Seven Ways to Die
William Diehl
SEVEN WAYS TO DIE
Praise for Bill Diehl’s work:
“An auspicious debut...The best thing to come out of Atlanta since Scarlett O'Hara.”—The Washington Star (Sharky’s Machine)
"Spine-tingling...Mr. Diehl can sustain suspense."—The New York Times
Ringing dazzling changes on the suspense format he worked so successfully in Sharky's Machine and four other thrillers, Diehl…builds delicious tension, keeping the reader off balance right up to the gavel-pounding finale.—Publisher’s Weekly (Primal Fear)
"Diehl weaves a plot of bloodletting and courtroom drama that leaves the reader in a cold sweat."—Booklist (Primal Fear)
"A big, efficient thriller-machine—slick and melodramatic—with every cog whirring at top speed..."—Kirkus Reviews (Primal Fear)
“Be the first person on your block to read William Diehl's terrific new novel 27...The author of Sharky's Machine will grab hold of you and never let go.”—Larry King, USA Today
“Diehl has gone from literary contender to champion of his division.”—New York Daily News (Chameleon)
“Once in a very long time there comes a book that is a true milestone in the espionage genre...is titillating as any I have ever read!”—Mystery News (Chameleon)
“Dazzling...The best book of its kind since Day of the Jackal”—Lorenzo Carcaterra, People (27)
“Incredible! Diehl has used his obvious experience in the orient to present the Third World as something more than a place for aging remittance men to smoke out their lives with little black balls of opium.”—The Washington Post (Thai Horse)
“Diehl's writing packs a wallop and his compassion runs deep.”—Seattle Post Intelligencer (Hooligans)
“This tough, lurid first novel is to police procedure what Crime and Punishment is to the average romance about ax murderers.”—The New York Times Book Review (Sharky’s Machine)
“An explosive blend of sex, violence and the old triple-cross...a fast-paced and outlandish thriller.”—Cosmopolitan (Chameleon)
“Diehl cleverly integrates the depression, Hitler's rise to power and Dillinger bank robberies into this solidly researched suspenseful ingenious and deeply moving thriller.”—Publishers Weekly (27)
“A superior spy/adventure/mystery novel...this is Diehl's best novel yet.”—Mystery Scene (Thai Horse)
“A tough gut-busting whodunit delight...not for the squeamish.”—Playboy (Hooligans)
“27is a masterful novel...powerful descriptive passages about the dust bowl rival anything John Steinbeck wrote on the subject...a juggernaut of a book.”—Robert Coram, Atlanta Constitution
“...The complete thriller.”—Newsweek (Sharky’s Machine)
“Step aside Joseph Wambaugh, Bill Diehl's first novel, Sharky's Machine makes most crime novels read like Little Bo Peep.”—The Boston Globe
“Explosive, extraordinary...the reader is left limp.”—The San Diego Union (Chameleon)
“Combines two parts Robert Ludlum with a pinch of Ninja...Diehl spares nothing when he gets in gear!”—Publishers Weekly (Chameleon)
“Vividly cinematic, rich in atmosphere and peopled with believable characters, this novel serves notice that Diehl is one of the best thriller writers working today.”—Publishers Weekly (Eureka)
Novels by William Diehl (1924-2006)
Sharky’s Machine (1978)
Chameleon (1981)
Hooligans (1984)
Thai Horse (1987)
The Hunt aka 27 (1990)
Primal Fear (1992)
Show of Evil (1995)
Reign in Hell (1997)
Eureka (2002)
Seven Ways to Die (2006/2011)
SEVEN WAYS TO DIE
By William Diehl
New York Times bestselling author of Sharky’s Machine and Primal Fear
With Kenneth John Atchity
Seven Ways to Die
By William Diehl
With Kenneth John Atchity
Published by:
AEI Books
9601 Wilshire Boulevard #1202
Beverly Hills CA 90210
Copyright 2011 © Estate of William Diehl, Jr.
William Diehl was an extraordinarily gifted storyteller who enjoyed an unbroken string of bestselling novels. He had finished 412 pages of Seven Ways to Die before he died. Atchity, who had worked with Diehl, with input from his screenwriting partner for five years, Michael A. Simpson to whom Bill confided his intentions for ending of the novel, edited and completed it based on Diehl’s working outline, notes, and chapters retrieved from the novelist’s computer as well as his conversations with Michael.
This is a work of fiction. All incidents and dialogue, and all names and characters, are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in whole or in part, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior written permission from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.
ISBN: 978-0-9836058-0-5
First Edition. Released in the United States of America.
http://seven-ways-to-die.blogspot.com/
For Virginia
She endured.
1
IDAHO—NEZ PERCE RESERVATION
The Boy was lost. But that was as it should be. It was part of the challenge. He stared out over the mountains and thought about what his father and the qiwn, the Old Man with Wisdom, had taught him.
