The Guide

by Peter Heller

  “I love this country,” Alison said over the wind.

  “Me, too.”

  “I like the river a lot, but it’s good to get out.”

  They drove over a low divide of scattered juniper and aspen and down into the Gunnison valley. When they hit the bottom where fields spread along the big river, they turned upstream and drove the highway into Crested Butte. They passed the high school ballfields and a movie theater and at a two-story stone house with a brass placard by the entrance that said library, they turned up Elk Avenue. Cute. Little miner’s houses of log and slat board gussied up with neweled porches painted in lilac and turquoise. Clapboard false fronts and little flower beds. Bookstore, two fly shops, half a dozen cafés, a score of restaurants. Ice cream shop, mountain bike store, art galleries. The rock-banded ski mountain loomed over all of it.

  Tourist heaven. On a mid-August late afternoon the town was packed, zero parking spots. Locals zigzagged through the crawling traffic on cruiser bikes with an air of invincibility. A few people wore face masks, but not many.

  “Yikes,” Alison said. But she was enjoying every second. She had put on her baseball cap and aviator shades and stuck her elbow out the window.

  “They painted it blue,” Jack said.

  “What?”

  “Bud Light painted this whole street blue. The pavement. End to end. Paid the town.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Not kidding.”

  “Did they respect themselves in the morning?”

  “I don’t think it had a lot to do with respect.”

  “Wow.”

  They turned right on Third and drove two blocks before they found a spot in front of a swaybacked shack with Tibetan prayer flags strung over the porch and a stained-glass Tree of Life hanging in the kitchen window. Four mountain bikes leaned against a splintered porch rail.

  “Thank God for hippies,” Alison said.

  “Hippies with portfolios,” Jack said. He nodded at the cabin. “Nine hundred thousand for that shed,” he said. “At least.”

  “Damn.”

  He was about to shove open his door but held off for a passing black Jeep. Two youngish men in black caps and shades, one with a light beard. Fishermen, probably.

  He and Alison got out and walked back to the main drag. The sun was low over the ridges above town. They turned onto Elk Avenue and let the warmth wash against their backs. It felt good. Jack never knew he’d been chilled in a river until he got truly warm again.

  “Ice cream or beer?” he said.

  “Both, of course,” and she took his hand. It felt friendly, and natural, and after about five seconds he didn’t think about it.

  * * *

  •

  When they were settled at a table by the front window of the Dogwood, with sweating longneck Blowdown ales and a plate of nachos between them—“Real cheese!” the young waitress had promised brightly through her surgical mask—Alison K slipped her shades off and propped them on the brim of her cap and tipped back the bottle. It was a long drink. Jack was glad she didn’t make a toast. The place was packed. They’d had their temperature taken at the door, but almost none of the customers wore masks. Loud clamor of clacking dishes and classic rock, boisterous conversation. The lowlander tourists were generally fatter than the athletic locals and more warmed up and definitely having the most fun. The fishing lodge was starting to seem particularly somber.

  Alison set her bottle on the table, smacked her lips, and said, “So what else?”

  “I was just starting to relax,” Jack said.

  “Me, too. And…? There’s some kinda weird shit going on back at the ranch. Did you see Neave and Will this morning?”

  “Are those really their names?”

  “Who knows. That’s how they were introduced. They looked like zombies, no joke. Like they had just feasted on flesh. He had a Band-Aid on the back of his hand.”

  “I saw it.”

  “Like from an IV. And she—who knows. Looked like she’d been hit by a truck. Covered up the back of her hand with her sleeve.”

  “Saw that, too.”

  “And then at lunch they were all fine. What else did you see? Not joking. That scream or owl or whatever was freaky. And that German bastard whatever-his-name-is shooting at everyone—”

  “Kreutzer.”

  “Yeah, him. So I’m not gonna ask again.”

  Jack looked away from her and out the window at the sidewalk and the streaming tourists. Through a break in the cars he noticed across the street a little girl trotting down the steps of Sheep Dog Creamery ahead of her parents and she waved her cone and dumped it on the sidewalk. Her face crumpled and her mom rushed in and Jack glanced away but his attention snagged on a man next to the doorway, turned in profile and leaning against a post; he had a blond beard and black cap and T-shirt and he was eating a cone. Jack had seen him before—one of the fishermen from the black Jeep. The Jeep he had also seen at the bridge.

  He turned back. “I took a hike today,” he said.

  * * *

  •

  He told her about his foray at midday while she was being pampered. How he had taken his rod for cover and crossed the river and changed boots and climbed the north side of the canyon in the rain. And surveyed the rugged country to the north—mountain ranges cut with creeks, the drainages deep—and how he had crawled to the ledge and scanned their canyon. He told her what he had seen that confused him and made his skin crawl. She watched him, one hand on her cold longneck, and she didn’t drink once.

  He said, “The fence, that was the first thing. That big crazy contraption of a gate at the lodge—”

  “Kinda steampunk, the way it rattles and those cams tip back.”

  “Yeah, well, they have the same model year at Kreutzer’s. No arty cams and no bead-welded trout, but it’s the same steel plates, same dimensions, same state of rust—like they were installed the same year by the same crew. Okay, one neighbor gets inspired by another, happens all the time.”

