Castle Blanca

Fiction - by Bob Sojka

Sam Coleman reclined on the cabin’s deck, sipping his expensive, burr-ground steam-brewed Kopi Luwak, awash in caffeinated melancholy. The endless Alaskan forest vista gradually waxed amber, dirty crimson, then chocolate-smeared grey as the sun burrowed into the sylvan horizon. Towering firs moaned a lusty response to the insistent caress of a late season zephyr as sea-scented currents stroked their jade manes like a doting god wooing a concubine. 

He berated himself for letting his mind settle on a romantic metaphor for the sunset, especially knowing that the weather would soon change overnight, just as his life had abruptly changed two months ago. Julia’s perfume still seeped from her side of their closets, torturing his senses and his thoughts a dozen times a day. The circumstance of her abduction was the only thing that nagged his soul more unforgivingly than his inability to imagine a future without her. That and not even knowing if she was still alive.

Sam’s and Julia’s log “cabin” hideaway was actually more like a northland citadel that nearly rivaled Yellowstone’s Old Faithful Inn architecturally and vastly more so in amenities, technology and security. After their first winter there they christened the place Castle Blanca—arctic wordplay evoking the locale’s wintry whiteness, but also as homage to the Bogart-Bergman film. They had been watching the movie among a troop of GIs in a sand-floored mess tent on the outskirts of Baghdad the night Sam proposed. Their romance often fell into playful riffs of scenes and dialogue from the movie—so much so that Castle Blanca became something of a cenotaph to their relationship. 

The respite from the real world that the “castle” initially provided them was worth all the gold in Fort Knox, which Sam would have found some way to give her if she had wanted it. In her months-long absence, the faux rustic aura of their wilderness lodge, stripped of Julia’s presence, morphed its coziness into a spiritual prison. The tongue-in-cheek pretext of a simple backwoods getaway had exploded into irrelevance. The absence of his eleven personal staff and the powering-down of thirteen thousand square feet of living space, plus like amount of staff quarters, recreational out-buildings and service facilities only emphasized its hollow enormity without Julia, who was its soul—its raison d’être.

Jesse Steelman, Sam’s retired Iraq-II special forces helo-pilot slash bodyguard slash security coordinator slash all around techy, and Widow Bronson, his housekeeper slash cook, were now the only people with him at the “cabin.” The handful of active security and maintenance staff that Sam kept stayed mostly at perimeter outposts or re-quartered in and around Ketchikan. He paid them generous retainers to drop whatever they were doing on a moment’s notice and be transported to Castle Blanca to fulfill Sam’s newest need—real or perceived.

Sam had met Julia and Jesse while organizing the reconstruction of Iraq’s essential infrastructure after Saddam’s fall. Julia was a nurse working for the IMC, a non-government humanitarian organization. Following an intense two-month courtship they married and briefly honeymooned in Morocco, evoking a happy redux of the Rick Blaine and Ilsa Lund screen romance that spurred their engagement.

Sam eventually hired Jesse as head of his security team when Jesse mustered out a few years later. The Widow Bronson had been Sam’s nanny as a youngster. Although built like a World Wrestling Federation competitor, she was more a doting auntie and devoted housekeeper, albeit she wrangled the staff in Sam’s immediate circle like a war-hardened first sergeant. Another handful of security personnel were scattered in five outposts within a mile radius.

When he lost Julia, Sam had also powered down much of his life. Running his financial empire was no longer the facile amusement it had been. For now, enduring each day was a Sisyphean task. As the sun’s afterglow disappeared below the arboreal skyline Sam felt the boulder once again slipping from his grasp.

As the sky surrendered to full night, a flight of mosquitoes roused him from his melancholy. Cup in hand he retreated from the wrap-around log balcony to the warm light of the adjacent kitchen. Mouthwatering aromas of broiled steak, savory steam from a kettle of lobster bisque soup and a bowl of buttered russets beckoned him to the granite snack bar. Jesse was washing down a cheekful of fillet with a long pull from a frosty brown bottle of Moose Drool.

“You know there are four cases of Urquell Nefiltrovaný in the walk-in cooler,” said Sam.

“I tried one,” said Jesse. “I like Drool better. Pop worked at Big Sky,” he said, pausing to belch. “We drank Drool instead of milk. Dad called it Montana’s breakfast of champions.”

“That explains a lot.”

“No offense, Boss, but you’re the one drinking that monkey-shit Kofi Lunatic coffee.”

“Point taken.” Sam surprised himself at the feel of a grin inching across his face.

“You really think you’re gonna hear anything out there?” said Jesse, followed by a couple odd grunt like noises and shaking his arms in the air—his lame attempt at pantomime. 

“Not yet. The times I’ve heard their voices, it’s usually been late. Full dark, or as dark as it gets in summer.”

“So, it’s voices now, is it?” Jesse’s eyes studied the floor.

“You want me to play you the recordings? No animals make those ululating soulful sounds.”

“‘oo your lating’? Honestly, Boss, I don’t even know what that means. But moose and elk in rut can out-yodel Slim Whitman and put the Israelites at Jericho to shame.”

“No, smartass. I’m talking song-like utterings, not noises. I swear I can recognize refrains of tunes Julia sang on the balcony on lazy nights with her guitar.”

“Boss...” Jesse’s voice fell off. He had that look that Sam had seen before. It meant something like: I feel your pain, Boss, but that’s wishful thinking. 

