“What is it?”
“How could you?”
Ethan set his papers on the mossy ledge and approached her, smiling tentatively. “What are you talking about?”
No sooner had he said it than he felt the sting of her outrage across his cheek. He didn’t flinch at the blow.
“How could you pay them, knowing how hard I’ve worked on that story, knowing all that I’ve sacrificed in the name of … of — how could you?”
He grasped her by the shoulders. “Who? What are you talking about?”
She shook free of his hold, and turned her face from his. “Quit pretending,” she hissed.
“My God, Eva, you have to believe me. I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about. Pay whom? What story?”
His silver eyes seemed to hide nothing. His slightly parted lips seemed to express only confusion. Eva believed him.
“Then it wasn’t you?”
“I still don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Somebody bought Griffin.”
“I don’t follow.”
“The Register pulled my story.”
Ethan still did not comprehend the implications. The fact was, he’d hardly given a thought to Eva’s story in the weeks since she last stormed down the mountain intent on ruining him. As if a newspaper story could stop progress. Ethan himself could not stop it, and he’d put it in motion. If anything, he’d hoped her writing would come to something, so that she could feel whatever sense of accomplishment necessary to remedy her wrongheadedness. Gradually, the light of recognition shone in his eyes, even as his face darkened. “The scoundrel,” he said. “He threw me under the train, why should I be surprised that he’d trample his own sister underfoot.”
“Jacob? You think it was Jacob?”
“Of course, it was Jacob. Apparently, there’s no end to his subterfuge.”
It struck Eva as ironic that her brother, he who by his very arrival in this place had threatened to tear her and Ethan apart, had become the force that now unified them. Eva felt herself pulling in two directions, tethered between the disillusion of her brother’s betrayal and the relief — considerable and unexpected — that Ethan had acquitted himself of the charge, that he had not proved himself unworthy. A third consideration presented itself with chilling suddenness.
“Minerva!” she shouted, breathlessly.
Ethan spun around, the hair on his neck bristling, as frantically he scanned the riverbank. One black thought eclipsed all others, ringing in his ears, as he scrambled madly up and down the bank searching for his daughter. He took a grim inventory of the current as it moved swiftly toward the bend like a dark mass. My God, what if the river took her? Suddenly, something flashed among a cluster of mossy rocks jutting from the shallows upstream, and Ethan took off running.
With her heart beating in her ears, Eva desperately ransacked the wooded hillside, fighting her way madly through the brush, giving no thought to the limbs slashing and stinging her face as she called the child’s name. Neither could she escape the blackest of thoughts: This is my fault. I’ve done this. I’ve killed her. Eva froze when she heard Ethan’s shouts from upriver. She could not decipher them. Holding her skirts aloft, she scrambled down the hillside to the bank and moved desperately over the rocks toward Ethan’s shouts, running the length of an upended cedar, where she caught her first glimpse of Ethan, just upriver, knee deep in the riffle along the right bank. He turned to face her, wading toward the bank with the child’s body cradled in his clutches, her wet hair cascading down his arm. She was not moving.
Eva fell to her knees.
Ethan looked to the heavens. “Noooooooo!”
From across the gorge, his own voice echoed back at him.
something else
MARCH 1890
Mather was still kneeling in the snow when a heavily panting Haywood staggered up beside him. What Haywood beheld upon his arrival was not some paradisiacal view of their deliverance but an impassable wall of rock rising some four or five hundred feet directly in their path. Haywood, too, fell to his knees, and for an interminable moment the two men kneeled side by side in a deafening silence, the only sound that of Haywood’s labored breaths hacking away at the thin air like a dull saw blade. When the others straggled in behind, their own uneven breaths sullying the silence still further, Mather did not allow them to linger in blighted hope.
“We’re losing light,” he said. “We’d best make camp before we freeze.”
And like the walking dead, they collectively set about making camp.
