PROLOGUE: DEPARTURE                                                                                                          MOSQUITO
Southern Utah – August, 1995


       The Swedish girl’s name had escaped Ben’s mind again.  Maybe it was too long in the car, too much caffeine, or
too many days outrunning the rain.  Last week, in Montana, it had come down so violently that a torrent of muddy water
uprooted the tents and collapsed them like paper houses.  A dozen bone-soaked foreigners had dashed for shelter in the
van, fogging the windows with their breath, flinching at every lightning bolt, every clap of thunder.  Storms chased them
into Idaho, where they slept under picnic shelters and in cheap motels.  Eventually growing resentful, they began lashing
out at each other and blaming Ben for things he couldn’t control.  Finally, red-eyed and overwhelmed, he broke itinerary
and fled south to the desert.
       Annika, maybe.
       Exhausted, all Ben could think about as he unrolled tents to dry was the moment when he could finally fall asleep to
something other than the drumming of rain.
       The walk to the canyon was mercifully short, but by the time they arrived his back was drenched with sweat.  
Eighty feet down was a maze of corridors and caves—secret creases in the desert’s skin.  Side-by-side the twelve of
them peered over the edge into shadows, shouting to hear their voices bounce off the sandstone walls.  A Navajo man in
dirty jeans and a denim shirt took their picture, laughing when they threw their arms around each other and pointed
ecstatically at the sun.  As he handed the camera back, he motioned Ben aside.
       “Don’t go in there today.”
       “Why not?”
       “Bad idea.”  He tipped his dusty hat and went to sit on the gate of his pickup, where his wife and kids were playing
with a litter of mongrel pups.
       Faces fell when Ben broke the news.  The Swedish girl, red with disappointment, stormed off toward the ladder.  
Annika wasn’t right.  Her name played on the tip of his tongue—just beyond reach.  When he caught her, she was
swinging a defiant leg over the rungs.  It was his fault the trip had been ruined, she said, his fault for keeping them so
long in the rain.  And with or without his permission, she was going in.
       Nine stayed up top, three went down the ladder.  They groped uncertainly for the rungs, descending into
shadows.  Ben slid down behind them, landing in sand at the bottom where they had left their shoes in a jumble.  The
Swedish girl walked ahead of the others, dodging quickly between the narrow walls.  Ben caught glimpses of her pink
backpack as she rounded the bends, her footprints trailing in the sand.  Anna?  He couldn’t be certain, and calling the
wrong name would only make things worse.
       The cave was a quarter-mile in—not far—but the other two had already turned back.  Maybe they sensed the break
in the atmosphere, the plummeting temperature, because looks of concern pinched their faces and deepened when they
saw that Ben felt it, too.  His shoulders scraped the walls as he began to run after her, feet slipping in the sand, calves
burning.  Faint shouts of warning dropped into the canyon from above, echoing unintelligibly, and when he heard the
rumble, the escalating static, he knew the rain had finally caught them.  
       The decision to abandon her was instantaneous, a simple matter of probability.  He sprinted in the other direction,
back toward the ladder, his gaze fixed on the cold iron rungs.  The other two were there already, gathering shoes, their
faces taut with urgency.
       “Climb!” Ben shouted, “climb!”  He lifted the nearest one to his shoulder and threw her body at the highest rung he
could see, then turned his back to the churning brown torrent, which hit him like a train and blasted him out of his hiking
boots.
       The water was louder than thunder, louder than he could think.  Beneath the surface he spun through an alien void,
a tangle of flailing limbs.  For minutes at a time the current held him under, shooting him down the canyon like a bullet
through a gun.
       Annika… Anna… Anete…
       For a desperate moment his head pierced the surface and he floated through the cave in a tangle of deadfall, his
nose and mouth packed with silt.  Broken ribs.  Broken arm.  The water moved at an incredible pace, razing chunks of
sandstone, gathering flotsam in a dense, swirling layer of twigs, leaves, branches and bones.  He vomited a stream of
desert ooze and with an ungodly gasp filled his lungs to go under again.
