Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

Parviz had the idea of using a tarp on which to pile rocks then drag to the side. Make go faster, the driver said, and he was right. There really were a lot of rocks strewn across the narrow road. Most were the size of fat, extra-large cantaloupes and were in two very large heaps. Looked at from a certain angle, the pattern was almost like a miniature mountain range: both heaps topping out at mid-thigh with a lower saddle in the middle.

Which, John thought, was a little odd. Couldn’t quite put his finger on why, and then he was so busy moving stone, he had no time to think.

There was no chatter, no banter back and forth. They spoke only when necessary, and in a whisper. For a bandit, a stalled or stopped vehicle was easy prey. Once they got going, there’d be a racket, of course, and they’d already created one just venturing down this detour .

After a half hour, he traded places with Davila and kept watch, rifle in hand. Stamping his feet, John paced to keep warm as his sweat wicked away. This high up, there was no bird song, no insects, no far-off clatter of an engine straining over a pass. The only noise was the chik of rock against rock, the men’s breathing, the sough of the wind, and the pop and squeal of grit under John’s boots as he turned right and left. He kept his head on continuous swivel, though his gaze always came to rest on those rocks for perhaps two or three seconds longer.

Something wrong with this picture. But what?

Puffing, Parviz stood, pressed a hand to his back, arched, then said, “Mr. Child, what you look?”

“Just looking.” At that moment, a memory flashed: craning a look up at the mountain towering above the Going to the Sun Road.

And then another memory, not of the overhang but...

A crater.

His back went rigid. Right, right ! He remembered now. The rocks that had smashed into the Going to the Sun Road were both very large and had fallen quite a distance. High school physics: force equals mass times acceleration. In the case of something like a rock, gravity provided acceleration. The more distance the rock had to fall, the faster it would go.

The crater beneath all those rocks on that road had been immense: large enough for a person to lie down and still have room to spare .

Here, though?—

“Hey!” He turned to find Davila supporting a gasping Parviz. “I think he needs a break here.”

“I okay,” Parviz wheezed. Sweat trickled down his temples to seep into his collar, and he was puffing like a blown horse. “I…keep go.”

“Yeah, right,” Davila said. “Go drink some water. You throw your back out, we’re toast.”

“He’s right,” John said, as evenly as he could. He had to talk to Davila, read him in, tell him what he suspected. “Take a break. We got this.”

“Okay. I okay.” Arming sweat from his face, Parviz took the rifle then shuffled toward the van. “I be okay.”

John and Davila worked in silence for a few moments. Now that he was closer, John saw how disparate all the rocks were and again felt a tickle of unease. Did a quick eye-check of their driver, who was a good distance away and guzzling from a water bottle.

“Davila.” He kept his voice to a murmur. “These rocks bother you?”

“No. Should they?” Davila swabbed his face with a forearm. “They’re rocks.”

“Yes, but they’re different.”

“So?” Dragging off his watch cap, Davila gave his head a scratch as thin, wispy fiddleheads of steam unfurled and then dissipated in the chill. Streaks of sweat dribbled from his temples on down his cheeks to pearl in drops along his jaw. The rocks here weren’t heavier; there were simply more of them, and Davila had worked up a sweat working as fast as he could. Peeling off his parka, Davila said, “Probably picked up crap on the way down. By definition, that’s kind of what a rockslide does.”

“No, there’s more to it than that. Keep working but listen. Remember, Parviz claimed there were bandits in these parts. Ustinov warned us, too.”

“You saying you don’t believe them?”

“No, I do. Thing is, remember the other slides we’ve cleared? The one thing they had in common?”

“Other than rocks?” Davila said, tugging on his watch cap.

“Other than that, yeah.” He made a small, keep-it-rolling gesture to Davila. “Don’t stop working. Keep moving.”

Davila resumed his work. “Okay,” he said, shoving a blocky wedge of gray stone onto the tarp. “I give up. What?”