  She nodded.

  “But then I got to looking at the fence.”

  “The fence?”

  “Yeah, have you noticed—” Jack glanced out the plate window; the blond-beard dude in the black cap and shirt was gone. Jack took a swig. God, cold beer tasted good right now. Well, maybe it was nothing, he—they, the guys in the black caps—were nothing. He’d keep an eye out. He turned back. He didn’t have to keep his voice down as the happy hour crowd was yelling to each other over “I Love Rock ’n’ Roll” by Joan Jett and the Blackhearts. What was it about mountain towns? Why did they always play the most obvious music on the planet?

  “You were saying? The fence?”

  “Yeah, on either side of our gate there’s a chain-link. Runs upcanyon to Kreutzer’s and down to Ellery’s. All hidden from the road by trees. Only place you can see it from the inside is the gravel lot where everybody parks their cars. A mile and a half. Eight feet high, I know, cause it’s the height of elk fence. That’s a whole crapload of fencing.” He drank. A beefy thirty-something in a powder blue polo shirt and a Texans cap squeezed through the crowd carrying a pitcher of beer in one hand and three glasses in another. As he passed their table he looked down at Alison and said, “They sure got sweet snapper in these hills…” Jack grimaced, thought about reaching out to stop the man, then shook his head, waved him on. Not worth the trouble. Not now.

  “So, the fences?”

  Jack tipped the bottle back, emptied and raised it to a waitress by the bar, held up two fingers, nodded thanks. “Okay, so this is prime water, world famous, whatever. Fishermen poach it, sure. Maybe. But this fence, it’s like military grade. I mean at home, all it takes is four feet of barbed wire and a little ‘Private Property’ sign that doesn’t mention crap about getting shot.”

  “Okay.”
>
  “Okay, and at the top of this fence are the three strands, barbed wire, on an angle arm. Like they have at prisons and such. You’ve seen them.”

  She nodded.

  “But here’s the weird thing, the angle is facing in. Into the lodge property, in toward the river.”

  “You mean—” The waitress breezed to the edge of the table with two more bottles and two waters. She swept up the empties, clacked down the cold ones, and set a basket of French fries and a ketchup bottle in the middle.

  “Fries?” Jack said.

  “And the beer. Some guy in back.”

  “Black cap?”

  “Can’t remember. Hey, you’re the singer!” the girl said, beaming at Alison. “You’re Al—”

  Alison put up a hand. “Ha! I wish,” she said. “I get that a lot. I actually raise llamas.”

  The waitress looked unconvinced. “I got you,” she said, and put a finger to her mask.

  “Damn,” Jack said

  “What?” Alison said.

  “Nothing.” He didn’t want to freak her out with the men in black—and he forced himself to smile and thank the waitress, who whisked off.

  “I actually do raise llamas,” Alison said. “I have two at home. And if you don’t spit it out and tell me about these damn fences I’m gonna have to break one of your ribs again.”

  “Yeah—” He lifted the bottle, which was fogged with cold, and clicked hers, bottom to bottom, and drank. “The barbed wire at the top is angled in.”

  He let it digest. She moved her lips around. “You mean as if they were trying to keep people inside?”

  “I don’t think there’s an as if. I mean, sometimes they’ll switch the angle around if there’s a property line issue, but that’s not what’s going on here. The edge of the property is the road. They have plenty of room.”

  “Whoa.”

  “Yeah. So that’s not the only thing about the fence. I had binocs. I like to bird-watch, too.”

  She smiled.

  “Kreutzer has the same fence on either side of his gate. The very same stuff, same setup. And it’s also hidden by a screen of trees. And guess what?”

  She shook her head. She wasn’t scared but she was…something. Her greenish eyes were sparking. She was a little flushed and Jack thought he’d never seen a woman as beautiful. “What?” she said.

  “Kreutzer’s fence runs straight into the lodge fence. No break.”

  “Okaay…like…”

  “Like it’s the same goddamn property.”

  “No kidding.”

  “I know. But then I thought, well, could’ve been the same property once and got split off. Happens all the time.”

  “Sure.”

  “But then I saw four cars pull in.”

  * * *

  •

  They ate the fries. They were both, they discovered, ravenous, despite lobster for lunch. They managed to get the attention of the server and they ordered two dozen oysters—“We have a theme going today,” she said. “I can’t believe I even want oysters at nine thousand feet!” and she squeezed the lemon wedges over all the half shells—and he told her that the first car was a black pickup with a ladder rack, the second was apparently a plumber’s van, and the third was a silver gray pickup, no topper. And at the end of the line was a squad car.

  “So?”

  “So, the first truck was Kurt’s, the second truck was Cody’s, and the van in the middle was who-the-hell-knows, and it had no windows. At the back, running sweep, was a squad car. Sheriff’s department.”

  Alison had an oyster halfway to her mouth and she set it back on the crushed ice. “Kurt? Kurt? Jensen, you mean? The manager?”

  “Yep.”

  “Fuck a duck.”

  “Yep.”

  She closed her eyes and shook her head as if to clear it. “Cody? He’s the other guide. Doesn’t say much.”