       Erica… Elsa…
       His mind groped as frantically for her name as his hands groped for a hold in the sandstone.  At a turn in the
canyon he was pinned to the wall, wrenched by the onslaught of water into an enclave of churning foam.  Blinded and
coughing, he clung to a wedged piece of driftwood, fighting to stay conscious, and waited to die.
       In his next lucid moment, he was standing barefoot on a gravel road, reaching for his chin with bloodstained
fingers.  A Navajo voice told him not to touch it.  The blanket around his shoulders was soaked down the front with
blood, and beneath it he was naked, shivering under the sun, his mind echoing with the sound of her name.  
       Eva.
 

_________________________________________________________________________________________________


ONE
Boulder, Colorado - May 5


       For longer than seemed reasonable, Ben had been sprawled on the flawlessly made bed with a clock radio perched
on his chest, watching red digits flip toward the future.  His bare feet rotated slowly at the ankles, his hands at the
wrists, not so much to work the tension from his travel-weary tendons and joints, but more for the sake of movement
itself.  Killing time inertly had never been his forte.  By nature he was someone whose motion never ceased, even when
his body and mind appeared to be at rest.  He was someone who strived to fill each waking moment with activity he
could look back on favorably, even if it was as mundane as counting minutes by rotation.  Bleak motel rooms were no
place for time well spent.
       Sitting up against the pillows, he let a sigh escape from deep inside him.  The digits on the clock seemed to linger
endlessly at five minutes to the hour, five minutes to the news update that would determine how the next month of his
life would unfold, or if it would unfold at all.  On the opposite bed his faded jeans and green company polo were laid out
like a two-dimensional body—one he had been waiting to animate with equal parts enthusiasm and dread since
management’s decision to reinstate him.  In the hours since his arrival they were the only items he had bothered to
unpack, and served as a reminder that he could fill them however he chose, that the future was his to determine, that life
moved forward and passed by anyone whose back was turned.  But despite their promise, they also reminded him of a
time when returning had been too painful a prospect to consider, and the likelihood of reinstatement had seemed
nonexistent.  The decision, which had gone in his favor by only a slim margin, had been pushed through largely for
political reasons, partly for personal ones.  In the adventure travel industry, a company’s success depended on the
quality of leadership, and there was tremendous pressure to uphold a sterling image in that regard.  Even the drones from
corporate knew that a single mishap could bring down the entire company.  As they saw it, voting to disavow Ben would
have raised the wrong eyebrows over EcoTrek’s hiring and training practices, and wasn’t worth the risk.  The more
prudent strategy was to rally behind him, both legally and otherwise, then wait for him to step down of his own accord.  
Apparently, this inverted, boardroom logic had worked to his advantage when the ballots were cast.
       After the vote, EcoTrek’s personnel manager, Harry Rohde, had informed Ben that no tour leader with passenger
fatalities on record had ever elected to go back on the road.  Emotionally and psychologically they just couldn’t handle
the pressure.  Instead, the majority opted for administrative positions, or gave up altogether and moved on to less
demanding careers.  But Ben had his reasons for coming back, and they outweighed any decision made by drones under
fluorescent lighting.  Not everybody saw it in those terms, but most of the old-guards from middle management stood
behind him—especially those who knew him well—and none more zealously than Harry.
       In the aftermath of the accident, when Ben’s guilt was at its most debilitating, it was Harry alone who had
suspended blame—Harry who had phoned his nemeses at corporate to assure them Ben was operating from a healthy
perspective—Harry whose faith had been a boon to Ben’s morale, and the linchpin of his decision to get back on tour
and stare his demons down.  Ben had never managed to adequately express his gratitude, but he was as determined to
validate Harry’s confidence as he was to redeem his own.  All he could do now was hope the opportunity came to pass.  
In typical, last-minute fashion, after flying him all the way from Seattle, corporate had decided that the fate of his tour
hinged on the national parks re-opening within forty-eight hours of scheduled departure.  If they did, he was a go.  If
they didn’t, his trip would be reassigned to someone “better equipped to handle the demands of an altered itinerary.”  In
other words, he’d have to wait around for the next available slot, which probably wouldn’t open up until peak season,
sometime in June.  Boardroom strategy at its finest.