Sam slipped behind Jesse, patted his back and made his way to a strip of canvas on the floor along the kitchen’s interior wall. He opened a can of spackling compound and began patching a line of bullet holes that zig-zagged toward the door to the department-store-sized living room. 

“You know you’re paying Chester to sleep in Ketchikan all day so he can close a different bar every night. And he’s a lot better repairman than you, Boss, especially with sheetrock.”

Sam shot Jesse a fake glare.

“No offense, Boss.”

Sam’s face slowly bent into a gotcha smile. “I have to stay busy. This feels useful. It takes my mind off things.”

“Don’t your kajillionaire duties do that?  You know we’re all depending on that fat wallet of yours, not that Chester doesn’t appreciate the nightlife and cruise-ship women.”

“Since Julia’s kidnapping, money matters only stoke my guilt. They took her because of money, and no amount of it or what it buys has brought her back.”

Jesse shot a hard-faced glance at Sam. “Get over it. You tried everything. We all tried,” he said, looking away. “Along with every cop, Mountie, Fed and half the private dicks in the western hemisphere.” 

His look made Sam uncomfortable. “I know. But at least I can see the dirt on my hands from this work. It washes off, isn’t red, and it doesn’t keep me awake nights.”

“You’re too hard on yourself. And when you say that shit it kinda feels like you’re laying guilt in our direction...”

“Jesse...” Sam held his palms outward, but Jesse waded in more forcefully.

“All the business magazines say you’re the straightest tycoon there is. The biggest humanitarian ever. Give yourself a break. Give us a break, too, will ya?”

“That’s exactly what I’m doing. Trying to do...” Sam regretted the defensiveness in his voice. “Look. I left this mess all summer to remind me of the violence— Julia’s terror as they dragged her out. I don’t need the reminder anymore. Now I just want things back the way she liked it. Normal. Clean. You know?”

After a cool silence Jesse tossed Sam a bone, “That’s a start, Boss.” 

Sam harrumphed. 

Jesse donned his jacket and started toward the terrace. “I’m gonna check the perimeter, activate the night security system, then hit the hay.”

“Jesse, don’t. Let it be for tonight. They come sometimes when we get these westerlies.”

“Boss, them noises happened even when the security systems were active. You know disabling them’s exactly what Julia made me do the night...”

“I know. I know. It’s okay. Look, it was dumb luck. Good for the kidnappers, bad for us. But terrorists and kidnappers don’t rule the world every night. There are no bad guys there tonight. We both know that...”

“The HELL WE DO!” Jesse raised his arms in a big V of frustration and exhaled audibly. They stared at each other a few seconds like statues. Then Jesse slapped his thighs and gave Sam a mock solute. “You’re the boss, Boss.”

“And you’re a good man, Jesse. It’ll be okay.”

Jesse picked up the FN P90 Bullpup from the counter top next to the potatoes, checked that the bolt was clear, set the safety and headed for the living room.

“I ain’t leaving the big house for now. I’ll snooze on the couch until I hear you go to your room. If you decide to stroll the woods and have a hootenanny or play patty-cake with your pet monsters, or aliens, or elves or whatever you think they are, just remember, the motion detectors aren’t on. There could be bad guys out there. Everyone knows you still got lotsa dough.”

He pulled his cell phone from his pocket. “I could set the alarms to silent for your little friends if you like, but so my phone will buzz me awake.” 

“Sasquatch aren’t so little.” Sam cocked his head toward the huge plaster footprint mounted above the kitchen’s massive stream-stone fireplace. “But, yeah, if silent mode makes you feel better...”

Jesse smirked, shook his head and, texting on his phone, walked a dozen strides into the vast living room. He flopped onto one of the oversize leather sofas near the life-sized grizzly sculpture, dimmed the room lights with a remote, snugged down and pulled an Indian blanket over himself. Sam nodded an acknowledgment as Jesse stuffed his phone into his pocket. 

“If they serenade us up close and personal,” said Jesse, eyes closed, pumping his hand up and down over his groin, “I want a free hum job. I’ll wake you if you give up patching holes before show time.”

Sam continued spackling for about an hour, then dimmed the remaining lights. He soft-stepped through shadows onto the balcony and wrapped himself in a quilt-lined bear skin that he and Julia had often snuggled under to watch the aurora and listen to night sounds. This was where she lectured him about his social responsibilities, fondling him to hold his attention and entice his concurrence. The blanket cast a memory-inducing spell.

Julia loved quoting aphorisms about wealth and happiness to the richest man in the world. Sam chided in return that poverty had an even worse reputation. His response was, “Don’t expect money to buy happiness and you’ll never be disappointed, but probably be gratified by the possibilities it affords and the suffering it protects you from.” The irony hurt.

His take wasn’t good enough for Julia. “You should share more of your profits with your workforce and charities.” 

Sam agreed; he compensated employees in all his enterprises more than any fat cat in history. Other billionaires, and even some of his own staff, cajoled him about squandering profits on do-gooder stuff. Yet he knew he could do more. Despite his largess he still made more money via investments, commodity speculation, patents, currency manipulation—you name it—than anyone in history. In fact, Sam just couldn’t help it; he was simply a money-making genius. The hard part was parking it safely while planning how to use it for whatever came next. 

And he was generous.

