Long Road to Mercy (Atlee Pine, #1)(6)

The better half of her, thought Pine, because she had been the one constantly in trouble, while her ten-minute-older “big” sister had habitually stood up for her, or covered for her, in equal measure. Unfailing loyalty and love.

Pine had never felt that again, not in her entire life.

Maybe Tor was right about her future.

Maybe.

And then his other jab, the one that had gotten through her defenses, and nailed her right in the gut.

You define me?

When she felt her lips begin to tremble, she rose, stumbled to the bathroom, and stuck her head under the shower. She left it there until the cold was so unbearable she nearly screamed out in pain. Yet not a single tear mingled with the freezing tap water.

She rose at the crack of dawn, showered, dressed, and headed home. Halfway there she stopped to get something to eat. As she got back into her SUV the text landed in her phone.

She sent off a reply, closed the truck door, fired up the engine, and floored it.





Chapter

3



T?HE GRAND CANYON was one of the seven natural wonders of the world, and the only one located in America. It was the second largest canyon on earth, behind Tsangpo Canyon in Tibet, which was a bit longer but much deeper. The Grand Canyon was visited by five million people from around the globe every year. However, no more than 1 percent of those folks would ever reach the spot where Atlee Pine was currently: the banks of the Colorado River right on the floor of the canyon.

Phantom Ranch, located at the bottom of the Canyon, was not only the most popular under-roof accommodation down here, it was the only one. Those who trekked down here could do so in one of three ways: by water, on a mule, or courtesy of their own two feet.

Pine had driven to the Grand Canyon National Park Airport. There, she had climbed inside a waiting National Park Service chopper and made the vertical descent to the canyon bottom. After landing, Pine and her companion, Park Service Ranger Colson Lambert, had immediately set off on foot.

She strode along, eating up ground with her long legs, her gaze looking and her ears listening for rattlers. That was one reason nature had given them a rattle—to make people leave them alone.

Where’s my rattle? thought Pine.

“When was it found?” she asked.

“This morning,” replied Lambert.

They passed a slight curve in the rock, and Pine eyed a blue tarp that had been erected around the remains of their victim. Pine counted two men there. One was dressed as a wrangler. The other, like Lambert, was in the uniform of the National Park Service: gray shirt, light-colored, flat-brimmed hat with a black band on which were printed the letters USNPS. Pine knew him. His name was Harry Rice. In physique, he was a carbon copy of Lambert.

The other man was long and lean, and his face had been viciously carved by the outdoor life he led in an unforgiving environment. He had thick, graying hair that had been shaped by the wide-brimmed hat he held in one hand.

Pine flashed her badge and said, “What’s your name?”

“Mark Brennan. I’m one of the mule wranglers.”

“Did you discover it?”

Brennan nodded. “Before breakfast. Saw the buzzards circling.”

“Be more precise about the time.”

“Um, seven thirty.”

Pine passed by the privacy tarp, squatted down, and looked over the carcass as the others gathered around her.

The mule weighed more than a half ton, she figured, and would stand about sixteen hands high. A mare bred with a donkey produced a mule. They pulled more slowly than horses, but were surer footed, lived longer, and pound for pound were about as strong as anything on four legs and possessed enormous endurance.

Pine slapped on a pair of latex gloves she had pulled from her fanny pack. She picked up a whip lying next to the unfortunate animal. Called a motivator by the mule wranglers, it was used by the riders to convince the mules to ignore the pleasures of grass sticking out of the rock on the trail, or the advantages of simply taking a nap standing up.

She touched the severely stiffened foreleg of the beast.

“It’s in rigor. Definitely been here a while.” Pine said to the wrangler, “You found it at seven thirty. Was it stiff like now?”

Brennan shook his head. “No. Had to chase some critters away, though. They were already starting to get into it. You can see that there and there,” he added, pointing to various places where flesh had been ripped away.

Pine checked her watch. It was six thirty p.m. Eleven hours had passed since the mule had been found. Now she needed to establish a parameter at the other end.

She shifted her position and looked at the belly of the beast.

“Gutted,” she noted. “Upward stroke and then a slit along the belly.” Pine looked up at Brennan. “I take it this is one of yours?”

Brennan nodded and squatted on his haunches. He looked sadly at the dead animal. “Sallie Belle. Steady as a rock. Damn shame.”

Pine looked at the dried blood. “Her death wouldn’t have been painless. No one heard anything? Mules can make a lot of noise, and this canyon is one big subwoofer.”

“It’s miles from the ranch,” suggested Rice.

“There’s a park ranger station down here,” noted Pine.

“It’s still a long way away, and the ranger on duty didn’t hear or see anything.”