The Double Man (Jack Widow Book 15) Page 2

  The man with the whipping tie’s smile faded, and the glee in his eyes died down to nothing. He was disappointed. Kloss had been an army veteran. He knew that from a simple background check. Anyone could discover that about Kloss, but the man with the whipping tie’s resources were a lot more than what most people could access. Not that he needed to do a background check because Kloss had already told him enough, all but who hired him.

  Every man has a breaking point, even a retired army veteran. When breaking a man’s legs gets you nothing, injecting them with narcotics often will. The man with the whipping tie hadn’t injected him with any narcotics, however, because he had neither the time nor the proper equipment, not on Kodiak Island. The island itself wasn’t the middle of nowhere, but it was remote enough. Having the proper equipment on standby took time to prepare. He didn’t have that time.

  Taking Kloss out on a dip from a helicopter seemed to be enough to get the job done. Sometimes it was the crude measures that worked best. Plus, the man with the whipping tie enjoyed the hell out of it. But that sensation had passed. And he had better things to do. If Kloss hadn’t told him by now, he wasn’t going to tell him at all.

  “Pull him up,” the man with the whipping tie said.

  The operator nodded and hit the button, and the winch cranked to life again and reeled the cable up. Kloss and the rescue litter came up out of the water.

  The man with the whipping tie looked over at the operator controlling the winch and nodded at him again. The operator nodded back and hit the button again. The cable stopped cranking and Kloss was left dangling again several feet over the water.

  The man with the whipping tie gave it one last go and called down.

  “Who did you tell?”

  Kloss coughed and gagged and nearly vomited, but didn’t because there was nothing left to vomit. His stomach was empty. His abdomen muscles were beyond the point of strained.

  Kloss shouted up, “No one! I swear! Please! Let me go!”

  The man with the whipping tie stared down and yawned. He felt tired, partially from the long flight to Alaska just to deal with this guy. Partially, he was tired because he had been awake and a part of the long torture of Kloss. He called out, “Okay. I believe you.” Though he didn’t.

  The man with the whipping tie stepped back and stood straight and tall. He stretched his arms out and looked at the guy controlling the winch. He yawned again.

  He said, “Bring him back up.”

  The operator nodded and did as he was told. Once again, he pressed the return button. The winch motored and cranked. The cable took several seconds to lift up all the way.

  The guy controlling the winch stopped it as soon as Kloss and the litter were within grabbing distance.

  The man with the whipping tie turned to the pilot. He said, “Take us up higher.”

  The pilot said nothing. No affirmative response. No nod. No look. He just did as he was ordered. The Jayhawk started to climb.

  The man with the whipping tie got back into the cabin and dumped himself down in an empty jump seat behind the cockpit. His tie stopped whipping. He looked at his watch.

  Without eye contact, he barked an order to one of his guys. “Help him.”

  One of the large guys, the one closest to the doors, unbuckled his safety belt and stood up. He clambered over to the open door and helped the other crew member drag the litter in and unharness it from a large hook at the end of the cable.

  Kloss breathed in and breathed out. Rainwater and seawater drenched his face. There was saltwater in his stomach and lungs. No doubt about it. His skin was pale blue. The bruises on his face were wrinkled and had turned purple. But he said nothing. He felt lucky to be alive.

  The helicopter climbed higher and higher.

  Kloss stared at the man with the whipping tie. The two large guys dragged the litter into the cabin set him down in the middle of the floor. They checked the straps on his hands, made sure they were fastened tight. He didn’t struggle or thrash about like he did before because he didn’t want to piss them off. They were letting him go. He had told the man with the whipping tie enough.

  Kloss thought he convinced the man with the whipping tie to let him live, and that was victory enough. His broken legs would heal in time. His bruises would heal. Now they were going to let him go. They’d probably dump him at an emergency room somewhere, probably in Kodiak or Homer.

