BY THE DAWNING of December 18, they were passing slowly through the hamlet of Hyampom, on the edge of the Trinity National Forest, the narrow, winding trail following the swollen Hayfork River.
From there they hoped to work their way northwest onto Highway 299. That would, if all went well, eventually bring them down into their destination of Eureka, a few miles south from Arcata.
“Present rate of progress means we’ll be damn good to get to the rendezvous by Christmas Day, never mind later today.” Mac spit into the muddy water of the river.
“Least there don’t seem many folks around here,” said Jeanne. “Real nowhereville.”
“Plenty of goats,” sniggered Jeff.
Late on the previous afternoon he’d been at the wheel of the four-by-four, leading the jeep by a hundred yards or so, when he’d suddenly spotted a herd of black-and-white goats wandering along the unfenced road.
“Geronimo.” He’d put his foot down so hard that Nanci had banged her head on the side window, where she’d been snatching a few minutes of sleep.
The animals had seemed dazed, as though they’d already forgotten that vehicles could be dangerous. One or two had run off into the surrounding brush, dainty hooves pecking at the loose, wet gravel.
But most had stood their ground, including a ferocious long-bearded billygoat, who’d actually dipped his head as though he was going to charge the powerful truck.
After the jarring impact, Jeff had thrown the four-by-four into an ostentatious skid, jumping out to see how successful he’d been.
They’d all worked into the evening on skinning and dismembering the half-dozen youngest, tenderest goats, throwing the offal out into the darkness for the predatory coyotes that they’d heard every night for weeks.
“I done good, Nanci.” Jeff had whispered into her ear as they all awaited rest and sleep that night. Every one of them was sated and stuffed from a stomach-bursting surfeit of the delicious pale meat.
“You did excellently, Jefferson.”
“I earn a reward?”
She’d smiled and let her hand slip inside his shirt, inching across his chest until it touched his nipple. She had gripped it between finger and thumb and squeezed, gently, then firmly, then hard, kissing him on the open mouth to stifle his low moan of pain. Then nipping his lower lip between her sharp teeth until blood trickled down his chin.
She had withdrawn a little bit from him. “That’s a down payment on the reward, Jeff,” she’d said, unable to slow her own excited breathing. “Guess what the rest’ll be?”
“Can’t, Nanci.”
“Yes, you can. It’s going to be on the tip of your tongue, Jeff, if you get what I mean.”
He got what she meant.
PROGRESS WAS agonizingly slow even with the off-road capacity of both their vehicles.
By the morning of the nineteenth they still hadn’t even reached Highway 299. Paul McGill was the best at navigation, and his most optimistic guess still only put them around fifteen miles off the junction.
“Means we can’t hope to reach Eureka until the evening of the twentieth.” He paused to take in their disappointed expressions. Then he added, so that no false hopes would be nurtured, “At the earliest.”
Chapter Ten
Jim Hilton kicked the front wheel of the silent, motionless truck.
“Can’t be more than a dozen miles, and we run out of gas. Hellfire and bloody perdition.”
It was late morning on December 18, the day after the huge earthquake that had come so desperately close to killing all of them.
Jim had recovered consciousness to find the earth still thrumming beneath him, the dust shifting across the spread fingers of his right hand. The four-by-four had hung over the side of the irrigation ditch where he lay, one wheel spinning silently only a few inches above his head.
There was a high-pitched sound drilling through his brain, as though a cheerful maniac who lived inside one of the abandoned back rooms of the west wing of his skull was busy sawing apart sheets of plate glass. He had winced and then reluctantly opened his eyes again.
There was also shouting. A woman’s voice, he thought. “Lori?” No.
“Shut up, Sly, and help me find Dad.”