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“Do not give up hope,” Thule remarked from beside the fire. “We may hear the beast’s call during the night.”
“And what are we listening for?” Sam asked.
“That depends upon the person, yes? As a child, I heard the cry once. It sounded like . . . part man, part bear. In fact, one of the Tibetan words for Yeti is ‘Meh-teh’—‘man-bear.’”
“Mr. Thule, this sounds like a tall tale designed to enthrall tourists,” Remi said.
“Not at all, miss. I heard it. I know people who have seen it. I know people who have found its tracks. I personally have seen a musk ox whose head had been—”
“We get the picture,” Remi interrupted. “So, what’s for dinner?”
Dinner consisted of prepackaged dehydrated meals that when combined with boiling water morphed into a goulash mélange. Sam and Remi had tasted worse, but by only a narrow margin. After they finished eating, Thule redeemed himself with steaming mugs of tongba, a slightly alcoholic Nepalese millet tea, which they sipped as night enveloped the gorge. They chatted, and sat in silence for another thirty minutes, before dimming the camp lanterns and retreating to their respective tents.
Once nestled into their sleeping bags, Remi sat reading a trekker’s guide she’d downloaded onto her iPad while Sam studied a map of the area under the beam of a flashlight.
Remi whispered, “Sam, remember what Wally mentioned at the airport about ‘the chokes’?”
“We never asked Thule about i
t.”
“In the morning.”
“I think now would be better,” she replied, and handed Sam her iPad. She pointed to a section of text. He read:
Known colloquially as “the chokes,” these narrow ravines found along the length of the Kali Gandaki Gorge can be treacherous in the springtime. At night, meltwater runoff from the surrounding mountains frequently flash floods the ravines with little notice, rising to a height of—
Sam stopped reading, handed the iPad back to Remi, and whispered, “Pack your gear. Just the essentials. Quietly.” Then aloud, he called, “Mr. Thule?”
No answer.
“Mr. Thule?”
After a few moments’ delay, they heard the scuff of a boot on gravel, followed by, “Yes, Mr. Fargo?”
“Tell us about the chokes.”
A long pause. “Uh . . . I am afraid I am not familiar with that phrase.”
More scuffing on gravel, the distinctive click of one of the Toyota’s doors being opened.
Hurrying now, Sam unzipped his sleeping bag and rolled out. Already mostly clothed, he grabbed his jacket, slipped it on, and quietly unzipped the tent. He crept out, looked left and right, then stood up. Thirty feet away he could just make out Thule’s silhouette leaning through the Toyota’s driver’s-side door. He was rummaging around the interior. On his feet, Sam began creeping toward the Toyota. He was twenty feet away when he stopped suddenly and cocked his head.
Faintly at first, then more distinctly, he heard the rush of water. Across the ravine he could see the stream was roiling, white water lapping at the sides of the cliff.
From behind, Sam heard a tsst and turned around to see Remi poking her head from the tent flap. She gave him a thumbs-up, and he replied with a palm out: Wait.
Sam crept toward the Toyota. When he’d closed the gap to ten feet, he ducked down and continued on, stooped over, around the rear bumper to the driver’s side of the vehicle. Sam stopped, peeked around the corner.
Thule was still leaning into the Toyota, with only his legs visible. Sam eyed the distance between them: five feet. He extended his leg, carefully planted his foot, and began shifting his weight forward.
Thule whipped around. Clutched in his hand was a stainless-steel revolver.
“Stop, Mr. Fargo.”
Sam stopped.
“Stand up.” Thule’s charmingly stunted speech had vanished. Only a slight accent remained.
