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Sam peeked over the tailgate. The water had enveloped the rear tires.
“How long?” she asked.
“Two minutes. Help me.”
He turned his body sideways, and Remi helped him don the backpack. Next, he flipped his right leg over the tailgate, then his left, then slowly stood up, arms extended for balance. Once steady, he shone his headlamp over the rock face beside the Toyota.
It took him three passes before he found what he needed: a two-inch-wide vertical fissure fifteen feet above them and three feet to the right. Above that, a series of handholds that led to the top of the cliff.
“Okay, hand it up,” Sam said to Remi.
She extended the winch hook toward him. He leaned down, grabbed it. His foot slipped, and he crashed onto one knee. He regained his balance and stood erect again, this time with his left arm braced on the Toyota’s roof rack.
“Go get ’em, cowboy,” Remi said with a brave smile.
Winch hook dangling from his right hand, Sam swung the cable like a propeller until he’d gained enough momentum, then let it fly. The hook clinked against the rock face, slid sideways over the fissure, and plunged into the water.
Sam retrieved the hook and tried again. Another miss.
He felt cold water envelop his left foot. He looked down. The water was past the bumper and was now lapping up against the tailgate.
“We’ve sprung more leaks,” Remi said.
Sam tossed the hook again. This time it slid cleanly into the fissure and bit down momentarily before coming free.
“Fourth time’s the charm, right?”
“I think the phrase is—”
“Work with me, Fargo.”
Sam chuckled. “Right.”
Sam took a moment to tune out the churning water and the pounding of his heart. He closed his eyes, refocused, then opened his eyes and began swinging the cable again.
He let go.
The hook sailed upward, clanked off the rock, and began sliding toward the fissure. Sam realized the speed was too great. As the hook skipped over the crack, he snapped the cable sideways. The hook snapped backward like a striking snake and wedged itself in the fissure.
Gently, Sam gave the cable a tug. It held. Another tug. The hook slipped, then bit down again. Then, hand over hand, he began taking up tension on the cable until the hook was buried up to its eyelet.
“Yee-haw!” Remi called.
Sam extended his hand and helped Remi over the tailgate. Water was sloshing over their feet and tumbling into the Toyota’s interior. Remi nodded toward the corpse of Mr. Thule.
“I don’t suppose we could take him with us?”
“Let’s not push our luck,” Sam replied. “We will, however, add him to the list of things Charlie King and his evil spawn have to answer for.”
Remi sighed, nodded.
Sam gestured grandly to the cable. “Ladies first.”
18
LO MONTHANG,
MUSTANG, NEPAL
