Dark Vessel (COIL Book 4), page 14
We left the camp as the sun touched the tops of the trees below the cold mountains. I turned south and studied the range to my left for an opening pass to the east. Trimble was indeed heavy, and each step strained my muscles. His arms were wrapped around the pack straps, his knees bent so his heels didn't drag on the ground. My hands gripped the widest section of the branches, and parachute line was drawn tight across my chest as I pulled like a plow horse.
Within an hour, Trimble was mumbling a prayer, and though our situation wasn't terribly desperate, his injury concerned me more and more. I wasn't surprised when he became quiet behind me, and his hands fell off the sides. Stopping, I grabbed the thin chute canvas and wrapped it around him to hold him to the makeshift sled. Even while he was unconscious, I could maintain a steady if not plodding step through the gorges, across creeks, up ridges, and down ravines.
Several times, I fell to my knees, and at first, Trimble stirred, but by that afternoon, when I tripped or fell, he didn't waken. It was then I knew a bone infection must've set in, and now the man's life was at immediate risk.
That night, having eaten only berries and glacier snow all day, I gauged we'd covered only about eight miles. It was less than half of what Trimble had originally guessed we had to travel. Lighting the fire with a gunshot woke him with a start, and he was instantly alert—more alert than I expected a man to be who had an infection. For certain, he appeared to be more rested than I was.
"How long have we been here?" he asked.
"An hour. Here." I gave him a handful of huckleberries. "I collected them when I was out looking for wood. They'll revive you."
Lying back, I was barely able to extend my legs toward the fire. They trembled so badly that my whole body shook.
"You don't look revived." Trimble filled his mouth, and we stared at each other over the flames. "I have to admit, from the data I was given, Luigi Putelli wouldn't help a government agent through the mountains like this."
"I told you already: I'm not who you were told I am." With effort, I pulled up my pant legs to expose skinned knees from falling on sharp rocks. I plucked gravel out of the skin. "You may not think a man can change. Though I never thought it possible, I'm not the man I once was."
"Only God can change a man's heart." Trimble's eye looked fierce again, and I was reminded of Corban's challenging gaze upon me the first few times we'd met. "Do you believe in God, Luigi?"
"He's the reason I'm still alive. I've seen His work. The man I protect is a Christian."
"What's his name?"
"Eat your berries and sleep." I laid my head on a rock. "Tomorrow, I intend to reach civilization."
Trimble said something about his job overseas, but I had no energy to listen. I fell asleep thinking of Officer Heather Oakes. Would I ever be able to leave the reputation of my past behind?
*~*
Chapter 24
The next morning, I became distinctly aware that PRS Agent Wes Trimble was not as injured as he claimed to be, or even as much as I'd thought he was. The first indication was when I returned to our second camp with firewood and saw his footprints near a trickling stream. They weren't the footprints of a hobbling man. I hadn't made him a crutch or walking stick. Whatever poison his bone marrow had leaked into his bloodstream seemed to be no more. If his leg had been broken at all.
Next, as he labored onto the travois, with its parachute straps over my shoulders, I participated in my own play-acting and fell over. Intentionally, I elbowed his left thigh, which should've been so tender that he would've screamed or fainted—which I knew from having my own broken bones. He reacted with a delayed gasp, but it was forced, and he rubbed the injury instead of being afraid to touch it.
Yet, I began the trek, taking up the poles in my hands, disclosing none of my insights into his facade. And again, we spoke little, as men without common goals. I needed to consider what this trickery meant. For one, I was already exhausted and becoming more so. The best way to capture me alive was to wear me down. It took a mile that morning to work the cramps from my legs, and I admitted aloud that I was in no condition to continue without resting every half-hour. He responded with a snore, as if he were sleeping on the sled again. But I knew better now. Wes Trimble wasn't a very good actor, and I was no longer gullible.
Mile after rugged mile, I became more outraged at our situation. I'd been a spy for many years. What a man knows gives him an edge over his adversary. However, I couldn't find the edge I was gaining by hiding the fact that Trimble was well as I was becoming more debilitated!