He founded entrepreneurial schools in underdeveloped countries, drilled water wells for villages, built hospitals where Julia often volunteered. He established micro-loan banks across three continents. Even so, his fortune grew. Sam lamented that there was still poverty in the world. Billionaires like him were a dime a dozen but usually without a penny’s worth of altruism in the bunch. 

The old conversations kept dominating Sam’s thoughts until something pulled him back into the moment. Soft burbling sounds interspersed with murmurs poured from the forest darkness, a cross between a dog’s playful growl and water sluicing over rapids. The sounds pitched up and down, oscillating in volume, like lyrics gargled while showering. 

The melody gradually grew more refined. Cadences and refrains emerged. It began sounding familiar.

“Annie’s Song” he whispered—Julia’s favorite tune. 

She sang it often, strumming her guitar, snuggled alone or with Sam while watching the aurora waft across the sky.

The euphony lasted nearly a half hour, mesmerizing Sam like a drug high, merging his very sense of being with the environment. 

Then it stopped. 

The undergrowth rustled ever so slightly. 

Sam stood. 

The blanket slipped to his feet. 

He eased toward the railing and peered into the crisp autumn night. He struggled to quiet his breathing, ears reaching into the black stillness for the faintest sound. A hundred adrenaline-laced heartbeats pulsed anticipation to his extremities.

“Djewyahglgl.” It floated almost imperceptibly on a dew scented wisp of air, juddering to a crescendo then gurgling back to silence.

“Djewyahglgl,” again. Nearer perhaps? From more than one voice?

“ Djewyahglgl,” louder still, over and over again.

A light touch to Sam’s arm startled him. His breath hitched, producing something between a squeak and a cough. The touch became a firm grasp. Jesse stood alongside him, quietly shushing Sam as he clicked off the safety of the assault rifle strapped over his outboard shoulder.

The ululations stopped.

They stood statue-like.

Minutes passed—an eternity of two, maybe three minutes.

“I think they’re gone,” Jesse whispered. He’d barely finished when a twig snapped spitting-distance from the deck.

“DJEWYAHGLGL!”

An object whisked past them and smacked solidly against a nearby window. Startled, Sam stepped back, tripping on the bear-skin blanket. He grabbed at air, seeking purchase to check his fall. His hand snagged Jesse’s shoulder, who stumbled backwards, hitting the log wall.

Jesse’s finger slipped onto the Bullpup’s trigger. A short burst zipped through the fir-needled forest canopy. The barrel flash illuminated the night just long enough to reveal a seven-foot shaggy hominid looking over its shoulder as it ran into the darkness.

Jesse righted himself, aiming his weapon at the flaying outline of limbs and hair. Sam jumped to his feet and slammed the weapon upward.

“No! Didn’t you hear them?”

“Jesus, Sam. You could have killed us both,” said Jesse through gritted teeth.

“You could have killed him, dammit! Didn’t you hear what he was saying?”

“Who? Smokey the Grizz?” Jesse’s eyes projected intense scorn.

“That was no grizzly. And he was yelling Julia’s name.”

“Julia?” said Jesse. “You think that noise was bigfootese for ‘Julia’? Boss, how many tranqs you been taking?”

“Before you came out he, it...he or she...was singing. Then it started calling Julia’s name.”

“Dammit! Even if it could talk, how would one of them know her name?”

“When Julia and I sat out here she sang Bob Denver songs. I sang Beatles songs. I sang “Julia” to her. She loved it. I sang awful, but she loved it.”

“All I heard was growls and gurgles,” said Jesse. “Sure as hell wasn’t music. And it sure as hell wasn’t talkin’.”

“I know what I saw. And I think you do too, Jesse. Admit it.”

“I saw a grizz and I don’t know what you heard. For all we know it was a terrorist in a monkey suit tossing a grenade.”

“Grenade?” Sam smiled. He snapped on the deck light.

Lying nearby was a vine-wrapped rock with a shiny object secured by the pulpy tendrils.

“Look!”

Jesse appeared stunned as Sam gingerly freed a bracelet from the spool. The bracelet was a delicate chain bearing a small hummingbird fashioned of silver and inlaid bits of opal and mother of pearl. 

More importantly, it was Julia’s. 

It matched a toe ring and delicate navel piercing that Sam found especially erotic when bedded down with Julia. She’d gotten the piercing on their honeymoon, and Sam had insisted she didn’t display it to others. He’d reciprocated with a small hummingbird tattoo in a special place of his own for her amusement only. 

“She’s alive, Jesse. She’s out there. They’ve found her.”

“Boss, slow down. That’s a big leap...”

“Her singing always attracted them before. They like it. They’re letting us know she’s alive.”

“Boss...”

The door to the deck swung open amid the sound of pounding footsteps and breathless shouts. 

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” gasped Widow Bronson. She stood at the light’s edge just inside the kitchen, holding a flashlight in one hand and a nine-millimeter Glock in the other. “I thought this time they’d come for you, Mr. Coleman. What’s going on?”

“Mr. Sasquatch, Widow Bronson. Our nearest neighbor, paying a friendly visit. Jesse was afraid the creature was going to swipe his Moose Drool—a shooting offense in Montana.”

“Very funny. I’m not the one that pays three hundred bucks a pound for coffee turds,” said Jesse, descending the stairs from the deck.

