Chapter Four
Quinault Rain Forest, Washington State
Present Day
AS THE RAIN hammered down and the ocean thundered, Walker rolled up the awning, folded his chair, and packed up camp. Paladin had been fed and Walker had roasted three rockfish he had killed spearfishing that morning in the Queets River estuary.
Next, he collected Paladin’s fetch toys, which he had arranged around the campsite so the dog would have something to do while waiting for the authorities to arrive.
His last packing task was to lower the pop-up tent atop the VW and secure his tan Bison cooler to the cargo shelf extending from the rear bumper.
When he was finished, the van rumbled to life with that familiar whistle that afflicts old Volkswagens.
Walker put it in gear, twisting the parking brake handle to the right and pushed it forward.
He engaged the windshield wipers and slowly pulled from his campsite onto a dirt logging road.
Why am I still alive?
A shaft of light filtered through a break in the clouds as Walker pulled into Tommy Hawkeye’s driveway five miles away.
A U.S. Marine Corps flag marked Tommy’s single-story rambler on the outskirts of town.
Walker had met Hawkeye, a Vietnam veteran, on a hunting trip in eastern Washington State.
The old man had noticed Walker’s trad bow.
Hawkeye appreciated the nod to heritage and tradition.
Walker had asked him about the faded USMC tattoo on his right forearm.
Through a federation of Indian tribes, Hawkeye had led Walker onto the hunting lands of the Yakama Nation.
Together, they had taken a bull elk using traditional bows.
“You leaving?” Tommy asked through the screen door, as a reality show about finding love blared from an older-model television. Walker could see Tommy’s wife in an easy chair, her hands busily crocheting. The couple was well into their seventies.
“It’s time,” Walker said. He was in jeans, a flannel, his Iron Ranger boots, and wearing a black hat now faded to gray with a barely visible symbol on the front, that of an eagle over a tommy gun and what appeared to be an anchor.
Hawkeye looked at him through the screen. He reminded Walker of a priest peering through a confessional.
Tommy pushed the screen door open. It creaked on its hinges.
“Did you get what you came for?” the Vietnam veteran asked, nodding past Walker at the forest.
“No luck on a blacktail, if that’s what you mean. I did some spearfishing, ate a lot of rockfish, went for a beach dive, and collected clams.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
Walker remained quiet.
“Where you off to now? Home?” Hawkeye asked, his face lined and creased with the vestiges of time.
“For a bit.”
“And then?”
Walker paused.
“Then I’ll be heading south.”
The van was not designed with speed or aerodynamics in mind.
His first two hundred miles brought him into the majestic Cascade Mountains. On the eastern side, he decided that the van’s overworked engine needed a break, so he stopped in the town of Cle Elum for fresh groceries.
After his resupply, he drove along Highway 97 toward the Teanaway River Valley, where, under a fading sky, he set up camp in a grove of mixed cottonwoods, maples, firs, and pines. The river, still swollen from melting snow, hissed and gurgled.
Natural rhythms.
The gloomy storms that battered the west side of the state were kept at bay by the mountains.
Here on the eastern slope, the sky was clear, and the stars flickered in the night just as they had during bivouacs in Afghanistan’s Hindu Kush.
Walker had operated with his SEAL troop and then the CIA under these same stars.
He thought of moving through the Spīn Ghar Mountains in Nangarhar Province with Staub, navigating via GPS and NODs.
Walker pushed the memory aside, throwing a fresh cedar bough onto the fire. Its sap was a highly flammable accelerant and hit the flames like gasoline, sending embers skyward.
With Paladin settled near the warming rocks, Walker grilled two steaks he had bought in Cle Elum, at Owens Meats. After two weeks on the Quinault Reservation eating fish, he went for two pounds of prime rib eye, one for himself, the other for Paladin.
While the steaks sizzled, Walker found the bottle of Four Branches bourbon in the van’s galley.
He didn’t drink often, but after surviving a near-death experience earlier in the day and being thoroughly tired of listening to the philosopher in his head, it felt like the right remedy as he accepted his decision to remain among the living, at least in the short term, until he got this one last thing done for his old friend. Then he would revisit the .45.