Trimble's silence annoyed me as well. Though I was a man who appreciated silence, his silence made me feel like I was his project instead of me being his caregiver.
At midday, we rested at a river that was too deep and wide to cross. It flowed west, the opposite direction of our heading. After one more mountain range and the river's headwaters, we would view the cultivated land I'd glimpsed from the sky.
While drinking at the river, I slid Trimble's gun into the water, but kept two bullets, one in each pants pocket so they didn't jingle together. If we had to spend another night in the wilderness, the bullets would help start another fire. But the gun would only get me shot if Trimble was planning what I thought he was.
He was surely planning to arrest me, but how? At some point, he'd have to admit his acting and try to subdue me. The gun may have been keeping him at bay, so he'd played for sympathy to keep me near. Once he noticed the gun was missing, then what? A rock over my skull? A heavy branch across my brow?
I looked back at him as he tried to catch tadpoles from a pool of muddy water a few feet from the river. Whether he was cruel for treating me like an ox, or merely craftier than me, I didn't know. But the game would soon conclude since our journey would end after the next pass.
That evening, we reached the top of the last pass on the eastern side of the Marble Mountains. We gazed upon fields, homesteads, and even roads only a few miles away. By midnight, we would be in the midst of civilized conveniences. The money I kept in my belt would be enough to buy a few meals, but my identification as Aaron Runningwater could be used no longer. Reaching the East Coast could take days, or weeks, if I had to evade authorities.
Dropping the poles and easing the straps off my shoulders, I rested on a log. Trimble lay still on the ground for a few minutes, the travois under him. He gazed at the sky, and I looked up as well.
At that moment, I realized what I'd failed to notice a day earlier. There were no helicopters or search planes. Why not? A CIA agent and a wanted international assassin had jumped out of a jet over this area. The whole countryside should've been one massive manhunt. The only reason why the Feds wouldn't be looking for us, I decided, was if they already knew exactly where we were! But how?
Jumping up on my sore feet, I pointed at the brush above the pass.
"A rabbit!" I laughed and climbed up the mountainside. "We will eat well yet! You will see, Trimble!"
"Luigi, we can be in town in two hours! Come on!"
I made a good show of chasing a rabbit left and right, trying to stomp it, gradually moving farther away from Trimble. When I believed I was out of earshot, I ran west then south, and crept up on our back trail. From over a low bush, I watched this man who'd so outwitted me. Even knowing his craftiness, I was still surprised by what I saw next.
Trimble spoke in low tones on a cell phone! He watched the hillside where I had disappeared, and conversed for only sixty seconds or less. Many things began to make sense now. A cell phone had no coverage in a wilderness. However, perhaps he'd used the phone on the higher ridges. Or that morning when I'd seen his footprints, maybe he'd gone up to the hill above us. Somehow, at some point or points before, he'd placed a call. And with this latest call, the authorities were certain to be waiting.
Retracing my steps, I came out of the bushes empty-handed.
"Ah, it eluded me," I confessed, and wiped at blood from a new scratch on my arm. My clothes were ripped and filthy from the journey, while Trimble's clothes were wrinkled, but relatively unsoiled.
"Just as well." He positioned himself on the sled to continue the journey. "There's no use in eating a wild rabbit when a restaurant could be within walking distance."
Kneeling before him, I took the poles and straps in my hands. Then, I reached behind him for a hold on the parachute canvas as if I were adjusting his position. As he was eager to continue, he let me proceed by sitting upright.
Then I struck. A section of the canvas chute loosened easily, and I wrapped it around both of his arms at his sides before he could resist. Now that he was bound, I pushed him over and took his shoes.
"What is this?" he fumed.
I threw one shoe into the bushes, and another into a tree. Crossing my arms, I looked down at him.
"Should I bow perhaps?" I asked. "In which direction should I wave? I've known since this morning that you're not injured. Speak!"
"True, I'm feeling better. My leg wasn't broken, perhaps, but it was definitely badly bruised."