With nothing to burn, the best they could hope to do was break the wind with tattered canvas, hunker down beneath their blankets, and hope that sleep would carry them through the worst of it.
They awoke, stiff to a man, covered in snow. To add further insult, Mather soon discovered that the dog had gotten to the lion’s share of the jerked elk, which, beyond a bit of bacon grease, represented the last of their protein. Haywood, in an uncharacteristic outburst, got ahold of the dog and might’ve killed her, had Mather and Runnells not subdued him. Mather, for his part, found it difficult to blame the poor beast in her bony state of degradation. Following her beating, as the men broke camp, Sitka paced nervous half circles in the snow at a safe distance from the party, whimpering on occasion. When the party set off and began retracing their path, Mather was uncertain whether the dog would follow.
After nearly three months in the backcountry, only Reese had managed to preserve the dignity of a hat. As for the rest of the party, a piece of cloth knotted at the back sufficed. They were down to a single blanket per man. By the slimmest of estimates, they had enough food remaining to sustain the party for a week. Shouldering sixty pounds each, Mather and his men backtracked through the narrow valley. In spite of flagging spirits, they made steady progress with the hard snowpack and the wind blowing at their backs. By early afternoon, they had ascended into the wide windless basin they’d left two days earlier. They skirted the edge of the valley until they found what Mather reckoned to be a suitable route for western passage, a deep saddleback bridging two snow-covered peaks. With the better part of the day still in front of them, they struck up the side of the mountain, if not with a nose for the Quinault watershed, then at the very least with the hope of finding some way out of the wilderness. The steep incline forced them to attack the rise hillside fashion, painfully and deliberately kicking footholds in the deep snow. They were nearly three hours in reaching the narrow shelf that ran several hundred feet below the crest of the ridge. The prevailing western winds had formed snow cornices on the leeward side of the crest, a fact that made the men more than a little uneasy, particularly as afternoon approached, and they began to hear the distant rumble of avalanches.
By late afternoon the party had crested the ridge, and they spread out to disperse their weight across the narrow passage, which was little more than a catwalk. The vista was humbling. To the northwest loomed Olympus, with its broad face and, to the east, in a string of tattered clouds, the steep studded range whose peaks bore the names Mather, Haywood, Reese, and Runnells. Before them, up a gentle rise to the southwest hung an outcrop from which point, according to Mather’s calculations, they might catch a glimpse of the Quinault watershed at last.
When they reached the lookout and peered down over the broad green river valley spread out thousands of feet below them, Mather’s look of triumph shortly gave way to bewilderment.
“What is it?” said Haywood.
Mather gazed down at the river in stony silence, taking hold of his long hair with both hands, as the color drained from his face.
Haywood, too, stared down at the river, looking for the source of Mather’s discomfiture.
“It runs north,” Mather intoned.
Haywood felt the blood drain from his face in the moment of recognition. “Then it … ?”
“Yes.”
“No,” said Haywood. “Good God, no.”
“What?” demanded Cunningham. “What
is it?”
“It’s the Elwha,” said Mather.
windows
OCTOBER 1890
The Reverend Sheldon was even paler than usual in black, his jowls tucked into his white collar. He stood with his robed stomach pressed firmly against the pulpit, a Bible open before him. The chapel was cleaved crosswise in half by a swathe of early morning sunlight slanting through the window.
But the new day was lost on Ethan, numb and bewildered in the front pew, with Eva beside him like a perfect stranger, her hands folded in her lap. All the days of Ethan’s life seemed lost.
When Reverend Sheldon spoke, he delivered his message in uncharacteristically soft tones.
“The chosen are called unto to him even before they’ve come to be. And so this child was chosen by him, bathed in the blood of Jesus Christ.”
