Uncertain Justice

Chapter 36

But he also said most people were always a little uneasy around Underwood; there always seemed to be something violent just under the surface." Jack sat quiet for a moment, chewing on his lip while he considered the two contrasting bits of information and how they fit into the puzzle.

"And ... there's a hint that he's attended at least one of the Army's survival schools--there's no certificate of completion, only a reference to it in a performance report. He's qualified "expert" with a number of weapons too ... and he declined a battlefield promotion in Afghanistan. Damn ... ya gotta wonder what that was all about." Jack closed the file and sat chewing his lower lip for moment.

"You know," he speculated, "the Sergeant Major said something when I was talking to him ... he asked if it was true Underwood had almost been captured and used a knife to kill a dog in the process of getting away ... asked if the man had any other weapons with him. I didn't know for sure at the time so I told him we hadn't confirmed it yet but the dog part might be true and he was supposed to have a shotgun and a pistol. He didn't say anything for a minute or two; then he said it was damn lucky only a dog got killed.

"He said it was only his opinion, but he thought the search party was damn lucky they hadn't gotten close enough to catch Underwood because he would have cut them to pieces if they had." Agent Randall sat quietly for a moment while he followed that line of thought. He didn't like where it led. His head jerked up when his supervisor broke the silence.

"I agree, Jack. There's a lot that doesn't add up and I want you to change the arithmetic. You make them add up." Pat Reilly's tone was a little sharper than he intended. Nice as the boy was, the Assistant Director had an appointment across town in thirty minutes.

"Get me some answers and find Underwood. Now that the state police search has been scaled back, he might get careless and surface somewhere. I want you there when he does. The Director has given me carte blanch to investigate this and it doesn't matter where it takes you. If you run into any problems let me know."

Jack stood quickly. He recognized a dismissal when he heard one. Waving at the Deputy Director's secretary on the way out, he plodded back to his drab little cubical. Time for more phone calls.

§

Drifting north, Miles searched for an opportunity to change his direction of travel east or west. The direction he went wasn't nearly as important as the change itself. That it would be random contributed to his intention of losing himself in the mountains. Once he'd managed a certain distance in some direction, he was going to turn back south to further confuse the scant trail he was leaving for the authorities.

Less than an hour into the morning's hike, he found what he needed. Moving to the shade beneath a pine tree, he pulled his large canteen out to gulp a few mouthfuls of water while he studied the ground and made his plans.

He thought he saw a path that meandered down and across the rocky slope in front of him that he could follow down to a slender ribbon of a creek that ran the length of the steep-sided ravine. Stepping from one rock to another wearing only his padded hiking socks would keep him off the ground and leave almost no trace of his passage down to the creek. They wouldn't make clear impressions on the ground or scuff a rock in passing and that would make it just that much harder for anyone to track him.

It wouldn't fool any dogs being used to track him but dogs would lose the trail too when he went in the stream. Once in the creek, he would wade up or downstream for a considerable distance.

At some point, he would abandon it and travel west after changing into the combat boots he carried as spare footwear. Then he'd find an opportunity to head back south.

When he got back to U.S. Highway 50, he would march east or west along it for several miles. It would have to be done late at night but cars and trucks traveling the route would pick up his scent on their tires and deposit it elsewhere. That would ruin any trace the hounds might otherwise use to track him down.

As the final touch, he would abandon the highway where a creek passed under it and walk along the riverbed south for as far as he could. He expected neither man nor beast would be able to follow his trail through all the convolutions he had in mind. He settled back for a rest before pressing on.

The big bird plummeted from the clouds with cruel talons extended to capture and kill a small rabbit no more than ten yards from where Miles sat. The rodent might have been surprised by Miles' presence under the tree and maybe it froze with indecision on its best move to avoid the human. Whatever the reason for its immobility, the rodent had surely forgotten the ever-present danger and it paid the price for the error. Miles nodded shortly as he absorbed the unintended lesson.

A monster for its breed, the red-tailed hawk was an albino, almost totally devoid of the characteristic black and copper-colored feathers. The cruel eyes of a hunter confronted the man, expecting Miles to challenge for the kill the raptor had just made.

When Miles only hoisted his canteen in tribute, the bird responded by spreading his wings to their full four-foot extension and screaming his triumph. The bird took to the air with the dead rabbit clutched securely against his body. Another hoarse shriek drifted down from the heights as the hawk disappeared into the branches high on a far-off treetop to enjoy his meal in private.

Miles gathered himself and took another swallow from the canteen while tightening all the straps on his pack. He patted the holstered pistol to make sure it was securely tucked inside the hip belt. Taking a deep breath, he swung out into the trail and followed it another few yards into the rock field.