  Whatever, he didn’t care. He just wanted to be rid of them. He could regroup later. He could get the FBI involved after he was safe and sound.

  The helicopter climbed.

  The man with the whipping tie stayed quiet. The two large guys that set Kloss down stayed near him. One unhooked him from the cable. The cable whipped back out into the night. It dangled from the side of the winch. The operator stayed near the open doors but did not close them.

  One of the large guys kept a massive hand laid across Kloss’s chest like he was keeping him restrained with it. The hand was the size of a shovel but heavy as a rock. Kloss looked them all over casually like he was taking notes about them. He recorded their faces for his statement to the Feds later. Then he paused a beat and glanced back over his shoulder out the open doors. Lightning cracked the sky again. He stayed fixated on the rough sky beyond the doors until a question popped into his mind. It was a question he couldn’t ignore. So he asked it.

  He asked, “Why is the door still open?”

  No one answered him.

  A fear started to creep up on him. Kloss’s heart started to race. He asked, “Why is the door still open?”

  No answer.

  “Guys, close the door,” he said.

  No response.

  “Close the door,” he begged.

  No answer.

  Kloss asked, “Where are we going?”

  He got nothing but silence from the men and the howl of the wind and rumble of the thunder and the hum of the rotor blades. No talk. No speeches. Nothing else.

  The man with the whipping tie turned in the jump seat and looked back over his shoulder at the pilot. His tie started whipping violently again. It was from a draft that blew through the open door.

  The man with the whipping tie asked the pilot, “Where are we?”

  The pilot called back, “Fifty miles out from the Island.”

  “How high?”

  “Over three thousand feet.”

  The man with the whipping tie turned back and faced his crew. He glanced down at Kloss. He said, “Okay. We’re going to let you go now.”

  Kloss stared at the man’s eyes. He saw that evil glee return.

  The man with the whipping tie looked at his guys. He said, “Do it.”

  The two guys standing over Kloss, including the one with his shovel hand on Kloss’s chest, stood up from their perches. They both grabbed a hold of opposite sides of the litter and hauled him up off the floor. The litter was in the air. They shuffled him over to the open doors. A third guy unbuckled his seat and reached under it and came out with a heavy object. He stumbled over to the stretcher. He lifted the object into Kloss’s view. It was a fishing boat anchor. There was no chain attached to it. There was only the empty hole where one would go. The third guy hooked the anchor onto the stretcher’s railing and dropped it on Kloss’s lap.

  Kloss’s heart raced faster, like a fast telegram pulsating an urgent message. He squirmed and struggled and whipped his head back and forth. He asked, “What’re you doing?”

  No answer. No one listened. The large guys hauled him to the edge of the helicopter and the empty sky. They wrenched him back and then started swinging him forward like they were about to throw him out. They swung him forward and back repeatedly. At the end of each swing, he feared that would be the last one until they tossed him out.

  “No! Wait! I told you everything! Wait!” he cried out.

  It was no use. On the fifth swing, they tossed him out the open doors. Kloss and the litter went out into the storm, into the darkness, into the night.


  2

  Seven days later, it still rained. Although it had slowed, it never stopped. Not really. It was more like it had paused a few hours here and there.

  This time, it was October rain. It fell sporadically like soft ash from a volcanic sky. The sky grayed under a bright sun, leaving the impression of an atmosphere that couldn’t make up its mind. But that’s what Alaskan weather was like. It’s always changing, always defiant, always sullen, always glum, or not. It was entirely up to the weather to decide what it would be one day to the next. It was something that could be expected but never assumed.

  The old man stood alone in the water, not far from the banks of a remote part of the Karluk River. He wore waders to keep the clothes underneath dry. The river water was up to his knees, and the mud on the river bed was up over the heels of his boots. His fishing rod was cast. He waited. He had been waiting. So far, he had been there all morning, and early too. He got there on a four-wheeler from an old road around four o’clock in the morning. Of course, he had to do some special maneuvers to sneak away. He would reap the repercussions for sneaking out. He knew it. But it was totally worth it. Every man needs some time to himself. Plus, there was another incentive. It was his second reason for coming out there alone. He had a satchel with two large silver salmon.