“That theft would be a shooting offense,” said the Widow Bronson, gazing quizzically at Sam. “It’s one of the Boss’s few pleasures left in this world without Julia’s presence. But I doubt forest dwellers have coffee urns. We, however, do. Several, actually. I should know, see’n as I’m the one what cleans ‘em.”

Sam broke his eye-lock with Jesse, who had twisted at the bottom of the steps to project another condemning stare at his boss. Sam stepped toward the kitchen. 

“Widow Bronson, if nothing else, Jesse put his finger on what I think the situation really calls for at this point. Would you please start a fresh pot while I call Ted Wilson at corporate headquarters?” Then, with a taunting voice loud enough for Jesse to hear, added, “And let’s have an early breakfast. Jesse and I will be taking a long hike. Please, fix us a few days of trail-goodies-to-go as well. I’m going upstairs to pack, so bring the brew to my room if you don’t mind.”

“BOSS!” Jesse punctuated the echoes of his exasperation with some choice cuss words as he glowered back through the dark night. 

Sam stared him down. Flat expressions covered both their faces. After a long count Jesse raised his arms in the familiar V gesture, surrendering to Sam’s ultimate if misguided authority.

“Okay. But right now I am doing a perimeter check.” Jesse pulled out his cell phone. He pressed a few buttons to illuminate security lights, armed and tested the audible alarms, then speed-dialed someone and began talking while trudging into the lush ferns.

“Be careful not to ruin their tracks, Jesse.”

Jesse shook his head, gave an exaggerated grudging nod without looking back, then walked on. Sam caught the glimpse of a fleeting middle finger salute as the darkness folded over his personal bodyguard and less-friendly-than-usual friend.

The Widow Bronson’s ample breakfast of strawberry crêpes, eggs and Lublin’s finest Polish kielbasa was a distant memory. Sam’s pack seemed to gain weight as the night visitor’s tracks ascended inland toward the depths of the Alaskan rainforest. 

At a clearing along a stream they looked downslope, westward toward the sea. The clearing had numerous bipedal tracks, suggesting one, possibly two additional hairy companions had joined their visitor here. 

“So much for the legendary sasquatch supposedly being the stealthiest creatures in the forest,” said Jesse, raising a thigh to release a burst of flatulence. 

Sam bit his lip; he was convinced the tracks had been left on purpose. 

“We should have brought Carl and Randy,” said Jesse.

“No,” said Sam. “Bad enough it’s two of us. These big fellows are ultra-skittish. They might not show the way to Julia if we’re too many. They’ve reason to be afraid.” Sam gestured to Jesse’s Bullpup. “Have you got the safety on?”

“Fuck you very much, Boss.”

Sam froze in his tracks casting an authoritarian stare at Jesse.

“Sam, hey. They aren’t the only animals out here. No way we’re hiking unarmed. There’s wolves. Probably still some grizz. And then there’s the weather.” Jesse pointed to the dark fat clouds gathering at higher elevation.

“Your gun fixes weather?”

“No, but fuck’s sake, if we get snowbound it might feed us.” 

“Well, then let’s push on.”

“Boss, wait a minute. Hear me out.” The look on Jesse’s face struck Sam as something between anger, frustration and concern, laced with a growing display of insubordination.

Sam jerked his head toward Jesse’s face.

“WHAT?” 

A pair of birds in a nearby branch burst aloft, startled.

“Look...” Jesse hesitated, staring at the ground, raising his hands up and down slowly, as if pumping thoughts into his head from some invisible well. “We’re only a quarter mile from guard post IV. I’d really like to talk to Carl in person. See what he knows.”

“I thought you contacted him already, all of them. You’ve been up ahead talking on the radio constantly since we left.”

“I have. But it’s not the same. Carl’s the closest to these tracks. He knows this area better than we do. In person we could learn more than from a radio chat. Especially if he can eyeball the tracks himself.”

Sam looked off toward the cloudy mountain tops, lifted his cap momentarily and scratched his head.

“How long a delay would it mean?”

“Twenty, thirty minutes for him to meet us here. Then we could probably continue. Unless, of course, he has some insight we don’t. Then...”

“Radio him. Tell him to hurry.”

Jesse gave a lopsided smile as he bobbed his head, easing the tension. 

The tit-for-tat exchanges didn’t completely disappear as the trek wore on, given how quickly the terrain got more rugged with every uphill step. At least Sam felt maybe he’d regained the upper hand again in their relationship. Sam tried harder to see it from Jesse’s perspective, namely that this might well be a wild goose chase.

Jesse walked up the trail twenty yards and urinated on a bush while he radioed Carl. Sam knelt beside a gravelly streamlet, soaked his kerchief and wiped his face. A few minutes later they dropped their gear beside a massive Douglas fir to rummage through their packs for food. Sam popped a couple ibuprofens. Each man eventually wandered off to his own thinking space, eating sandwiches and sipping fifty-dollar-a-cup coffee from his thermos.

Twenty-seven minutes later Carl materialized soundlessly from the forest, cloaked in full commando cammo and armed like a walking fortress. The pair only realized his presence when he announced himself.

“Here, Boss,” Carl said to Jesse. “I brought you these topo-maps. A lot more detailed than the GPS.” 

Sam rose from the streamside rock he’d been resting on and joined them.

“Howdy, Mr. Coleman, sir,” said Carl, snapping off a sharp military-grade salute.

