Chapter 22
We were seventy yards out when I opted to tip the canoe.
I’ve hunted all my life. With a good rifle and reasonable ability, making a successful kill shot at seventy yards isn’t a big deal.
The effective range of a Glock, even in the hands of a skilled shooter, is about fifty yards.
I was hoping Ollie didn’t spend a lot of time on a firing range.
As soon as I hit the water, I began swimming for the far side of Devil’s End, which would put me another hundred yards beyond the range of the Glock.
I didn’t waste any time worrying about Stan.
I’m a good swimmer, and I stroked hard away from the canoe.
I didn’t look back until I touched a jumble of rock at the base of the wall opposite the campsite.
When I did, I saw that Stan was struggling in the water, flailing away like a man who didn’t know the first thing about keeping his head above water.
The strong current from the cascades had already swept the canoe well away from him, carrying it toward Devil’s Door, so he had nothing to grab on to.
Under normal circumstances, if I saw someone in this situation, my first impulse would be to do my best to save them. That thought never entered my mind. In fact, I found myself thinking with grim but exhilarating pleasure, One down and one to go.
My moment of triumph died almost immediately.
I spotted another canoe that had just come through Devil’s Door.
There were two paddlers, and I could see that they were stroking hard toward Stan, who continued to struggle, his head disappearing beneath the surface, then bobbing back up for a gulp of precious air.
“No!” I hollered and tried to get their attention to wave them off.
But what reasonable person, in their right mind, wouldn’t focus on the drowning man?
They reached him, and the canoeist in front stuck out a paddle, which Stan grasped. He was pulled to the canoe, where he grabbed hold of the bow.
“No!” I tried again.
The sun was bright off the water, and I couldn’t see the canoeists clearly.
Probably, it was the same for them where I was concerned.
The one in the bow hollered something I couldn’t quite hear, which told me that they probably couldn’t make out anything I would say.
They had Stan move to the middle of the canoe, and he gripped the gunwale while they paddled toward the campsite.
Between Stan’s added weight and the force of the current against them, they were working hard, and all their attention was on their mission of mercy.
They couldn’t see, as I could, that Ollie had hidden himself behind one of the tents.
There’s a reason why the divine spirit is called the Great Mystery. As I clung to the rock, watching helplessly while the two Good Samaritans paddled their way into a shitstorm, I found myself railing silently at the Creator, absolutely mystified and pissed as hell.
There was nothing I could do as they pulled up to the flat rock.
I saw Stan stumble out of the water. Then I saw Ollie emerge from behind the tent and point the Glock toward the two paddlers.
I thought he was going to shoot them then and there.
But he must have said something to them, because they proceeded to disembark and draw the canoe out of the water so that the bow rested on the rock.
Then they raised their hands in the air.
The one who’d been in the stern was much taller than the bow paddler, but at the moment, that was all I could tell from a distance and looking into the glare of the sun.
As I held to my rock, Stan waved to me in order to be sure he had my attention. He pointed toward Ollie, who turned the taller of the two canoeists to face me, then put his gun to that paddler’s head.
I took the binoculars from the sheath on my belt. Although the lenses were dripping with water, when I put them to my eyes, I could see pretty well. And what I saw froze my heart. The man with the gun to his head was Tucker Jackson. The other canoeist was his daughter, Leticia.
Stan beckoned me to come, and I understood perfectly well what they had in mind if I didn’t obey.
We’re thrust into this world without any consideration of whether we really want to be here.
After that, life becomes a series of choices.
At every crossroads, we make a decision—left, right, straight ahead.
I think that for most of us, the journey toward our inevitable end is never straight ahead but ends up being a crooked path.
I’m guessing that most of us, looking back, wonder without any clear understanding and often with regret at the choices we’ve made.
I held to that rock wall longer than I should have.
It wasn’t that I was afraid. I just didn’t have the slightest idea what my best choice might be.
If I joined the gathering at the campsite, the Kennedy brothers might still shoot us all.
If I abandoned the father and daughter, swam toward an escape through Devil’s Door, and survived to tell the tale, could I live with myself?
It was Ollie who made the move that tore me from my moment of indecision.
He took the gun away from Tucker Jackson’s head and shot the man in the leg, just as he’d done with Cordell.
Tucker went down, grabbing his thigh. Leticia tore free and tried to kneel beside her father.
But Ollie grabbed her and put the gun to her head.
I saw Tucker lift a hand toward his daughter, not seeking help but probably urging her to cooperate.
A leg wound isn’t lethal. A bullet in the brain usually is.
I had no choice. I started swimming across the bay. The current was strong and I had to fight my way through it. By the time I reached the landing, I was breathing hard. The moment I climbed from the water, Ollie let go of the girl and clipped the left side of my head with the barrel of the Glock.
I tumbled down beside Tucker, for a moment seeing nothing but a whole universe of stars. When my head cleared, I found that Leticia was kneeling next to her father, sobbing uncontrollably. Stan and Ollie stood over us all, Ollie with a vicious grin across his stupid face.
And then my heart began to gallop like a horse gone mad.