"Where might I expect your friends? Just below us?" I couldn't help but smile at his persistence. "Agent Trimble, I concede. You must also. And I know about the cell phone. How close are your guests?"
He looked down at his arms, as if he suddenly realized he'd put himself into a defenseless position. However close his people were, they couldn't help him before I hurt him.
"It's over, Luigi. They're already here."
"And now I'm too tired to run." I laughed at myself, the fool! "Only one other man has ever beaten me like this. You are very much alike."
"Your Christian friend?"
"Yes, the same."
"I'd like to talk to him someday, ask him why he associates with killers."
"He doesn't associate with killers!" Defensively, I felt my anger rising as he criticized Corban. Even if it were true . . . The thought of sullying Corban's reputation for God infuriated me. "He helps men with gifts find a new path. He was a wicked man himself once."
"Like I said, I'd like to talk to him. I'm a man who believes in second chances as well."
"Well, I'll not tarnish his name by sharing it with you. You've seen two days of my compassion, and you still ambush me like this!"
"Where's the gun, Luigi?"
"It's back in the river where we stopped at noon." I stepped over him, and his eyes widened, perhaps expecting a violent response after his treatment of me. Instead, I reached down his right shoulder and found the cell phone behind his arm in a hidden pocket. Trimble relaxed when he saw the phone was my focus. "Don't move!"
"Who are you calling?" he asked. "Your Christian friend?"
Backing away a few steps, I dialed the number I had memorized. As it rang, I considered who else I could've called. If I'd known where Corban was, I would've called him. And if I'd known her number, I would've called Chloe Azmaveth, Corban's right hand inside COIL. She would've provided a safety net for Corban's family. Chloe had been at Corban's side in Malaysia when I'd first joined Corban after he rescued me from death. But instead, I'd been selfish.
"Hello?" It was Officer Heather Oakes, on her private number.
"Heather, do you have a moment?"
There was a pause.
"Luigi. This is unexpected . . . under the circumstances. When I said you could call me, I didn't mean—"
"I don't have long." I closed my eyes. If I'd made different choices long ago, there would be no need to say goodbye to the only woman who'd caught my interest like this. "Heather, I wanted you to know that our time together was of immeasurable value to me."
"Immeasurable value?" She laughed, but it wasn't a nice laugh. "Luigi, having known you for just a couple days, I suppose those are the nicest words you've ever said to a girl. But having gotten to know you more through the news this week, I'm uncomfortable responding to that."
"Oh, I've really been on the news?" White-hot anger flashed through my mind, and I focused it on Trimble. My identity had never been known in full by the public. It had been my weapon against countless enemies. I'd been a phantom. Now, because of one vigilant PRS agent, I was surely a familiar face in all America, if not the world. "Perhaps your time with me proves what they say to be untrue."
"That's possible," she said. "You never hurt me. But that doesn't atone for what you've done to others in the past."
"That was for the government . . . mostly. I'm sorry, I don't mean to yell at you. So, all has come to light and I'm finished. Even the recent good I've done can't erase my past."
"It never does, Luigi. I wish things were different for you, even for us. I'm . . . sorry." Her voice broke, and she hung up.
Even for us, she'd said. Did that mean there was still a chance? If I could maybe get Corban to help me, somehow we could . . . ? No. Corban might not even be alive. It was a thought I'd been avoiding. There was nothing to be done now. My whole life had been a waste.
I tossed the phone at Trimble and it clattered on the rocks at his knees. Though I was furious at him for besting me, Corban had been right years before when he said we're limited to doing good by who we are. Trimble was a good man, and he was limited to doing good, however slyly he had accomplished his goal. And in years past, I'd been limited to doing only evil, for at heart, I was a wicked man. It was my nature. Where there may have been forgiveness for me, even for my worst acts, I wasn't willing to crawl and beg before Corban's God to lessen my woes. They were my woes, and I deserved to bear them forever.
Instead, I browsed the immediate landscape for a cliff, one high enough to guarantee me a quick death, rather than leaving me to rot in misery in a dark prison. Seeing the perfect precipice, I started to the south.