“At ease, Carl. Despite appearances this isn’t a military operation...yet.” Sam shot a glare in Jesse’s direction. “Let’s see that topo.”

Sam asked a half dozen questions about the terrain, easiest routes, lesser known routes, likely natural shelter, etc.

Carl identified features to help Sam and Jesse keep their bearings. Carl appeared more comfortable directing comments to his immediate supervisor Jesse than his world famous über boss. He also reminded Sam several times that First Nation volunteer search teams had combed these areas very thoroughly when Julia was kidnapped and that Castle Blanca security staffers had worked hand in glove with each of the search teams to help focus their searches. 

When Sam asked Carl specifically if he or the volunteers had seen or heard anything strange in the area, either then or since he answered saying “No, sir, Mr. Coleman. Like I told Jesse, the Tlingit, Haida and Tsimshian don’t normally come up here.”

“Mr. Coleman doesn’t care about them, Carl,” said Jesse, jerking his head to send him on his way. “Besides, he wants to follow tracks.”

“Wait a minute, Carl,” said Sam. “Why don’t they normally come up here?”

Carl glanced at Jesse. 

Sam repeated, “Why don’t the tribes come up here, Carl? They’re everywhere else. The game’s plentiful. The country isn’t even that rugged, just remote.”

“I don’t know, Mr. Coleman. No reason to?”

“C’mon, Boss, this isn’t helping,” said Jesse. A few isolated snowflakes were beginning to fall. “Let’s get back on the trail. Maybe we can put this to rest and get home before tonight’s blizzard.”

Sam snatched Julia’s bracelet from his vest pocket and waved it under Jesse’s nose. “They brought me this for a reason, dammit. This isn’t a goddamn day hike, and we’ve got cold weather gear.”

Carl’s eyes widened at the sight of the bracelet. “They gave you one of her hummingbirds.”

Sam felt as though his ears had taken an electric shock. “They, Carl? Who’s the they you’re referring to?”

Jesse pushed Sam’s hand away from his face, then shoved Carl. “None of this matters, Carl. We’re just wasting time. Get along back to the guard post. We gotta move out.”

“Hang on...” Sam started.

“Listen, Boss,” said Jesse, cutting Sam off. “If you want to chase this wild goose to ground, then let’s get going.”

Carl gave a sheepish look to the two men, nodded to Jesse and slowly began retracing his path through the bush.

Sam was about to shoulder his pack but hesitated and let it drop.

Jesse finished refastening his pack and slung the Bullpup under his arm. “Now what?”

Sam tamped down his annoyance. “Carl. Wait. Come back. What did you just say?”

“About what, Mr. Coleman?”

“When I was showing Jesse the bracelet. You said something.”

“Uh, how good it was that they found the charm bracelet?”

“No. You said they brought me one of her hummingbirds. What other hummingbirds did Julia have, Carl?”

Carl looked at Jesse, who had drawn himself into a stiff posture.

“Did she have uh...muh...more?” stuttered Carl. “I don’t know. I mean, I was just saying...you know.” He shot a questioning glance at Jesse then back at Sam and looped his hand around, as if trying to pick words from the air. “I mean, you folks have lots of…. Well, wouldn’t she have more than just one? Look I just...”

Jesse approached Carl threateningly, raising the Bullpup.

Carl instinctively stepped back, easing his hand toward his own weapon.

“Carl?” Jesse had steel in his voice.

“Jesse, you said...” Carl was still retreating.

He stumbled on a loose stone, raising his AK-47 for balance as he faltered.

Jesse fired. 

A single round took Carl squarely below his chin, nearly decapitating him. The echoes lived longer than Carl.

“Jesse! What the hell?”

“He was gonna fire. You saw it.”

“I saw him slip. He wasn’t trying to shoot you. What the HELL? He just slipped!”

Jesse nudged the body with his boot, then removed Carl’s sidearm and slipped it into his own vest’s webbed chest pouch. He slung Carl’s AK over his neck.

“More like he slipped up,” said Jesse, shaking his head in disgust. “Every chain has its weakest link. Dumbfuck Carl.”

Sam’s confusion started morphing into fear.

No one knew about the other hummingbirds, not even the investigators. In the brief exchange of questions before Carl stumbled, Sam had begun to suspect Carl’s involvement. 

But Jesse?

Hand still resting on the Bullpup, Jesse glanced at Sam. He stood silently for a few seconds with that look he donned when explaining something inconvenient that Sam needed to accept for security’s sake. 

“Your goddamn fuzzball friends,” said Jesse. Then his expression exploded into rage. It was a look Jesse had worn once before in Sam’s presence as he muttered “Die, you rug-sucking puke” while crushing the throat of a turbaned assailant that had grabbed Sam during an Iraqi ambush.

“They come on the westerlies. Turn the security off,” he nerd-whined through a smirk unlike anything Sam had ever witnessed before. Then, in mock imitation of Julia’s voice: “Disable the alarms. Let them come sing with me.” 

Jesse rolled his eyes and wagged his head derisively. “Christ, thirty people up here day in and day out guarding your castle in the pines? Like a custom made gossip spreader. Most of the security recruited from black ops personnel or ex-mercenaries? How long did you think it would be before someone saw that pattern and figured out what to do with it? It was as good as handing us the combination to your vault! Westerlies! All someone—anyone needed was a fucking weather forecast to predict when your security would be down. I explained that to the Sheriff and the private Dicks and the redskins. It was so fucking obvious. We never had to say another word.”

