Jill Sorenson – Freefall (страница 7)

Shoving the items he’d scalped into a stolen backpack, he headed toward the public restrooms to change. Near the men’s entrance, he noticed a door for a utility closet. Unlocked, of course. Because tree huggers didn’t steal toilet paper. He reached inside, helping himself to bleach, hydrogen peroxide and Band-Aids.

In the men’s room, he studied his reflection. His once-white shirt was dotted with blood and bits of gore. Teeth fragments, perhaps. Removing it with a grimace, he tossed the garment into the sink and uncapped the hydrogen peroxide.

With heavy regret, for his jet-black hair was striking, he leaned forward and poured the bottle over his head. The liquid burned his nostrils and dripped down his chin, but he gave himself a good dousing, keeping his eyes shut tight. When he couldn’t stand the sting anymore, he rinsed his hair and studied the effect.

Awful.

The rusty bronze color didn’t look natural, or attractive, but it was different. With sunglasses on, he might be unrecognizable. Satisfied, he took off his pants, socks and shoes, piling them in the sink. He added bleach. While he was standing there in his boxer briefs, soaking his bloodstained clothes, another man came in to use the facilities. He was young and spot-faced, his eyes puffy. Mumbling hello, he disappeared into the first stall.

Retching sounds emanated from the confined space.

Javier shook his head in disgust. He fantasized about shooting the sick camper to put him out of his misery. There wasn’t a shower at this imbecilic place, so he washed with cold tap water and patted himself dry with rough paper towels. It was impossible to eliminate every spec of evidence, so he didn’t bother trying. After rinsing his wet clothes, he stuffed them in the trash can.

The pack he’d stolen contained several stray clothing items. He donned a gray V-neck T-shirt and low-slung plaid shorts, lamenting the owner’s bad taste. The shirt was too snug and the shorts too loose, but at least they were clean. He sat down on a wooden bench to bandage the blisters on his feet.

Two more young men walked into the restroom, glancing in his direction. He froze, hoping they weren’t the campers he’d just robbed.

Dismissing Javier, the first guy banged on the bathroom stall. “Dude, pull it together. We’re going to be late for the trip.”

The sick man vomited again.

His friends laughed at the noise, goofing around and punching each other.

“Just leave without me.”

“No way, dickhead! I can’t get a refund if you cancel.”

“I’ll pay you back,” he groaned.

“Stop being such a pussy. We’re all hungover.”

“It’s the altitude.”

“You’ll feel better on the raft.”

The man started dry-heaving, and his friends continued to ridicule him.

Javier almost felt sorry for the poor bastard. There was nothing more emasculating than puking your guts out in a public toilet. He’d done it himself, several years ago, after drowning his sorrows at Hector Gonzales’s bachelor party. The next day Hector had married the woman Javier loved.

Wincing at the memory, he put on a pair of sturdy athletic socks and black canvas tennis shoes that were only half a size too large. The backpack also boasted a hat. A beanie, he believed it was called. Tugging it over his wet hair, he walked outside, bypassing the foolish young men. An area map was posted on an information board next to the restrooms. Warnings about bears and safety instructions appeared in several languages.

He studied the map, which indicated that he was at the Kaweah Campsite in Sierra National Park. Only one road led in and out of the park. Both the entrance and the exit were more than thirty miles away.

That was a problem.

Hitchhiking was common in Venezuela, where he was born, and in many of the other countries he’d visited. Here in the U.S., it was rare enough to attract the attention of the authorities. He needed another mode of transportation. He could continue walking, pay for a ride or steal a car. But what if the park exits were being monitored? Law enforcement officials might know about the crash already. His boss would definitely be looking for him.

A man in Javier’s profession couldn’t leave behind a million dollars’ worth of drugs—and a dead pilot—without consequences.

On the right side of the map, there was an advertisement for Kaweah Whitewater Adventures. A blue line marked Kaweah Campsite as the launch point. The tour stretched past the borders of the park, ending at Moraine Lake.

The river was another exit.

While he considered his options, the hecklers walked out of the men’s room. They hadn’t convinced their friend to come along. Javier gave them another quick once-over, recognizing the type. After leaving Venezuela, he’d honed his English in Costa Rica, which was popular with surfers and potheads.

“You guys going on the whitewater trip?” Javier asked.

“Yep.”

“I’ve always wanted to try that,” he said, falling into step beside them. One of the guys had short, spiky blond hair. The other had long brown hair like Jesus. Both appeared strong, probably from athletic pursuits, rather than hard labor. “How do I sign up?”

“You have to reserve in advance.”

“Oh.”

The longhair exchanged a shrewd glance with his buddy. “We could bring you along if you have enough cash.”

“How much?”

“Four hundred. It’s a three-day trip.”

Javier had enough money, but he didn’t want to appear overeager. He also suspected them of trying to hustle him. Who would pay so much money to get abused by a river? “I’ve got two fifty,” he said, lowering his voice. “And an ounce of weed.”

That perked them up. “What kind?”

“Chronic.”

The guys smiled at each other. “Let’s see it.”

Javier glanced around to make sure they were alone before showing his stash. Neither the pot nor the cash belonged to him, so it was no loss. The deal suited his acquaintances just fine. They became very friendly all of a sudden.

“I’m Caleb,” the long-haired guy said. “This is Ted.”

Javier shook their hands. “Jay Norton.”

Caleb and Ted debated over smoking a bowl right then and there, but decided against it because they were already late. Javier breathed a sigh of relief. He needed to stay alert, not get stoned with a couple of pendejos.

The rafting group was supposed to meet in the camp parking lot at eight. They hurried down the dirt road as a dark green sport utility van with Kaweah Adventures printed on the side was about to pull away.

“Hey,” Caleb yelled, waving his arms. “Wait up!”

The three of them jogged to the vehicle. “You just made it,” the driver said. “Hop in.”

Javier took off his backpack and climbed inside. The backseat was occupied by two short-haired women in their forties. A cute blonde sat in the middle. There was space available beside her, or next to the driver.

“Hello,” he said, choosing the blonde. “I’m Jay.”

She fluttered her lashes. “Faith.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” he said, shaking her hand.

Although he wanted to keep staring at her, because she was beautiful, he introduced himself to the women in back and nodded hello to the driver. When infiltrating a group, it was important to adopt their customs. Outdoor lovers were gregarious. They liked to hug strangers and bond with nature. He couldn’t be standoffish.

Caleb and Ted struck up a lively conversation, using a lot of terms Javier didn’t understand. Class Five, portage, PFDs.

He turned to the girl beside him, studying her with interest. She was wearing long shorts, a tank top and hiking boots. Her platinum-streaked hair was braided into two sections. She had a demure, fresh-scrubbed look, but she wasn’t a teenager. Her brown eyes twinkled with a sexy sort of mischief.

While he sized her up, she did the same to him.

Coño de la madre. If all female campers were this young and hot, he’d been missing out. “Faith,” he said, liking her name. “Where are you from?”

“L.A.”

City of angels. “You’re together?” he asked, indicating the women in back.

“No, I’m alone. My sister was supposed to come along, but she got called into work.”

“Sorry to hear it.”

She arched a brow. “You don’t look sorry.”

He wiped the grin off his face. “Is this your first time rafting?”

“Yes.”

“Mine, too.”

“Really? I thought this route was for experts.”