His entire journey would rely on the lessons of qiwn; things he had been listening to, and learning from, since he was old enough to understand Nimiputimptki, the language of the Nez Perce. And the Old Man had been talking to him since he was in his mother’s arms, before the other elders had also passed on their knowledge, before his father returned from the service.
It was Old Man who had called him Hemene Ka-Wan, at a Name Giving Ceremony before he was old enough to walk. In American it meant Youngest Wolf and was the name of the first star in the handle of the Big Dipper which gave The Boy a mystical connection to the sky. And later, when one of the miyooxat, the religious leaders of the tribe, had seen four eagles circling over The Boy’s head, he had pronounced that Ka-Wan was blessed with Weyekin.
When he was six or seven, he asked Old Man what Weyekin meant.
Old Man just looked him in the eye. “Listen,” Old Man had said, pointing two fingers at his own eyes. “Always look at the creature who speaks to you.”
Once he was going to his grandma’s house with a rabbit he had killed for stew. It was dusk and he heard an owl in the trees and he stopped and listened and then saw the owl and looked at it in the eyes.
“Oo, oo, whoee,” it said and he mimicked it. He stood for several minutes repeating the sound of the owl and when he went inside he told his grandmother about the owl and the sound it made.
She cocked her head to one side and listened to him and then said, “It will rain soon. Tomorrow night.”
“All creatures talk to each other,” Old Man said. “The wolf howls one way and it means one thing, he howls another way and it means something else. So does the eagle and the coyote and all creatures.”
“Oh.”
“Just like people.”
Now he was in his thirteenth year. Now he would take the walk to manhood, a decision he alone had made. It was not a tradition practiced by young Nez Perce anymore so he had depended on Old Man to tell him how it worked; to describe the passage so he would do it properly.
He was dressed properly for the trek: Buckskin leggings and shirt made by his m
other and grandma; his father’s gray hat which had a broad band and low, flat crown; new moccasins; and a blanket which his grandma had meticulously woven for him years before and which had served him well. His mother had braided his long, black hair into a tight ponytail.
He himself had made the bow and eight arrows with which he would hunt when he got hungry. His canteen had been his father’s in the army. His hunting knife was a birthday gift from Old Man when he was eight although his mother had felt he was too young for such a weapon.
But his father had over-ruled her and taught him how to skin an animal properly and how to throw the knife so it always stuck what he was aiming at and how to sharpen it.
“A dull knife’s about as good as a broken leg,” he told The Boy.
They were the good years before his father fell sick from the Orange Rain. His father followed the way of the Nimiipu and believed in the walabsat, the Seven Drum Religion, but he was also a Christian and went to the Catholic church with his mother. Sometimes it confused The Boy.
One night, after they had been in a sweat house, they were lying in the grass by a stream cooling down and The Boy was staring up at the stars.
Finally his father said, “You have a strong heart, Ka-Wan. You’re learning the way of our people. That was your choice and I’m very proud of you for taking the path.”
The Boy felt good about that.
When his father was too sick to do anything but huddle in his blanket on the back porch and stare into the mountains, The Boy would sit beside him dancing and singing songs he learned from the Seven Drummers, then saying a prayer that his father would get well.
Δ
The plan was simple. The Boy and Old Man left on horseback at first light. The Boy could take only the essentials: Water, his blanket, weapons, some flint, and some medicines his grandma, who was a medicine woman, made from mother earth, from the black moss on trees and from herbs and roots which were to purify wounds or injuries if he got hurt. No food or maps. No matches. And he was blindfolded. Old Man led him up into the mountains and away from the trails.
As sunset approached they stopped near a stream and Old Man removed the blindfold. They cut the poles for a good luck wistitamo and they gathered rocks and built the fire. After the sweat house, they jumped into the stream for a few moments to wash off the sweat then wrapped themselves in their blankets. They removed the canvas and poles and Old Man cooked a meal over the fire. A stew, then some venison and finally berries, each chopped in half. They drank a lot of water.
Old Man sang a prayer for his safe passage and they went to sleep.
When he awoke, the sun was peeking over the mountain top and Old Man was gone. He had left one thing for good luck, an ‘ipetes, an eagle’s feather, which Old Man fastened to the back of the crown of his hat. He had also left the pot of uneaten stew, the rest of the venison and berries, the canvas sweat house tarp.
The Boy found a strong branch to use as a walking stick. Each morning when he woke up he would cut a notch in the handle to keep track of the days.
Δ
He found a stick and drew a straight line through the shadow. Then he stood and looked straight down the shadow. Southwest, he thought. Then he heard a sharp screech and looked up and saw a bald eagle circling him. It was talking to him, telling him to follow the line. Then it flew off straight southwest.
“Thank you, brother eagle,” he said, gathering his meager belongings, wrapping them in his blanket, and following the eagle’s trail. He was halfway down a mountainside which still had some late spring snow capping it. He trotted through the thick woods and late in the day came to a snow stream tumbling down from the peaks. He drank the cold clear water and filled his canteen and then hopped across the stream and followed it down until he came to a boulder etched out of the mountainside. It would be a safe place to sleep, there above the stream which was widening as the snow melted.