The words washed over Eva. Engrossed by the sunlight, teeming with dust as it angled through the window beyond the pulpit, she permitted her thoughts to bask momentarily in the light of a different window, in a different room, on a different morning, so long ago, it seemed. Chicago. The sun-drenched kitchen late in spring. Their first morning in the lake flat, the window ajar, with the gentlest of breezes blowing in off the water. A bounty of biscuits and eggs. An afternoon to look forward to, a notebook to be filled. Ethan sitting across from her at the table in his new brown suit, poring over the financials in which he had no stake, only a prayer. There was hope at that table. Still shades of youth. Optimism. And possibly even something as durable as love. Two years out of fashion, and in desperate need of mending, only the suit survived. The suit Ethan wore to meet her father. The suit he wore to dinner when she rebuked his marriage proposal — twice. The suit he wore on the train west. The same suit in which Ethan had arrived at Morse Dock, a little worse for wear, his silver-eyed gaze leveled squarely on the future. And now he was wearing it to his daughter’s funeral.
“Saith the Lord God: that my Kingdom belongs to the children. And today he calls this child into his Kingdom.”
destinies
OCTOBER 1890
Eva was among the first to file out of the little church after the service. Wrapping her black shawl about herself against the autumnal chill, she did not linger but set out alone down the muddy path toward the colony. She neither turned nor slowed her pace when she heard Ethan’s squishy footsteps hurrying to catch her. He was impervious to defeat. Nothing, it seemed, could deter his will, or break his spirit. These thoughts embittered Eva as she hastened her own pace, squinting into sunlight. But when Ethan overtook her and stood in her path, breathing heavily, she could see plainly that she was mistaken, that his silver eyes were brimming with doubt. And for an instant, she yearned for his embrace.
“Don’t blame yourself for this,” he said.
Eva stiffened at the words, and her yearning took flight along with all warmth from her body. Wrapping the shawl still tighter about herself, she said nothing as she pushed her way past him. Immediately, he fell into step beside her, as she knew he would.
“Stay,” he said.
She ignored him and kept walking.
Ethan stepped in front of her once more, and set his hands upon her narrow shoulders. “Eva, darling, listen to me: I love you.”
“Impossible,” she said, breaking free and pushing past him.
Again, he fell into stride with her, worrying his gloveless hands one inside the other for warmth. “We can start again. From the ground up, Eva. We can still build the life we set out to build.”
Eva stopped and looked him in the eye. There was bitterness in the lines of her face. “You talk about life as though it were some kind of construction project, Ethan — like your dam, something that will adhere to your designs. Well, mine amounts to just the opposite — mine is a demolition. Don’t you see, Ethan? While destiny bends to your will at every turn, it hammers me to dust. If there’s any hope for me, it lies in the fact that there’s nothing left of me.”
Ethan took her firmly by the elbow and turned her so that she was facing him. When she tried to elude his grasp, he gripped her harder. “Was it my will that the woman I loved would not have me? Was it my will to see my dreams commandeered by the very men I sought to overcome? Was it my destiny to outlive my daughter?”
“Perhaps not. But your destiny is still here, Ethan,” she said flatly. “Mine never was.” This time Eva managed to break free of his clutches. This time, when she pushed past him, Ethan did not follow her but stood on the muddy path and watched her go for the last time, her black-clad figure bathed in sunlight.
into the sunrise
OCTOBER 1890
Pulling her knees up under the wool blanket and clutching them tightly against her, Eva was only vaguely aware of the clacking rails beneath her, hardly mindful of her forehead pressed against the icy glass. Gazing dully out the window, she wished only that her eyelids were heavy as the boundless prairie unfolded, somewhat less than golden in the predawn.
For eleven months she would mark her days in Chicago in the shadow of her father’s wealth, and she would not write a word. In a year’s time, she would settle in a cottage of her own, midway between Fort Wayne and Chicago and begin to write again, looking west out her office window in the hours approaching dusk.
In June of 1894, the news of Ethan’s marriage would reach her, and Port Bonita would seem like another lifetime. Two months later, Eva would receive the news of the dam’s completion and, seven months after that, the news of Ethan’s son, Eben Allen Thornburgh.