“Never had to say another word? What do you mean?”

There was pause. As hard as Sam had tried not to see it before now, the obvious conclusion fell into place like a winning Tetris tile.

“To deflect suspicion from you? That’s it, isn’t it? God damn it.” Ignoring the gun barrel poking his stomach, Sam lunged at Jesse.

Jesse adroitly spun and shoved Sam to the ground, using his own momentum against him.

There was another pause. Sam stared at Jesse from the ground.

“Is she alive?”

“Fuck only knows.”

“What do you mean? If you’re part of this you know. Tell me.”

“Tell you or what?”

Sam covered his face with his hands. “Jesse, just tell me.”

“I don’t know,” said Jesse. “She was. You would have had her back eventually, but her fucking fuzzball friends screwed up the grab. We shot a couple of them, but the Colombians with the mini-sub and our guys from the tribes got spooked. Time was flying. You had every badge, helicopter and satellite in two countries combing the area. The Colombians killed the ‘skins to shut them up. The sub left. We were too busy tidying up before the law came snooping too close.”

“JULIA! What happened to Julia?” Sam screamed.

“She roamed the woods for a week. Probably. With help from the fuzzballs. But Carl found her before the search and rescue guys. We took her back to the hidey hole by number IV.”

“We? Who else is we?”

“Me, Carl and the two ‘skins they killed.”

“I thought they left on the sub?”

“It was one of them mini smuggler subs. Two stayed behind to help. The rest left on a cruise ship like we planned from the start. At least that’s what they said they were gonna do.”

“You’ve had her this whole time?” 

“Carl did.”

“But you knew.”

“Carl had her until two nights ago.” 

“What happened?”

“That’s enough questions.”

“Jesse, if it’s just money, you know I can fix this. Give me Julia. You can have the money. Disappear. I don’t care.”

“Yeah, well, I’d actually have to convince myself to believe that. But first things first.” He wiped a patch of snowflakes from his whiskers. “This is going to be real snow in another hour. Pick up your pack and get moving.” 

Jesse poked Sam toward a path through the undergrowth, keying dots and dashes on his walkie-talkie.

“Where are we going?”

“Same place your fuzzy friends’ big foot prints would have probably led you, to number IV.”

When they arrived it was snowing in earnest. Jesse nudged Sam inside and made him stand with his face in a corner, hands touching the ceiling.

Jesse spotted an empty Jim Beam bottle on Carl’s desk and threw it angrily toward the small bathroom behind Sam, smashing a mirror as well as the bottle.

“Stupid S.O.B. probably had Julia up for a friendly drink. It gets lonely out here and idiots like Carl get careless.”

“She was here the whole time,” Sam moaned.

Jesse pushed a rug aside, revealing a trap door. “We made a few modifications last year. You paid for it. It was budgeted under security upgrades. You really should be a little more hands-on overseeing your operation.”

“That was your oversight,” Sam said, as if they were back to business as usual.

“I know. I appreciate the trust.”

“How is it no one ever found the bodies? The tribal fellas, or the others? Aren’t you worried they’ll find Carl?”

“By the others you mean the men or the fuzzballs? Actually, between the ocean and the wolves, garbage disposal is pretty easy. The fuzzballs dragged their buddies off with them. We never saw hide nor hair of them again. Randy’s taking care of Carl.”

“Randy? I thought you said...”

“I didn’t really say there weren’t others.”

“Are there?”

The question just hung in the air as Jesse gun-poked Sam toward a chair and had him remove his boots, which he stowed in the outpost’s secure gear locker.

“So you don’t know where Julia is now? She could freeze out there if we don’t find her.”

“You know, Boss, you really ask too many questions,” said Jesse as he tied Sam’s hands. “So, I’ll make you a deal. I’m gonna stuff a rag in your mouth and duct tape your face. If you behave it’ll come off once in a while for a drink. Sorry, all Carl’s got here is Folgers Instant.”

Around sunset Randy entered the guard post. He gave Sam a sheepish look before acknowledging Jesse. He motioned to Jesse to step outside a minute.

Sam took a chance and stood up, dragging the chair close enough to the door to overhear them.

“Why’d you do it?” asked Randy.

“He screwed up royally. Looks like he had her upstairs for company. Musta got drunk. She ran last night. He called me this morning just as we set out tracking the fuzzballs. Then the stupid dumbfuck accidentally spilled the beans in front of the boss. When he realized what he’d said he pulled a gun on me. It was self-defense.”

“I’ll find her,” said Randy. “She can’t be far.”

“That’s what you told me this morning,” said Jesse. “I’m thinking the fuzzballs may be helping her get back to the big house. We could have fixed it. But it’s been too long.”

“What do we do now?”

“We keep up the charade—except now we’ve got a bigger prize. We’re the security here and we love our Boss. I’m gonna go back to the big house and see if Julia’s there. If not, I tell the old woman the Boss was abducted on the trail. I barely escaped and radioed you.”

“What if Julia’s there?” asked Randy.

“I say Carl beat me and took the Boss. Julia doesn’t know I’m involved. Carl was trained to say nothing in front of Julia about the rest of us. As far as she knows he’s the mastermind. We keep playing the good guys. We’ll arrange a contact in a day or two to set up another drop.”

“You can’t do that on such short notice.”