  He liked fishing enough to risk the punishment. Fishing was one of the draws to living on Kodiak Island in the first place. Kodiak was one of the best fishing spots in North America. Hell, it was one of the best in the world. Especially for salmon.

  Kodiak Island was a part of the Kodiak Archipelago. It was the largest island in the archipelago and the eightieth largest island in the world, spanning nearly three thousand six hundred square miles. There were seven communities on the island, seven hamlets. The biggest was the main town called Kodiak. The south part of the island was filled with rugged terrain but was fairly treeless. That’s where most of the population lived. The northern and western parts were more remote parts, like thick forests and forgotten fishing villages. There was a lot of wildlife in the northern and western parts.

  Fourteen thousand people inhabited the island, with millions skirting through for tourism, bird-watching, hunting, and fishing over the course of a year. The island was originally inhabited by the Alutiiq people—Alaskan natives. They’re more commonly referred to as Pacific Eskimos.

  The old man knew some of them personally.

  The old fisherman waited quietly, watching his fishing pole, hoping for a bite, before he realized that he lost his bait to a silver salmon that was more cunning than your average fish. He thought about tossing the line out again with fresh bait, but he glanced at his watch and then up at the clouds. The rain fell slow and steady. It was a light drizzle, as it had been all morning, but he knew it would get worse. The afternoon often brought heavy weather. He realized he better make the long hike back to his four-wheeler. Not that it mattered in terms of his being caught sneaking out. He was busted no matter what time he got back. Heading back now or heading back later made no difference. His caretakers would know he was gone. Hell, they already did. They may have sent out a search party for him. But they wouldn’t find him. Not before he returned. There may not be many people living on the island, but there was plenty of space to hide.

  The old fisherman scooped up his hook and line and hooked it to the end of the rod. He took big steps to wade back through the river water and onto the muddy shore. He passed through the mud and stepped up onto long blades of grass. He stomped his feet and raked the soles across the grass to remove most of the mud. He shook both of his legs, one at a time, to shake river water off his waders.

  The old man scooped off his ball cap and brushed his hair back. His gray hair was getting long. He’d have to convince Peter to take him into town soon to get it cut. It swooped over his scalp to one side, like it had nowhere to go. He took more big steps back toward the direction of the parked four-wheeler, which was about a hundred meters back through waist-high grass and behind a cluster of trees. He parked it back on the old road and walked to the river, carrying his fishing gear because he didn’t want to chance getting stuck in the mud.

  About twenty meters in, he realized everything was quiet. He paused and stopped and wondered: Why is it so quiet? It was weird. When he first arrived and walked through the grass down to the river, he had heard nature sounds. But now, he heard nothing. No birds. No insects. Nothing but the slow breeze and the cold air.

  He looked left and followed the grass, the tree line, and the horizon with his eyes. He traced it all the way back to the river and saw nothing. He took a breath.

  He started to take a step forward, and abruptly, there was a noise. A skein of Northern Shovelers took off from out of the grass. They launched fast and furious like they sensed a hunter, like someone fired a gunshot to scatter them. And that’s the first thought that fired through the old man’s head. He wondered if he wasn’t alone. He wondered if there was a hunter nearby. But he never heard any gunshots. He looked around curiously at first. Then he realized he wasn’t wearing a bright-orange vest or any other bright color to show hunters he was out there. It was an amateur thing to forget to wear out in the Alaskan wilderness. Then again, why would he wear a safety color? Hunting wasn’t allowed, not on this part of the river. Anyone caught hunting during off-season or in protected areas would face steep consequences. The Alaskan Department of Fish and Game weren’t to be trifled with. Not in his state.

