starting to panic now, because he didn't know what was happening.
"Joseph!"
Garrett backed into the reedy brush behind the trailer, and before he was gone the last thing Joe saw were Not Ike's arms flailing.
Then he heard a splash.
Joe and Nate followed. "You didn't tell me there would be two of them," Nate said.
"Nobody told me there would be two of them either," Joe muttered. "Or that Cam would be with them."
Nate said nothing.
They found Not Ike in the river, sputtering but unharmed. Cleve Gar- rett was gone.
"I've got him," Nate said, leaving Joe and Not Ike in the river and wading toward the opposite bank.