       When the clock’s digits finally flipped, he turned on the radio, closed his eyes, and focused on tempering his
optimism, figuring he’d be getting a reprieve regardless of which way the announcement went.
       “…I’m Prudence Sirocco, you’re listening to the Green-Scene.  National park enthusiasts and employees can
breathe easy today.  Interior Department officials have announced that after a week-long closure for road and facility
repair, the Crown Jewel national parks—Grand Canyon, Yellowstone and Yosemite—are scheduled to re-open at sunrise
tomorrow…”
       That was all Ben needed to hear.  He switched the radio off and tossed it onto the night-table, then swung his legs
onto the floor and sat for a moment, kneading the carpet with his toes.  The relief and excitement he’d expected to feel
after positive news were conspicuously absent.  His heart was pounding, and when he looked at his palms the creases
were brimming with sweat.  Now that the tour was inevitable, his confidence seemed to have receded to a momentarily
inaccessible region.  He went to the sink for a glass of water, then sat at the foot of the bed, nervously sipping.  He was
twenty-seven years old and about to enter his fifth year leading tours for EcoTrek, which in an industry of transients and
drifters made him a veteran.  But experience didn’t preclude anxiety, he knew that as well as anyone.  He’d never begun
a tour without a brick in his gut.  Why should this one be any different?  There were always butterflies, always shaky
nerves to overcome.  Anxiety was a normal reaction.  Once the waiting was over, it would abate.
       A car horn tooted in the parking lot, graciously diverting his attention.  He went to the sliding glass door and parted
the curtains just as a white Dodge van pulled into the space out front.  The horn sounded again and Harry spilled out
with an exaggerated scowl on his face—the same one he used to ridicule the guys from corporate when they made their
annual inspections.  He performed a couple of awkward karate kicks against the establishment, then bowed deeply and
pumped his fist.  
       Laughing, Ben slid the door open.  “Figured you’d show up sooner or later.”
       “Always sooner,” Harry said.  “Got a minute to chat?”
       Ben waved him in and shut the door.  Harry had a couple bottles of imported beer with him and knocked the caps
off on the edge of the table, then handed one to Ben and offered a toast.  “Congrats, Baxter, you’re reincarnated. How's
it feel?”
       “Good, I guess.  I don’t know, it hasn’t really sunk in yet.”        
       “Well, it better sink in pretty damn quick—you’ve got exactly three days to get your shit together, and I don’t
know if I told you but I have to fly to Calgary tonight.”
Nodding, Ben sipped his beer.
       “You look spooked,” Harry said.  “Everything okay?  Because now’s the time to talk it out—I can take a later flight
if you want to spill your guts one more time.”
       “It’s just a case of nerves,” Ben said, “I get this way every season.”
       “Yeah, well, have a seat anyway.”  Harry pointed to the bed and pulled a chair out from under the desk, straddling
it backwards.  He put a stack of paperwork on the table, then tossed Ben a set of keys on a rawhide strap.  “That’s your
new ride out front.  Spare keys are in a magnetic box under the running board.  It’s got a full equipment kit up top but
nothing’s been checked, so I suggest you get on it asap.  There’s a pax roster and itinerary in the pile there—it’s a small
group, so you’ll have less bullshit to contend with, which under the circumstances is a good thing.  Trip funds are in the
lock-box and the tank is full, but the propane isn’t, so you’ll have to do that, too.  I made you a list somewhere…”  He
stood up, patting his pockets, and looked around the room.
       “I don’t need a list, Harry, I’ve done this a thousand times.”
       “No you haven’t—or at least that’s the perspective we’re going to take with this. You could pull out of the
driveway and have a fucking meltdown.  You’re carrying a lot of heavy baggage and you don’t know how you’re going
to react psychologically, even if you think you do.  And you can bet your ass I’m not taking any chances—people are
making a lot of noise about this as it is.”
       “Like who?” Ben said.
       “Like Rick Brunner, for one.  Top of the food chain, understand?”
       “Well he’s overreacting, and so are you.  I’ve had a lot of time to mull this over. I’m in a good place.  I’m ready.”
