“Yeah, yeah. Fuck you.” There’s no venom in Garcia’s curse, only exhaustion laced with the recognition that he has indeed ended up in exactly the kind of straits we warned him about. “Can you get me out, please?”
“You want to tell us who you’re hunting?” I say.
He turns a glower on me, and his dark eyes snap. “Really, Detective? I’m not lying here enjoying your fine Yukon air. I’m hurt, okay? I’m trying to hide it. Bit of machismo in that. More than a bit, maybe.”
I take a closer look. There’s blood on his clothes, and they’re torn far worse than I’d expect from a ten-foot tumble down a crevice.
“So,” Garcia says, trying for nonchalance. “Apparently, you have wolves up here.”
“We do,” Dalton says. “You met them?”
“You might say that. I went to a stream this morning, and I’m trying to wash dust out of my hair, when I look up to see a goddamned pack surrounding me. They attacked. I wasn’t expecting that. Sure, they’re wolves and all, but I’m the idiot city boy who’s thinking how cool this is. Real wolves, close enough to touch.” His voice is shaking now, bravado fading. “Close enough to rip my damned throat out.”
He twists, and I see that the front of his shirt is torn. There’s blood, too.
“I’d set my knife down. That’s the only thing that saved me. I’d put the knife right beside me while I washed my hair. When the wolf lunged, I grabbed it and…” He holds up his hands, fingers and forearms stained red. “I fought like something out of a damned lost-in-the-wilderness movie.”
“You killed the wolf?” I say.
His laugh dissolves into a pained cough. “I wish. The version in my head was like the lost-in-the-wilderness movie—the intrepid hero vanquishes an entire pack of wolves armed only with a knife. I just wounded the one attacking me. As soon as it let go, I tore up the mountain. I don’t think they followed me far, but I never checked. I just kept going. Blind panic fueled by pure adrenaline. Which is how I ended up down here. For a moment, I was like a cartoon character, running on air. Then I dropped. I’ve been trying to climb out but…”
He grimaces as he straightens one leg to show a bloody gash. “I hit the side when I fell. Between that and this”—he waves at his clothing, slashed with bloody holes—“I’m still running on adrenaline. And fear. Probably shock, too. That wolf did a number on me. I’d like to say I did worse to it, but that’d be a lie. I’m in rough shape.”
“Hold on,” I say. “We’ll get you out.”
TWELVE
We set about extracting Garcia. I joked earlier about a rope. I actually have one. I put it into my pack last week after Storm took off chasing a young cougar.
I clamber down into the crevice and check Garcia’s wounds before we move him. After Kenny, I’ll err on the side of extreme caution in any situation that might result in spinal injury. There doesn’t seem to be one here. Garcia’s ankle hurts to the touch, as does his knee, but the bones are fine.
Garcia has a half dozen puncture wounds and tears from the wolf attack. I can’t see how deep any of them go. They’re bloody and ragged, and they’re causing him a lot of pain. Same goes for the leg gash. The upshot is that none of his injuries requires leaving him in this crevice while we run for help.
With my support, Garcia rises to his feet. Lots of wincing and heavy breathing and a couple of pained gasps, but he manages it. Dalton lowers the rope, and I support Garcia as he climbs it. Dalton helps him out.
I don’t need the rope for more than a handhold. A week ago, I survived clinging to the side of a cliff. This is nothing.
As dire as Garcia’s predicament had seemed, I suspect that once the shock and fear passed, and he assessed his situation with a clear head, he’d have gotten out of that crevice. Not that I’ll tell him that. If he thinks his injuries are worse than they are, that’ll ensure he doesn’t try making a run for it. Just in case, as I clean his wounds up top, I tell him he’s lucky we came along. Injured and bleeding, he was sure to attract predators. Then I list them, from cougars to black bears to grizzlies to wolves to wolverines.
“That’s not even counting the wild dogs,” I say. “And the wild pigs.”
Dalton’s glittering eyes suggest I might be overselling it.
As for Garcia, he manages a snorting laugh at the mention of dogs and pigs.
“I’m serious,” I say, as I plaster one of his chest wounds. “Our town kept pets and livestock years ago. The animals either escaped or were turned loose, and they’ve thrived. That’s the biggest danger out here, really. Domestic animals aren’t afraid of humans. You’re lucky we came along when we did.”
“Believe me, after those wolves, I’d be glad you came along even if I hadn’t fallen into that crack. You guys win. I’m ready to negotiate. Just take me back to your town, and let me see a doctor, please. I’m pretty sure I broke a rib or two falling down that hole.”
* * *
Getting Garcia to Rockton isn’t easy, not when Dalton is still trying to hide the fact that he’s injured his dominant arm. We don’t need to carry the guy, but he’s limping badly, and his breathing suggests he’s not wrong about those ribs. Dalton supports him on his right side, and I drape his other arm over my shoulders. It’s slow going, and when Jacob whistles, warning us he’s approaching, I’m about to breathe a sigh of relief. Then I see Dalton tense, and instead, I tell the guys I need a “restroom” break and hurry off to warn Jacob away. We’ve learned our lesson about introducing newcomers—however unwittingly—to Dalton’s younger brother.
I tell Jacob we have our man and ask him to please let Cypher know. Then Dalton and I continue our trek back to town with Garcia. When we’re close to town, I try the radio. It’s not working great, but I manage to get a message through to Paul, telling him we’re bringing Garcia in, wounded. He takes off to tell Anders and gather a party to meet us.
It’s at least fifteen minutes later before I catch the distant sound of voices, and we’re almost at town. So much for getting help carrying Garcia. I’ll need a good shoulder massage after this. A hot bath would be even better, but that’s not a—
A crack sounds behind us, like someone stepping on a dried branch. I’m turning with “Will?” when Garcia falls against my arm.