"Luigi, where are you going?" Trimble shifted his bound body to watch me. "Luigi, don't do it!"
Weak to the bone, I stumbled toward the cliff, my legs numb. I would end it all. Let them say what they wanted about me. It was hopeless to fight them all now. There were too many.
A masked man wearing fatigues and holding a rifle rose from the ground in front of me. Had he been there the whole time? Then another on my left. My way was blocked. I couldn't even kill myself with any sort of success!
"Get on your knees!" someone yelled. "Luigi Putelli, get on your knees, now!"
My gaze lingered on the edge of the rocks, twenty feet away. Was this another trick by Corban's God, keeping me alive to face my adversaries? Was my life to end like this—in captivity? If Corban was dead, then no one would care for me.
Though I wanted death, I knelt on the ground and placed my hands behind my head. As I lay flat, and a dozen screaming men rushed me, I tried to see the justice in my arrest. My enemies didn't care about the atrocities I'd accomplished for them so long ago. They only wanted me silenced in death, their secrets with me. Now they'd do anything to kill me, and I was at their mercy. With my only friend missing, they would surely come for me.
And yet, I'd done those atrocities. Would Corban's God still be with me? Or was I as alone as I felt?
The agents bound my wrists and ankles, then pulled a hood over my head. I heard a helicopter drawing near, and Trimble's voice giving orders for my safe delivery. And in that moment of despair, I identified a fraction of hope that came from Corban's God. If Wes Trimble was indeed the man I believed him to be, then my future wasn't as bleak as I'd foreseen. Now that I was in Trimble's hands, and after two days and nights together, I guessed he knew me as well as any man, besides Corban.
I simply had to trust in the goodness of Corban's God. My life wasn't yet finished. If I were granted freedom again, I'd find a way to make it worthwhile, and find a way to escape from under the weight of my sin. If only Corban were still alive . . .
PART III – Chloe
*~*
Chapter 25
I wished I were anyone but Chloe Azmaveth at that moment. But as soon as I saw the news update about Luigi Putelli being captured in California, my black mood dissipated.
Sitting before my laptop in my dining room in New York City, I played back the news coverage. The dark-eyed, tall man I'd seen at Corban's side nearly three years earlier—though now bald—was being called an assassin, a terrorist, a traitor, and a dozen other labels. In my business, that usually meant he'd been a patriot to his country of origin, and he'd perhaps abused that authority by freelancing his skills to third parties. Indeed, I remembered warning Corban about a killer named Luigi Putelli who may have been hired to kill him. This was the one, but why had I seen this same man with Corban?
At one point, the footage zoomed in on Luigi's face, and he turned to a cluster of reporters and cameras. He said something, just a few words, then he was taken inside a federal building in Lincoln, Nebraska, some sort of holding facility. A man with a patch over one eye waved the cameras away, then entered the building behind Luigi.
After playing back the footage eight times, I still couldn't decipher what Luigi had said. Nor were my lip-reading skills up to par, especially to pick up the nuances of a foreigner speaking English.
Sitting back in my chair, I put the footage on constant playback and let it roll. Yes, this was what I needed—a good mystery. Not that I didn't have enough mystery in my life! Quite the contrary. I was plagued with unsettling events recently that had shaken my life—both in my career and in my faith.
Initially, Corban's death had come as a shock. Murdered by a car bomb here in New York? But then he'd come in the flesh to my back door and I'd seen him alive with my own eyes under the bridge. Of course, the disappearance of his family, Janice and Jenna, had concerned me, but days later when their bodies were found, that had broken my spirit entirely. Things were out of control. Steps I could've taken hadn't been pursued. When Corban wanted only me to watch his back, I should've had fifty COIL agents prowling New York City!
There'd also been Corban's infiltration of the Tactical anti-Terrorist Division, the TaTD. That had ended very badly a week earlier. Demolishing an SUV and losing Corban's signal on my transponder had been devastating. From what I'd witnessed that day, Karl Coleman—still not in the papers as a wanted man—had made off with Corban.