  “Right.”

  “But…he said…Jensen said he couldn’t even get into Kreutzer’s to complain about the shot. Said he was batshit crazy. Couldn’t even call the bastard. I don’t…” She stopped. She looked at Jack. Intense. He wanted to lean over and kiss her more than anything. She sat up straight and squared herself. Her gears were whirring, Jack could almost hear them. She looked down and noticed a dab of cocktail sauce or ketchup at the ends of several strands of auburn hair. “Can’t take her anywhere,” she murmured, and dipped a napkin into her water glass and dabbed the hair clean. “It’s all BS,” she said finally.

  “Some of it is,” Jack said.

  “I’d like to know which part.”

  “That’d be good,” he said, and he thought how he hadn’t even told her about the wading boot buried in the trees and the men in black.

  * * *

  •

  They ate. The oysters, the fries…and as the happy hour crowd became a little more subdued and diluted by serious diners, they ordered skirt steaks French style with more fries, and artichoke salads. The clamor subsided but not much—a lot of the serious partyers stayed on, as they had. Jack cast a glance into the back of the cavernous pub more than once, but couldn’t see anyone in a black cap—not a hard man in a black T-shirt. There was one young blond woman in a mixed group of what appeared to be mountain bikers still in their zip shirts and baggy shorts, still, it seemed, amped up and euphoric from their biking. Her black cap said live to ride, and Jack wondered again about a life dedicated to pleasure, and wondered too at the prick of envy he felt watching the loud and laughing group; some were his age, for sure. Because he knew that pleasure alone was a mostly empty vessel. But. Mountain biking with a bunch of friends looked like fun.

  He excused himself and made his way back to the restroom and still saw neither of the two men. Maybe they weren’t being surveilled, maybe he was getting jumpy.

  At the table, Alison had ordered two coffees, black. When he sat, she said, “It’s funny, I’m paying, I think, a crazy amount to stay at the lodge. Not sure, ’cause Benny, my manager, takes care of all stuff like that. But I saw his face when I told him I’d read a story about it in Travel + Leisure and he looked it up.” She grinned. “I like giving him a jolt. But, you know, I feel more relaxed and happy here, in this bar.”

  Jack did, too.

  She blew on the beads of oil on the surface of her coffee, and inhaled the smoky steam, closing her eyes for half a second. When she opened them, she said, “The fishing’s different. I just get lost in it. That’s another world.”

  What he always thought. He always marveled how, as soon as he stepped into a creek, the rhythms changed, and all the natural laws governing movement and gravity and light seemed to alter. Light moved differently on the water, and so did he.

  He said, “I do, too. Sometimes I forget my name.”

  “A simple, good name like that?” And she leaned forward and tipped her head to the side and he kissed her. Not long, not deep, but enough, and he knew there had never been a kiss like it in his life. Her skin smelled of summer, and she tasted of coffee and salt, and a sweetness that came from her alone. She pulled back slowly and smiled and this time it was shy, and Jack was struck by how young she looked—as if, when the armor of all those years fell away, the years did, too.

  “Well, phew,” she said. “We got that over with.”

  “Yeah, phew,” he stammered.

  “Want a cognac?” she said.

  “Oh yeah. But I’m driving.”

  She made a face and waved over the server.

  After she ordered two Armagnacs he said, “Why don’t you just leave?”

  “Leave?”

  “I mean if the lodge feels somehow off, or creepy.”

  The question seemed to startle her. “Whew.” She blew out. “Well, I can’t go home, that’s one thing.”

  “You can’t?”r />
  She shook her head. “Nope.”

  “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

  She smiled again and this time it was sad. “Jack, you probably can’t. Intrude. I mean if you tried. There are no signs here saying ‘Get the Hell Away, Don’t Get Shot!’ ”

  “Okay.”

  “I just can’t go home right now.”

  “But you could go anywhere.”

  “I suppose. But this stuff here is just starting to get interesting, don’t you think?”

  * * *

  •

  It was after ten when they got to the truck. There was still a decent milling of tourists and locals on the streets. Three years ago, when the first novel virus had hit and rocked the country and the world, some of the hottest clusters in the West were these mountain ski towns. Especially the more exclusive resorts like Crested Butte, because they were patronized by rich travelers from Europe who brought the sickness with them. But now, as the first virus had mostly burned itself out and been vaccinated against, and other novel viruses had moved over the world and hit different countries more or less hard, and economies had convulsed and adjusted, those who could afford it spent more and more time on retreat in the remotest places. Like these mountains. The densest cities were still the most dangerous. And vacationing deep in the mountains when possible had become a cultural habit more than anything.

  Jack felt just a little warmed up. As they drove out onto the county highway and lost the lights of town behind them, she flipped off the radio and they drove with just the current of air pouring in the windows. A night of stars and cold and neither said much. They drove under the dark bulk of the mountain. When they got to the first bridge and crossed the East River, Alison said over the wind, “Pull over, will you?”

  He turned onto a wide shoulder just past the bridge abutment and tugged the stick into neutral and set the brake. He thought she would shove open the door but she sat still as the engine idled.