“I know. The drop story’s a decoy. We’ll use the company helicopter to get away while everyone else is setting up around what they think is the drop site. We won’t need the sub. We take the Boss with us to the coast and the skiff. Sergei can pick us up off shore in his trawler and take us to the safe house. We’ll have the Boss wire money to our accounts. We let him go once we scram. All the other arrangements are still in place. We’ll be ghosts before they figure it all out.”

“What about Julia? She might get back after you do and mess things up,” said Randy.

“She doesn’t know I’m in this. If she’s there I tell her the story and let her think she’s helping us find him—send her on some wild goose errand or some busy work. Meanwhile you stow the Boss in the hole and see if you can still find her. If your search draws anyone’s attention, say you’re looking for the Boss. You got it?”

“Okay. I’m outta here,” said Jesse. 

Sam dragged the chair back toward the wall just in time.

Randy beat his boots against the threshold, kicking off snow. Jesse entered behind Randy without a word to Sam, snatched his gear and headed out.

As the door closed, Randy loosed Sam from the chair and helped him up. 

“Okay, Boss, down the hole. It’s padded and it’s warm. There’s a chamber pot. Don’t make a mess, ‘cause I won’t clean up after you.”

Sam made big eyes, mumbling behind the gag. He bowed toward the bathroom, resisting the shove toward the hole.

“Number one or two?” Randy asked.

“Uhn,” Sam mumbled.

“You’ll hafta do your fly with your hands tied. Hurry.”

Sam nodded. Randy left the door open, keeping half an eye on him while he peed. Sam shuffled about, opening his fly and faking losing his balance, slumping against the urinal to pee. While re-zipping he retrieved a bottle shard from the urinal’s basin and concealed it in his hand bindings.

Randy frisked him thoroughly. He removed a pocket knife and cell phone from Sam’s cargo pockets and tossed them onto the wood pile. Jesse had already taken his radio.

Randy took Sam’s elbow and herded him down the steep ladder. Sam made a display of wobbling onto the first rung, nearly losing his balance. Randy moved close and guided him. 

On the third rung Sam faked another wobble. Randy leaned in to steady him. Sam jerked his hands upward and yanked Randy’s Kevlar vest. They fell heavily into the hole, Randy face-down atop Sam, who was on his back.

Randy tried getting to his knees. Sam snapped upright, smashing his forehead into Randy’s nose. Randy instinctively leaned forward to grasp at the excruciating pain.

Sam looped his bound wrists over Randy’s head.

Randy wrenched from side to side trying to free himself, which only made it easier for Sam to saw into Randy’s neck with the bottle shard.

On the fourth swing Sam severed Randy’s carotid artery. Blood spewed like a fountain. Sam slashed viciously, working the shard across Randy’s neck.

Seconds later Randy passed out.

Sam struggled from under Randy’s hulking frame. Sore and bloodied, he slowly climbed the ladder and started searching for Randy’s radio. The cold cement floor reminded him his boots were gone.

The equipment cabinet was locked. He calmed himself, assessing his situation.

Back down the stairs he searched Randy for keys. Not finding them, he considered the dead man’s boots, only to notice that despite his bulk Randy’s feet were surprisingly small.

Back up the stars he grabbed his pocket knife and began jiggering the lock. The blade broke. He scanned the room, spotting the axe alongside the woodstove. Minutes later he had the cabinet open, his boots laced and pack lightened only to what might serve his dash to stop Jesse and find Julia.

Sam grabbed his cell phone and hit speed dial.

“Nanna, are you there?”

“Samuel, is that you? You haven’t called me Nanna in years.”

“I’m a little flustered.”

“What is it, Samuel?”

“No time to explain. Did Wilson get the people from Ketchikan up there yet?”

“He radioed a couple times. The weather slowed them up, but they should be here within the hour.”

“Have you seen Julia?”

“What? Samuel...”

“Later. When Wilson arrives, tell him Jesse is armed and dangerous. He may have a convincing story for them. If Jesse knows you’re on to him he may get violent. Play along, but be on your guard. He’s a murderer. If you can, warn Wilson about Jesse, and keep an eye out for Julia, she may be headed your way.”

“Samuel! I can’t believe...”

“I know, it’s hard to believe. I’ll explain later. Right now I’m headed after him before he gets there or, God forbid, before he finds Julia.”

“My God, Samuel. Be careful.”

“You too, Nanna.”

Sam grabbed a vest from number IV’s gun closet and armed himself with a Glock and Bullpup. He clipped Randy’s walkie-talkie to the vest and shoved a discarded potato chip bag into his pocket. His reflection in the darkening window looked uncannily like Jesse. He slipped Julia’s bracelet over his wrist for luck.

The sky was clearing and Jesse’s tracks were still visible.

He trudged through ankle-deep show. The four-hour uphill tracking trip out had been slow going, but the trip back would be faster.

A half hour from number IV Jesse squawked Randy’s frequency.

“Outfield, this is Home Plate.”

Sam pulled the chip bag from his pocket, crinkling it on the mike as he talked.

“Thi is Ou ield.”

“You’re breaking up, Outfield.” 

Sam grinned.

“Re you en four.” 

“OK, just listen. I should be there in under an hour. Once I scope the situation I’ll give you a sit rep and confirm the op plan. You copy?”

“Cah ee.”

Sam cell-phoned Widow Bronson.

“Nanna?”

