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Wolf nosed the Jeep up to a sturdy steel gate, spray-painted red. “Dammit, Uncle Ray, how do we get around this? Your puny bolt cutters won’t do the trick.”
While the Forest Service opened “red” roads to hunters and hikers for brief periods, they were generally reserved for law enforcement, firefighting, and rescue operations. Rangers took trespassing seriously.
The gate’s metal supports were as thick as Wolf’s thighs and sunk in concrete. The steel cross members weren’t scrawny either. Even the padlock was encased in a secure cubbyhole, recessed within the steel frame. Massive pines and white oaks crowded the no-nonsense barrier. No side gaps to finesse.
“Do we hoof it from here? Must be eight miles and you want us to schlep an arsenal on our backs.”
“Oh, ye of little faith.” Ray swung a small key back and forth hypnotist-style.
“How in tarnation did you get that?”
Ray moseyed over to the gate. “Ranger Dennis gave me a key so’s I could help with a black bear count. It’s a master. Fits all the locks.”
“So why did we bring bolt cutters?”
His uncle shrugged. “Never know. Might come in handy. Onward didn’t give me the keys to their kingdom.”
Wolf stretched. They’d driven for an hour, though they’d probably covered less than fifteen miles. Ray played navigator, directing him through a tangle of rutted dirt and gravel passageways. Without his uncle, he’d be lost, unless he stumbled on a Foothills Trail marker or scaled a peak that brought familiar landmarks into view.
The tangy pine scent invigorated him. Hard to believe this wasn’t a run-of-the-mill wilderness outing. He and his uncle had hiked and hunted these woods a hundred times over.
“I’m going to take a little walk,” Wolf told his uncle. “Be right back.”
Maybe I’m the one hallucinating. Did Ray really say I’d been framed for murder?
He sighed. No. The nightmare was real, and he still wasn’t certain what he and his uncle could accomplish playing guerilla warfare. What happened if they actually found the Onward camp?
If Riley tried to phone, she’d undoubtedly hear some “out of range” mumbo jumbo. He doubted Verizon had a canned message for “Sorry this phone was beaten to death.”
By now she’d know he was a murder suspect. Would that color her response to his cryptic text message? After his angry performance last night—firing her gun—his fugitive status might not be a surprise.
No explanations were possible now. Time to forget Riley and focus on Onward and evidence. He needed proof some rich executive and a dirty deputy were trying to pin a murder on him.
Maybe. If he took photos of this Deputy Monson at Onward’s new camp, he’d have backup. He kept a digital camera in his glove compartment to capture settings for his novels. He’d operate the camera in manual mode. Couldn’t risk a flash.
A photo of Monson with Onward members might help convince authorities Ray wasn’t telling a whopper to save his nephew. However, proving the deputy’s guilt would be child’s play compared to the challenge of nailing John Hunter. Would anyone believe his uncle witnessed the rich executive ordering Smitty to be scalped?
He imagined Hunter and the deputy safely immersed in their daytime routines—drinking lattes, making business deals, locking up drunks. His eyes narrowed. He prayed the deputy would visit the Onward camp come nightfall.
None of it made sense. Hunter—and his money—had to be behind Onward’s sudden activity. Why? He couldn’t picture the millionaire hanging out with these bubbas. Financing an attack on Blue Ridge University seemed idiotic. Even if Hunter harbored a grudge about his father’s hefty donations to the school, taking revenge on the institution seemed insane.
What would Hunter get for his fifty thou investment? Chaos? Fear? Misdirection?
Wolf’s gait slowed while his mind churned. As he ducked under a tree branch and returned to the dirt road, he watched a whistling Ray double-check their backseat arsenal. The grizzled mountain man’s mood swings worried him. Wolf felt he was being sucked into a bottomless sinkhole. No rope in sight.
He assigned James Dickey’s Deliverance in freshman English lit for its powerful, poetic prose. A Southern classic. He loved the book, but it made him wonder. In Dickey’s novel, the hero’s hand trembles when he first sights down on a living creature. Buck fever. Wolf had hunted bear and boar, deer and rabbit. But could he shoot a man?
His uncle stared at him. “Son, you’re thinking too much. Sometimes you just need to act. Keep moving, and let life sort itself out. Better than sitting still, locked up in fear.”
He nodded. No point debating. “How much farther?”
“About two hours.”
“You sure they won’t see or hear us coming?”
“Nah, we’ll park a couple miles from the camp, sneak in the back door on foot.”