On a boulder that would have been the size of an apartment building had its buried portion had been excavated, he broke off the path and turned west. Walking carefully, he zigzagged down the mountainside, taking care not to kick or dislodge any pebbles from their resting places. Their disturbance would reveal his passage to a skilled tracker and, in his stocking-clad feet, it would have hurt too.

§

Miles squatted in the shadow of the overhanging rocks and watched the valley spread out in front of him, looking for signs of human beings. He was hungry. Actually, it wasn't so much hunger as it was a craving for something different. He was getting tired of the fish he could drag from almost any creek or pond. He'd dreamed last night he could hear the sizzle of a big steak dropped on a hot grill.

He was a good ninety miles, as best he could determine, south and west of where he'd reversed course. As the crow flew, that is. Miles figured he'd probably hiked another seventy or eighty miles on top of that ... going up, down, and around any number of mountains.

It had been eighteen days since he'd turned back south and a solid week since he had found a footprint made by someone other than himself. He hadn't seen any signs of pursuit. In fact, the only suggestions of civilization he'd noticed for a long while were the contrails of high-flying airliners sliding swiftly across the sky.

He'd known from the start he would have to officially join the food chain in the wilderness at some point, but he'd put it off as long as he could. Hunting had a tendency to attract attention from other predators and made it easier for searchers to find him. He couldn't wait any longer though. He needed meat. Not only that, he'd been looking for somewhere to hold up for a while and get some rest. This place looked as good as any he'd seen.

In the grassy meadows below, he could see several small groups of deer and elk, plenty of hardwood to smoke the meat, and a number of small, shallow creeks that wound through and around the little alpine valley. In short, it had everything he needed.

Rising, he worked his way down slope and into a mixed forest of evergreen and broad-leafed trees to find a good campsite before the sun started its descent. He needed to pull out the crossbow he'd brought instead of a heavy rifle for hunting and check it. He should have done that long since. He'd sadly neglected the bow these past few weeks ... but then, there had been other things on his mind.

§

His first kill was more difficult than he had foreseen. The morning after arriving in the valley, Miles easily found a small herd grazing in one of the meadows and jogged in a wide circle through the forest to get downwind of them. Once there, he crept toward them, concealing himself in the brush as much as possible and moving only when his targets had their heads averted.

Eventually, he worked his way to within forty yards. He could see most of the herd through a screen of bushes and a small stand of trees. They were slightly down slope, alternately dropping their heads to find succulent young shoots and rising again to chew while they kept an eye on their surroundings.

He got his feet under him and stood, steadying himself against a sapling. The young male closest to him was his best shot. He aimed the bow at the feeding whitetail deer while he tried to remember what he'd heard about shooting uphill and downhill. Did you make allowances for it or not ... and did those rules apply to using a crossbow or just to firearms? He couldn't remember.

It stood to reason ... the lower speed of the bolt meant he needed to aim higher. But if he was higher than the target ... didn't that mean he should hold a little lower ... or did it mean...?

He sighed, exasperated. Finally, he decided to trust his instincts and aimed a little higher than he thought he needed. Letting out a careful breath halfway, he pulled the trigger release.

The aluminum bolt flashed off the tracks at better than three hundred feet per second. That was only a bit more than ten percent of the muzzle velocity of a 30-06 round but arrows obeyed the same physical laws that all spinning ballistic objects ... such as bullets ... must. They all actually rise a few inches in the early portion of their flight and then settle. By aiming high at a comparatively close target, Miles exaggerated that characteristic and the bolt flew an inch over the buck's front shoulders.

The animal didn't react except to raise his head and peer placidly around. Deer aren't blessed with an exceptional quantity of brainpower. Their survival adaptations are quick reflexes and great fleetness of foot to run away from predators.

Neither of these was triggered by the sound of the bolt boring a hole through the air overhead. As the three-year old munched on the tender greens of spring, it may have had a moment of dull curiosity at the huge fly or bee that had flown over its back while it grazed--but probably not.

"s**t!"

That did provoke an immediate response. The deer hadn't known what the bolt was and the flat twang of the bowstring hadn't been enough to spook him, but he did have an instinctive reaction to a loud noise coming from an unknown creature's throat. Unidentified animals were automatically classified as dangerous.

The buck began to trot off into the deeper brush, the white flag of his tail waving energetically to warn his fellows. There was no time for a second shot. Before the young male deer passed out of sight, he stopped and looked back--derisively, Miles thought--at the mighty hunter who had missed so badly.