The last woman he’d climbed with was dead. He couldn’t handle another blow like that.
Sam was already broken, hanging on to sanity by a thread. At the slightest provocation, he’d fall apart.
As Hope walked across the uneven, pebble-strewn surface of the crag, he followed close behind, his heart racing. It was ten degrees cooler at this altitude. Wind rippled through his microfiber shirt, evaporating the sweat from his body. Although he’d just slaked his thirst, his throat was dry.
When the wreckage came into view, she paused. It appeared that the plane had clipped the southwest corner of the mountain and broken up across the surface. The majority of the fuselage was still intact, perched very close to the edge of the opposite cliff. A figure was slumped over in the pilot’s seat.
Sam’s stomach clenched with unease.
Although the pilot appeared to be dead, she approached with caution. “We’re with search-and-rescue for Sierra National Park,” she called out, shading the sun from her eyes. “Do you need help?”
No response.
She glanced at Sam, her face tense. Motioning for Sam to stay there, she crept forward. He ignored the gesture and stuck by her.
The plane’s front windshield was broken. Inside the cockpit, the pilot was motionless, his head resting on the dash, gray hair fluttering in the breeze.
“Can you hear me?”
Nothing.
It didn’t appear that any bodies had been thrown from the plane. When she was at an arm’s length from the broken windshield, she leaned over to peer inside. The wreckage was so close to the cliff’s edge, he pictured it toppling over with one touch. He bit back a warning as she craned her neck for a better view. A black crow flew out of the cockpit with a shrill screech, wings flapping.
Sam almost had a heart attack.
Hope screamed at the top of her lungs and leaped backward, bumping into him. He stumbled sideways.
“I told you to stay over there,” she scolded.
Sam didn’t answer. He couldn’t take his gaze off the pilot. The lower half of the man’s face was obliterated, and he had a second wound in the center of his chest. Blood spatter coated the interior.
This wasn’t just a crash site. It was a murder scene.
CHAPTER THREE
JAVIER DEL NORTE reached the campsite at the edge of the river sometime after dawn.
He was thirsty, and hungry, and tired. His shirt had stains and his slacks were ruined. His feet were bleeding inside his Ferragamo loafers, he just knew it.
Luckily for him, Americans on vacation were a trustworthy lot. They left all sorts of clothing and supplies out in the open while camping. He didn’t understand why successful people with luxury vehicles would choose to sleep on dirt or torture themselves physically in their free time, but their masochism wasn’t his problem. California culture was ineffable. He’d accepted that and moved on long ago.
His main concern was getting out of this wilderness without detection. And hopefully without having to kill anyone else.
Shoving the items he’d scalped into a stolen backpack, he headed toward the public restrooms to change. Near the men’s entrance, he noticed a door for a utility closet. Unlocked, of course. Because tree huggers didn’t steal toilet paper. He reached inside, helping himself to bleach, hydrogen peroxide and Band-Aids.
In the men’s room, he studied his reflection. His once-white shirt was dotted with blood and bits of gore. Teeth fragments, perhaps. Removing it with a grimace, he tossed the garment into the sink and uncapped the hydrogen peroxide.
With heavy regret, for his jet-black hair was striking, he leaned forward and poured the bottle over his head. The liquid burned his nostrils and dripped down his chin, but he gave himself a good dousing, keeping his eyes shut tight. When he couldn’t stand the sting anymore, he rinsed his hair and studied the effect.
Awful.
The rusty bronze color didn’t look natural, or attractive, but it was different. With sunglasses on, he might be unrecognizable. Satisfied, he took off his pants, socks and shoes, piling them in the sink. He added bleach. While he was standing there in his boxer briefs, soaking his bloodstained clothes, another man came in to use the facilities. He was young and spot-faced, his eyes puffy. Mumbling hello, he disappeared into the first stall.
Retching sounds emanated from the confined space.
Javier shook his head in disgust. He fantasized about shooting the sick camper to put him out of his misery. There wasn’t a shower at this imbecilic place, so he washed with cold tap water and patted himself dry with rough paper towels. It was impossible to eliminate every spec of evidence, so he didn’t bother trying. After rinsing his wet clothes, he stuffed them in the trash can.
The pack he’d stolen contained several stray clothing items. He donned a gray V-neck T-shirt and low-slung plaid shorts, lamenting the owner’s bad taste. The shirt was too snug and the shorts too loose, but at least they were clean. He sat down on a wooden bench to bandage the blisters on his feet.
Two more young men walked into the restroom, glancing in his direction. He froze, hoping they weren’t the campers he’d just robbed.
Dismissing Javier, the first guy banged on the bathroom stall. “Dude, pull it together. We’re going to be late for the trip.”
The sick man vomited again.
His friends laughed at the noise, goofing around and punching each other.
“Just leave without me.”
“No way, dickhead! I can’t get a refund if you cancel.”
“I’ll pay you back,” he groaned.
“Stop being such a pussy. We’re all hungover.”
“It’s the altitude.”
“You’ll feel better on the raft.”
The man started dry-heaving, and his friends continued to ridicule him.
Javier almost felt sorry for the poor bastard. There was nothing more emasculating than puking your guts out in a public toilet. He’d done it himself, several years ago, after drowning his sorrows at Hector Gonzales’s bachelor party. The next day Hector had married the woman Javier loved.
Wincing at the memory, he put on a pair of sturdy athletic socks and black canvas tennis shoes that were only half a size too large. The backpack also boasted a hat. A beanie, he believed it was called. Tugging it over his wet hair, he walked outside, bypassing the foolish young men. An area map was posted on an information board next to the restrooms. Warnings about bears and safety instructions appeared in several languages.
He studied the map, which indicated that he was at the Kaweah Campsite in Sierra National Park. Only one road led in and out of the park. Both the entrance and the exit were more than thirty miles away.
That was