But rattling east into the sunrise, Eva’s thoughts were somewhere outside of time. She felt her past curling like smoke into the distance and knew, even before the light of day washed out the gray dawn, that night would surely come again, and perhaps on its heels, a new dawn would follow.
the trail
AUGUST 2006
“Sure, I remember him,” said Krig, handing Timmon’s mug shot back to Franklin.
Franklin looked around for somewhere to set his Styrofoam coffee cup. Damn cubicle was too crowded.
“When’s the last time you saw him?”
“Gotta be three weeks,” said Krig. “At least.”
“You fire him?”
“Walked out.”
Franklin nodded, as if he saw how it was. “What kind of worker would you characterize Tillman as?”
“Decent. As far as I could tell from a couple of weeks.”
Franklin scratched out a note in his tiny spiral notepad. “Talk to him at all during that time?”
“Sure, we had a few beers one night at the Bushwhacker. Or I did. Tillman wasn’t drinking.”
“Bushwhacker, huh?”
“Yeah. Actually, didn’t I see you in there one night? I know I did — you had a green shirt on. You were with Hillary Burch.”
“Could’ve been.”
“Yeah, okay, I thought you looked familiar. Not like P.B.’s crawlin’ with black dudes, right? How is Hillary? I haven’t talked to her since —” Sensing Franklin’s impatience, Krig yielded.
“What did you and Tillman talk about?”
“Hell, I don’t remember. Guy stuff, I guess.”
“He seemed depressed to you?”
“Quiet, maybe.”
“You say he wasn’t drinking?”
“Nope. Not a drop.”
Frankled scribbled a note. “He didn’t mention any plans for the future, anything like that?”
“Not that I can remember.”
“Did he say anything?”
Krig shrugged. “Said he hated basketball.”
“Yeah? What else?”
“Said he liked camping.”
“Hmph. Said that to me too. Any idea where he was staying?”
“The Wharf Rat.”
“Wharf Rat?”
“The Wharf Side. Down on 101. Right by KFC, across from the Dollar Store. Why, what’d he do?”
“He mention any family or friends in town?”
“Nah,” said Krig, swiveling and plop
ping his feet down on a disheveled foot-high stack of invoices and manila folders. “Wait, yeah. Don Gasper.”
“Gasper, you say?”
“Yeah. Two-guard back in the day. Couldn’t create shit off the dribble.”
Franklin took down Gasper’s name. “What did he say about this Gasper?”
“Just said Gasper told him P.B. was a kick-ass town.”
“Know where he lives?”
“Still in the clink, last I heard. Tried to rob his grandmother. He left his wallet and an empty ice-cream bowl on the kitchen counter is how I heard it. Gasper always was dumb as a stump. What did Tillman do, anyway?”
“Skipped town, most likely.”
“No, I mean what did he do originally?”
“That’d be confidential, son, sorry.” Franklin finally set the coffee cup down at the foot of his chair. “Well, thanks for the coffee.” He stood to leave. “That’s some shiner you got there.”
Krig smiled. “Yeah. You should see the other guy.”
Standing to leave, Franklin kicked his coffee cup and it toppled over, emptying its contents on the mottled carpet.
“No worries,” said Krig.
* * *
SURVEYING THE WHARF RAT lobby, Franklin felt a pang of sorrow for Tillman. Hard to resolve pep talks with this dump. No wonder he skipped.
“I don’t interview them,” the Dragon Lady said, tapping her ash. “I just rent them rooms. As long as they don’t steal my coat hangers or burn holes in my carpet, I don’t ask questions.”
“How long was he here?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Could you check your records, then? When did he check in? What kind of hours did he keep? Did he have any company?”
The Dragon Lady gave Franklin a long snake-eyed look, exhaling through her nose. “Maybe two weeks,” she croaked. “Normal hours. No company. Who did you say you were?”
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