Free Season of Death by Christopher Lane Page A

wondered. “Maybe they got a radio.”
    Ray opened his mouth to answer, then forgot the question. The canyon had narrowed, and a new army of obstacles was rising to oppose them: a half-submerged tree trunk, a puddled bar of scree and a scattering of boulders. Lewis attacked them playfully, howling as he dodged, backpaddled, and gyrated his way through the slalom course in the glossy black fiberglass kayak. Ray groaned and started beating the water to avoid meeting them up close and personal.
    A hundred yards later, the river widened and grew calm. Clouds of mosquitoes performed frenzied aerial maneuvers on both banks. Ranks of alders and willows stood in stiff formation along muddy, tapered islands, their orange and yellow leaves trembling in the breeze. White-barked birch lined one shore. Reaching up the eastern hillside, they formed a wine red curtain that blazed under the sun’s critical glare. It was picturesque. Peaceful. Serene.
Ominous.
    “See!” Lewis yelled back at them. “I know what I talk about. I’m …”
    “…An expert guide,” Ray grumbled. “So we’ve heard. Save it for the tourists.”
    Lewis cackled, clearly amused. Lifting one end of his paddle, he dug at the water and shifted his weight. The kayak flipped obediently and its dwarf of a captain dived beneath die surface. He reappeared an instant later, screeching like an injured bird.
    “Is he okay?” Billy Bob drawled.
    “Physically?” Ray answered. “Yes. Mentally? No.”
    “Aaaigaa!!” Lewis exclaimed, grinning. He paddled away, purposefully working toward the shore, where the most hazards were lurking.
    As a married man and a soon-to-be father, Ray had no desire to go looking for trouble. Accepting a challenge was one thing. He was as adventuresome as the next guy. But cheating death? Actually seeking out ways to put yourself in danger? That was insane.
    Ray decided he would be perfectly happy to float the river and make it to the pickup point in one piece. Bagging a caribou would be an added bonus.
    The concept of avoiding death by drowning, death by collision with a boulder, death by being clotheslined by a tree branch was percolating through his mind: a low, threatening rumble. It sounded like a 737 coming in on approach. Or a freight train chugging by in the distance. Or a thunderstorm rolling across the valley.
    But airliners didn’t buzz the Range. There were no railways in this wilderness, and the weather was impotent to produce lightning. The roar grew in intensity, taking on a throaty bass that pulsated in Ray’s chest. “Lewis!”
    The guide had already pulled up at the mouth of a gently flowing tributary and was peering downstream as he trod water with his paddle. When they reached him, he was smiling, his countenance buoyed by an expression of delight and wonder. Raising an arm, he pointed and sighed,
“AayagaV’
    Ray followed his gaze and promptly chose a different word to express his feelings. Shaking his head, he repeated the curse. “I’m gonna get you for this, Lewis.”

TEN
    “G OOD GOLLY,” BILLY Bob gushed, mouth agape. “Looks kinda … rough.”
    Rough was an understatement. The wide ribbon of polished emerald that they had been following ended abruptly a quarter mile ahead, dumping into a field of frantic white foam. Stone demons lurked in the froth, their shiny ebony heads rising and falling.
    “I portage here last time,” Lewis explained. “Not enough water last time. But now …” The smile widened, displaying a gleaming array of coffee-stained teeth.
    Ray squinted at the white water, chiding himself for being so stupid. What had he been thinking when he agreed to come on this trip? A trip led by Lewis!
    At the moment, sitting just upstream from what had to be the wildest, most hellish piece of water he had ever faced, Ray had his doubts. The decrepit rig would never make it. Scrutinizing them, he tried to outline a route, choosing places to turn, spots to backpaddle, boulders to avoid. He was