“A sign.”

“Road sign?”

“Yes.” He kept working but focused on moving smaller rocks just large enough to keep himself looking busy. “Not is a single sign warning of a landmine. You remember the other slides?”

“Yeah.” Davila’s tone had changed, grown more thoughtful: the tone of a man sifting through memory. Emulating John, he kept working but more slowly. “You’re right. Every other slide, there was one those landmine signs. ”

“But not here.”

“But not here,” Davila echoed. “And?”

“And that means anyone could approach from either the mountain or valley without going ka-boom.”

“Okay. But that in and of itself doesn’t mean anything.”

“But I think this next bit does. Remember a while back when Parviz asked what I was looking at? I’ve seen a really big rockslide before. We’ve seen a couple on this trip that weren’t as bad, but they had all the same general things in common. You know, the way the rocks were splayed out on the road. But this one is different. Forget the fact that they’re all different kinds of rock. Just…look at it; see if you see what I see.”

Davila’s eyes narrowed as he searched the mounds of rock, his gaze ticking between the slide and the road and the mountain, all while steadily working, piling stone onto the tarp—and then John heard Davila’s breath catch.

“The road ,” Davila muttered, his voice low but now throbbing with urgency. “It’s not dinged up.”

“Exactly. No divots, no damage, nothing. Same with the mountain. I was looking for the place where the fall might have come from. Didn’t see anything. No gash, no area where enough water might have gotten in through a crevice, frozen, and then either melted or pushed off a slab. Could be higher up the mountain, but then there’s the pattern of the fall, those big piles with a dip in the middle. Is that the way a slide should look?”

“I—” Davila began then stopped. For a moment, the only parts of his body that moved were his eyes flicking back and forth. “No,” he said, finally, in a tone of some wonder as if flabbergasted that he might overlook something so obvious. “Why didn’t I?—”

“Because we’re tired, we’re in a hurry, we’re a little freaked—” He flinched at the sudden grind of a starter turning over and then a roar as Parviz gunned the engine.

“The hell?” Davila pivoted on his heels. “Isn’t he supposed to be keeping watch?” Pushing to a stand, Davila waved his arms at the van. “ Stop, Parviz, what the?—"

“No worry!” Parviz was out of the cab now, rifle in hand. “Warm up engine, you almost done, we go fast!” Then at the look on Davila’s face. “Sorry, I sorry. You want I switch off engine?” Parviz said, reaching in and turning the ignition key. “There, is done. I stand watch.”

“Davila, leave it. Harm’s already done. Let him take the watch. Just this last batch and then we’ve got enough room to get the van through.” When Davila didn’t move, John said, “Davila, starting up that van was like taking out an ad. The whole valley knows we’re here.”

That got Davila moving. “If someone’s not already here... ”

“Exactly. All you’d have to do is follow the sound.” Even silenced, the engine noise could be a prearranged signal. He hoped he was wrong. But I know what I know…I think. John bent to his task again, attacking the rocks with a renewed sense of urgency. “Come on, Davila, let’s finish this and get the hell out of here while we still can.”

Emotions warred over Davila’s features. “Maybe I should get my rifle.”

“No,” John said.

“Why not?”

“Too late.” He was shoveling rubble over now, working as fast as he could, his fingers forking stones. The rocks were still mostly the size of large grapefruits. Too big, too big, too big. Come on, there’s got to be a couple that are the right...

“All the more reason?—”

“No,” he said again, his eyes still on the stones, his hands still raking, rolling rocks onto the tarp. He trusted his hands.

“You’re not telling me something,” Davila said. “What is it?”

“The weapons,” he said, eyes still on his work, still raking and rolling stones onto the tarp, confident his hands would know when he found what he was looking for. “I couldn’t find a good time to tell you, but I think your rifle might not?—”

“Worthy.” Davila’s hand gripped his shoulder hard enough to hurt. When John looked up, Davila inclined his head toward the van. “Company.”