“Yes, Samuel”

“He’ll be there in under an hour. What about our help?”

“They just got here.”

“Tell them don’t get trigger happy. There’s three of us out here.”

He knew it would be tight but was fairly sure he could catch Jesse. As he neared the house, every available photon of security lighting washed the landscape. Jesse’s tracks were closer together and only minutes old; Sam slowed. He followed the tracks to the edge of the lighting. 

Jesse’s tracks abruptly stopped. 

Sam pulled out the Glock.

Jesse was nowhere to be seen. Sam looked at the house through his binoculars and caught a glimpse of Julia peering cautiously from the side of a window. He was about to dash for the cabin when a cold hard object pressed the back of his right ear.

“Boss, you surprise me. Maybe you’ve missed your calling.”

“That would be what, Judas?”

“Judas wasn’t such a bad guy. An enabler. Without him Jesus would’ve been just another rabbi.”

“And what would I be without you?”

“Dead, if the Colombians had their way.”

“Jesus died too, eventually. Is that your plan?”

“Nope. I saved your life in Iraq, and here too. More ruthless kidnappers would have grabbed you plenty of times if I weren’t here.”

“So now what? Are YOU Jesus? Or are you Judas? I’m confused.”

“For starters how ‘bout dropping the...”

Without warning, rocks and tree limbs flew toward them from the heavy undergrowth. A branch the girth of a man’s arm smacked Jesse’s gun barrel, causing a short burst that missed Sam’s leg by inches. 

Sam slammed into Jesse’s chest, taking him to the ground. Both men’s weapons discharged as they hit the earth. Rocks the size of grapefruit and footballs fell around them, some hitting them.

Julia screamed from the balcony.

The men lost their weapons in the deadly wrestling match—one that Jesse was heavily favored to win. 

“You son of a bitch,” Sam snarled as Jesse pinned Sam to the ground, shoulder to shoulder face to face. 

Sam chomped Jesse’s ear, nearly tearing it off.

Jesse crawled onto Sam’s chest and began fiercely kneeing him in the groin. Sam yelped in agony.

Julia screamed, “Sam! What’s going on?”

The stones started coming down again. Sam finally understood. Two, maybe three Sasquatch were pelting them as they wrestled. 

“Julia,” he yelled, “SASQUATCH! They think we’re both here to attack you.”

From the corner of his eye, he saw her descend the stairs, waving her arms at the barely visible bedlam. 

More stones rained on the two men.

Julia sank to her knees, beating her thighs in frustration. 

The Widow Bronson stepped onto the balcony, directing a powerful flashlight directly on the mayhem.

Jesse crawled up Sam’s torso. Sam reached for the Glock lying nearby. Jesse pinned Sam’s outstretched arm with a knee and tried to raise a fist to punch him as Sam used his free arm to deflect the blows.

Julia suddenly stood up. “Sing it, Sam!” she yelled. “Sing it Sam! Sing so they know who you are.”

Finally understanding, Sam started grunting the lyrics to “Annie’s Song.” The absurdity threatened his concentration, but he filled his lungs and sang like the loudest—if worst—Karaoke singer ever born.

On the third reprise, Sam made out a seven-foot mountain of hair carrying a boulder the size of a basketball stepping from shadows into the bouncing beam of Nanna’s flashlight as she trundled down the balcony stairs. 

Silhouetted by the security lights, the Sasquatch raised the boulder over its head and bellowed. “DJEWYAHGLGL!”

The impact traveled all the way through Jesse’s body into his own. Jesse’s weight fell upon him like a two-hundred-pound grain sack dropping from a truck. Jesse’s pulped brains oozed over Sam’s face like warm pudding. 

Sam cringed, expecting to be the next victim. 

What occurred next frightened Sam more. The shaggy shadow leaned over him and stared into his eyes. Then it raised Sam’s wrist, the one bearing the hummingbird bracelet. The creature’s face inched so close to Sam’s face that he could see the veins in its amber-pupiled eyes and smell the pine nuts on its breath. A cool, rough hand stroked the side of Sam’s face.

“Djewyahglgl.” It was barely a whisper. 

A dark hand knuckle-poked Sam’s shoulder, then pointed in Julia’s direction as a second creature, obviously female, dragged Jesse’s body off of Sam. The pair hoisted Sam gently and, joined by Julia, carried him to the stairs, where Nanna stood fixated as if in a trance.

After laying Sam at Julia’s feet, the female raised her hand tentatively to Julia’s face.

Barely three or four seconds elapsed before the pair turned and walked toward the darkness. In another two seconds there was the dissipating rustle of brush from several positions around them.

Then silence.

It was all over when Wilson’s men found them less than a minute later. They carried bright flashlights that illuminated the chaotic aftermath of Sam and Jesse’s struggle.

When Julia leaned down to embrace Sam, he saw that her arm was bandaged.

“What happened?”

“It’s nothing.” Julia held him close and whispered. “I took a glancing round while protecting one of the young forest folk when they followed the kidnappers. It hurt him, too. They saved me and I sewed up his wound. Carl caught me again, but the forest folk remembered.”

“So they’ve been watching, helping?”

“Promise you won’t tell anyone about them. They won’t believe us anyway.” There were tears in her eyes. “Look at me and tell me we’ll give the forest back to them and protect them.” 

Sam lifted her chin. 

“Here’s looking at you, kid.”