       “Let’s hope so,” Harry said.  “My ass is on the line here, and so is yours, in more ways than one.  If you start
feeling depressed out there, or overwhelmed, I want you to call me right away.  In fact, as of this very second, I’m
making biweekly phone calls a requirement—I want to know you’re sleeping at night so I can too.  Deal?”
       Ben nodded and finished his beer, then threw the bottle in the trash.
       “No screw-ups on this run, even of the garden variety, got it?”  Harry reached out to shake Ben’s hand and pulled
him into a bear hug, pounding him affectionately between the shoulder blades.  “You’re going to be fine, I know.  Now
say something to put me at ease so I can get out of here with a clear conscience.”
       “Something to put me at ease,” Ben said.
       “Real fucking mature, Baxter.  I gotta run, Dean’s waiting outside to take me to the airport.  You call me from the
road—twice a week, okay?”  Harry stepped out the sliding glass door, waving one last time as he went, then slid it
closed behind him and jogged across the parking lot.  Ben listened to his footfalls on the pavement, the offset slamming
of two car doors and the fading patter of the engine as it pulled away.  
       Now that he was alone again, the room seemed very quiet and still.  Faint sounds of traffic drifted in from the
street.  Electric hum of the ceiling fan.  He stood unnerved at the foot of the bed, looking at his hands again, then rushed
into the bathroom and fell to his knees on the tile, waiting for an upheaval of guilt and self-loathing that never came.  A
quavering breath parted the lips of his reflection, which gazed up through the placid blue water—a reminder that those
emotions were part of the skin he had shed, that this was his opportunity to step into a new one.  Lifting his head, he
inhaled deeply and promised himself that this was the last time he would use the questions.  After tonight, for the
duration of the tour, he would rely on actions alone to keep himself grounded.
       “What happened last year that you can’t forget?”  He asked the first question in the same measured voice he
always used, watched the toilet water ripple as he let the answer escape with his breath.  “Three of my clients drowned
in a canyon.”
       Inhale.
       “Are you to blame for what happened?”
       Exhale.
       “I accept responsibility, but there were factors beyond my control.”
       Inhale.
       “What did you learn from the experience that you’ll always remember?”
       Exhale.
       “That people’s lives depend on my judgment.”
       He flushed the toilet and watched his aquatic likeness vanish down the hole, then took a scalding shower to
cauterize his nerves.  When he was finished, the bathroom was choked with steam.  He groped his way to the counter,
feeling composed for the first time all day, and used his towel to wipe condensation off the mirror.  The beard he had
grown during the off-season was a scruffy, dripping mass that disguised the contours of his face, shrouded expressions
he could hardly remember.  He snipped it with the scissors of his Swiss Army knife, dropping russet clumps into the
sink, which clustered around the drain like flotsam.  Twigs and leaves and branches and bones.  In seventy-two hours
he would meet his new clients for the first time, and he wanted to greet them with a smile they could see, a face they
could trust.  His smile.  His face.  As he peeled away stubble with the razor, stripes of skin began to appear in its place,
as if a new man were materializing before his eyes, someone he knew but hadn’t seen for a while.  Someone he missed.  
When he was revealed and his face rinsed clean, there was a disconcerting moment of reacquaintance before he could
accept that the person staring back at him was actually him.  The flesh seemed too white and smooth, the lips too full,
the pink scar that split the cleft in his chin too clear an inscription.  But the moment passed, and when it was gone he
realized that his expectations for the day had been exceeded, that everything had fallen into place as well as he could have
hoped.  It occurred to him that he’d been granted a rare foothold in the mire, that this state of mind was a benchmark
for the future and had to be set down permanently as the standard by which all deviations would be measured.
       Suddenly buoyant, he rushed into the bedroom, oblivious to the shock of the conditioned air against his skin, and
dug through the duffel for his Nikon.  He arranged it on the television with its lens aimed through the bathroom door.  
When the angle was right, he set the timer and went back to the mirror to pose.  This was going to be his air-tight
season.  His perfect ten.  The one to wipe the slate clean.  And it started right now.  
       Click.
 

back