Sitting on a thick flannel sleeping bag, bundled in his blanket-lined Carhartt, Walker reclined on an elbow and stroked his dog as the fire crackled.
Though a philosopher at heart, his studies led him to history and human motivations.
He thought about ancient wolves, and the finely tuned weapon curled up by his side.
There was a wolf pack that lived in the Teanaway.
He wondered if Paladin could sense them beyond the glow of the fire.
Walker kept the .30-30 nearby. It stayed there that night as he slept, his dog nuzzled against him, briefly at peace.
Seventeen hours later, he turned the van into the driveway of the house that used to belong to his foster mother, Teri.
According to the typed letter in an envelope under the gun tray, proceeds from the sale of the house were to go to the Rescue 22 Foundation, an organization providing fully trained service and support dogs to veterans dealing with the physical and emotional trauma of the battlefield.
“Sorry, guys,” Walker said, looking up at the modest home. “You’re going to have to wait a little longer.”
He exited the vehicle and punched a code into a box on the side of the garage that opened the door.
After he pulled in and shut down, the van’s engine clicked, and Walker could smell a faint trace of burning oil.
Worse, he could hear dripping onto the garage floor.
While Paladin leaped out, Walker lowered himself to the concrete for an inspection.
Sure enough, there was a growing puddle, which meant he would need to replace the van’s water pump again, or at least its seals, a recurring problem.
The house remained exactly as his mother had left it, her clothes hung in the closet, while the other two bedrooms were dedicated to her hobbies, sewing and music.
It was fully paid off when she had passed away when Walker was still in his teens and she had left him just enough money to make sure he could keep it.
Walker slept on the sofa. There were too many memories in his old room.
In the morning, he practiced dog-whistle drills with Paladin and then went on a long run through the high desert sage with the Belgian Malinois at his side.
Later, he did his laundry and sifted through an old milk crate of cassettes to stock his vehicle with different tapes.
Around three that afternoon, he drove the van onto two steel ramps and worked on the water pump.
His tools and spare parts hung on a pegboard as neatly as a NAPA auto store. It took him all of three seconds to locate the spare gaskets for the pump, even less to find the right sockets and wrenches.
Then he used a sealant to fix the .45-caliber bullet hole in the roof and checked the vehicle’s power system.
Walker had mounted a six-hundred-watt solar array on the roof of the van, which was enough to keep the batteries topped off after a full day in the sun.
The charge controller fed a steady twelve volts into the lithium bank that powered the fridge and interior lights.
After dinner, he prepared the van for departure.
He swapped out the LP gas tank, filled the potable water jerry can, and ensured he had the correct tools to adjust the engine on his journey, stowing them in the van’s kit with the intricacy and care of a Zurich watchmaker.
He ensured the fan that circulated air throughout the cabin for Paladin was in working order, as he had not checked it in a while with the cooler weather and the fact that Walker rarely, if ever, left his dog alone in the van.
Before he set off, Walker knew he had to flip a switch.
He had designed the three levels of the storage vault under the back bench seat that separated the living area from the cargo area to be interchangeable.
Since he left the Agency, he had prioritized his more primitive weapons on the top.
That was about to change. He pulled up the seat and removed the layer that held his trad bow in place.
Then he pulled up the middle one that contained his trench gun, .
30-30, Colt Peacemaker, and 1911. Lastly, he detached the level with his Bravo Company AR, helmet, and NOD.
While the 1911 felt at home in a Milt Sparks Summer Special 2 leather holster, the Glock 19 was secured in a Kydex Tenicor like he had used overseas on the enemy’s turf.
He then replaced the layers starting with his bow, next the guns with wood furniture, and finally, on top went the instruments of his former profession.
When the van was stocked and organized, Walker pulled a bag from a shelf in the garage and removed his Velocity Systems plate carrier and low-profile chest rig.
The bloodstains from the last time he had worn it were visible.
He had never cleaned it off. The blood wasn’t his.
It remained infused with dried dust and memories of Afghanistan.