The Boy gathered handfuls of thick pine branches and made a mattress on the flat rock. Then he bunched up a small pile of leaves a few yards away and, using his flint, struck fire into the leaves and made a small temple of sticks above the meager fire and blew softly on it until the sticks started to burn. By the time the sun slipped behind the mountains he had a good fire going. He finished off the last of the food Old Man had left him, wrapped himself in his blanket and lay down on the pine mattress.
Listen. The past will become the present and the future will unfold before your eyes. Sometimes when you are alone it is okay to think about what has gone before. In your life, I mean. To understand why the past has become the present. Sometimes it is okay to think about where the trail will lead you, and why you are following it at all.
He was hungry and needed sleep to restore his energy. His food was gone.
Tomorrow he would have to go hunting.
Δ
He was awakened before dawn by an owl. He lay huddled in his blanket and listened as owl spoke to him from the dark. His eyesight was keen, so that people said he saw in the dark. He could see the owl as clearly as he could hear it.
“Oo oo whoee. Oo oo whoee.”
It was going to rain. During the coming night.
He would have to find a decent shelter. A cave, perhaps, to keep the weather at bay. He mapped the day in his head. He would kill a rabbit for food. Easier than a deer or elk unless, of course, a deer or elk presented itself. He would pick herbs, wild vegetables and roots to add taste to the rabbit. Then he would make a fire and skin the rabbit and spit it over the fire on a slant so the juices would collect in the pot Old Man had left him. Then he would add the herbs, cut some chunks from the rabbit, and put them in the pot. So then he would have three meals: The rabbit for breakfast and dinner, the stew for lunch, perhaps find some berries for dessert.
It was a good plan, he decided, and he continued to follow the stream down the mountain. His eyes moved constantly as he trotted through the woods. About mid-day he saw tracks leading away from the creek. He knelt, brushing leaves away from them. They were paw prints. Small. Two pressed hard into the ground, three hands farther there were two not so deep, three hands farther two more deep prints and then two not so deep. In his head he could see the animal hopping.
A rabbit.
This was a good sign. He followed the tracks, walking carefully. As his father once told him, “Always walk an inch off the ground so nothing will hear you.” He understood what that meant. Occasionally he notched a tree so he could find his way back to the stream. He had gone about a mile when he stopped, squatting down behind a tree. The tracks led to a hole burrowed beneath a fallen cottonwood ten yards away.
He slipped an arrow from the quiver, fitted the notch between the feathers and the bow string and waited.
Listen. Patience is the virtue of the hunter.
And so he waited while above him storm clouds were gathering. Owl was right. The Boy could smell rain in the air. And it was getting dark. But his stomach was growling.
Far off, there was a rumble of thunder. He watched the hole. Perhaps the rabbit had left his house. Perhaps he was wasting his time. Then he heard a sound and the rabbit peered over the edge of the hole. It looked around, stuck his head up a little farther.
Ka-Wan very slowly pulled the string back until the arrowhead was almost touching the bow. He sighted down the arrow, could see the rabbit’s head now clearly above the hole. He waited. A minute, two minutes passed. Then the rabbit rose up a little farther and he could see the white fur on its chest.
Now!
He moved his fingers half-an-inch off the bow string. The arrow whirred towards its target. The rabbit heard the sound, turned his head sharply, but he was too late. The arrow had found its mark and pierced the rabbit’s throat, pinning him to the ground at the edge of the hole.
Now he had to find shelter.
He made his way back to the stream and trotted down the mountainside. Ahead of him he could hear a waterfall and then through the trees he saw a band of treetops and the waterfall
grew louder. He moved faster and finally came to the rim of a small cliff where the stream dropped into a pool before it continued down the mountain. He climbed down the small ravine.
The Boy was in luck. On the far side of the pool close to the waterfall he saw an opening under an overhang. It was small but large enough to crawl through so he took off his moccasins and hopped through the frigid water to the other side of the pool. He crawled to the cave and looked in, sniffing the stagnant air.
There was a feral odor inside but it was too dark to see anything. He sniffed the air again. Was it fur? A wolf perhaps, or a fox? Maybe an otter? Was he intruding on its domain?
He quickly gathered the makings and struck a fire close to the cave opening and beneath the overhang to protect it from the coming rain. He found a sturdy tree limb about three feet long, set the end afire, and crawled through the opening, following the torch light.
He lay there with his legs still outside, the torch held high, and studied the arched interior. It was four or five feet high, the sides and ceiling formed by sturdy rocks as it coursed back into the mountain and narrowed into darkness. The sandy floor was dry. It was perfect although the smell of the torch obliterated all other odors.
He decided to take a chance. He wedged his torch between some rocks, pulled his blanket and meager belongings inside and carried the pot and rabbit and the wild vegetables and berries he had gathered back outside.
He was unaware that he was being watched.