  Nervously, because he didn’t want to get shot, the old man checked left and checked right. He circled his head and looked in every direction. He saw nothing. He saw no one. No hunters. No signs of human life. Not anywhere.

  Unexpectedly, the Shovelers weren’t the only birds in the sky. A raft of nearby ducks did the same thing. They flew off in a frenzy—squawking and flapping their wings frantically like their lives depended on it.

  Suddenly, the old man froze in terror—dead in his tracks. He heard the reason behind the fearful ducks and the fleeing Shovelers before he saw it. The reason wasn’t a hunter. It wasn’t a human. And then he heard it.

  A roar that would rock a lion to its core erupted nearby like a cannon blast. Before he turned all the way to look in its direction, a ten-foot-tall, fifteen-hundred-pound Kodiak bear came pushing past the tall grass out of the gloom.

  The old man stayed frozen. The first thing he did was drop his ball cap. Then he instinctively reached for his belt, right side, where he kept a can of bear spray clipped to it. He snatched at it and immediately jerked it off his belt, only his hand came up empty. He reached down again and swiped the bear spray up; again his hand was empty. He patted the place on his belt where it was supposed to be. But there was nothing there. He patted again desperately. It still wasn’t there. He stopped patting and remembered it was still on the four-wheeler. He forgot it.

  The bear closed in and stopped fifteen feet away, close enough for him to smell its breath. It stopped and stared at him. It stared into his eyes. The bear’s eyes were brown and deep, nearly black. They weren’t lifeless, not like a shark’s eyes. These were full of life and thoughts. The old man knew instantly the single thought that ran through the bear’s mind. It was food. He could only imagine that he looked like a walking chicken drumstick to the animal, even though in reality, the old fisherman was pretty bony. The bear could do better. But when you’re starving, you will eat anything.

  The old man tried to remember what to do. Should he run? Should he play dead? The only answer his brain would give him was to spray the bear with bear spray.

  Before he could make a decision, the bear made it for him. It reared up on its hind legs and stretched up to its full height. A looming ten feet of muscle and fur and claws and teeth. The old man froze more than he had. He felt his heart stop for a long second, and then he dropped his fishing pole and swung around and ran as hard and as fast as he could. The heavy waders didn’t do him any favors. If anything, they slowed him down. But he had to press on. No choice.

&nbs
p; The old man ran, and the bear chased after him. The bear stomped on the man’s dropped fishing pole, and he heard it snap under the heavy weight of the giant beast. He didn’t look back. There was no time to be upset. Fishing poles are replaceable. His life was not.

  The old man ran back toward the river. He knew the water would slow the bear down. His heart was no longer still. It beat hard and furious in his chest, pumping blood hard through his veins, igniting him with adrenaline. His brain slipped into survival mode like it was just the flip of a switch. The old man’s boots pounded on the river bank and then into the water. He felt the mud squishing under him. The water splashed up and across his face and neck. He waded through the river as hard as he could. He heard the bear behind him. It followed. It splashed and breathed heavy. It wasn’t slowing down. He knew it. He felt it.

  The old man crossed the river to the other side. He took a quick glance over his shoulder. The bear was right there. Twenty feet. Fifteen.

  The old man kept going, kept running. He headed toward nearby heavy rocks and trees. He stomped though more tall grass and didn’t stop. He kept running. His satchel beat across his hip. The caught salmon inside shuffled around. He kept running. His waders slowed him down. His age slowed him down. He felt himself getting winded. He wasn’t making much distance. His feet hurt. His legs ached. He was getting tired. But he continued.

  He ran past the tall grass and into a cluster of big rocks. He continued on until he was stomping through more mud. He didn’t turn back. He heard the bear’s feet stomping on the ground behind him. He heard the bear breathing and panting. The bear roared again. It sounded like now it was really angry. Now the old man had made it mad. The old man needed a break. He needed to catch his breath. He wasn’t a young man anymore. Those years were decades behind him.