Free Devil's Pass by Sigmund Brouwer Page A

their hands dirty themselves.
    This chopper was battered and big and ugly and old. Dull green paint showed through in places where the blue paint had worn off. Maybe it had once been an army chopper, taking soldiers in and out of war zones. Much more honorable than hovering far above the fray and daintily sending in radio reports. Webb didn’t know much about choppers but guessed this one could have held at least twenty soldiers.
    Today it would be carrying a far lighter load. Five by Webb’s count.
    The pilot was a little man with a big mustache, wearing a jacket with the name of the aviation company across the back. He’d just stepped into the chopper and started the engine.
    Besides the pilot and George, there were two middle-aged men, both with strawberry-blond hair and mustaches. Twins. They also had huge matching backpacks with large flags sewn onto them. They were wearing their backpacks instead of resting them on the ground. Stupid, Webb thought. Those backpacks must weigh a ton. Why not rest while you could?
    With the rotor of the chopper beginning to turn and pick up speed, Webb pretended he was holding up his iPod to read something as he snapped a photo of the backpacks.
    He was close enough to the airport to be connected to the terminal’s Wi-Fi, so he googled the flag, and in less than thirty seconds he learned the flag was German.
    It would be great, he thought, if they couldn’t speak English. That would be two fewer people he’d have to talk to during the hike.
    The sixth person on the tarmac was standing a couple of meters away from the Germans. It was Sylvain, the Norman Wells cop.
    He caught Webb glancing at him and walked over.
    â€œJust wanted to be sure you made it,” Sylvain said. “Things move quickly in a small-town police unit, and I had to let Brent out a half hour ago. Turns out you can’t lock someone up for assaulting his own truck, and I didn’t get there early enough to see him attack you. The boys there all swear nothing else happened, so it’s your word against theirs.”
    Sylvain pointed at the helicopter. “But I can relax now, knowing you’re going to be out of his reach. By the time you get back to Norman Wells, Brent should be out at a work camp, so unless he decides to track you down in Toronto someday, it looks like you’re out of harm’s way.”
    Webb nodded a thank-you and followed the Germans onto the chopper to begin the next stage of his trip.

SEVENTEEN
    The sun was behind them as the chopper lifted. The roar was muted, because Webb, like the others in the chopper, was wearing a headset that let him communicate with George.
    Within seconds the small town was below them, just a collection of buildings that looked like driftwood that the mighty Mackenzie had spewed onto its banks.
    And then they were above the river, passing the man-made islands in the center that held the oil wells that defined Norman Wells.
    The chopper headed south and west, crossing the brown muddy waters of the wide Mackenzie. By this point, the river had already gathered the forces of a dozen other rivers, each of them roiling with sediment carried down from distant mountains.
    Webb didn’t expect the chopper to land for a while, so he was surprised when it dipped just after crossing the river and hovered above a clearing in the woods.
    George’s voice came over Webb’s headset. “None of you have walked the beginning stages of the Canol Trail, but I understand some of you will be returning to make sure you hike every step.”
    The two German tourists gave each other high fives, which told Webb that they understood English. That meant he’d have to be rude to ignore them. Which was fine with Webb.
    â€œHowever,” George continued, “it’s worth mentioning that below us is Mile One. Here is where the building of the Canol Road and pipeline began and where base camp was established in 1943.”
    Webb tuned