Never Far Away

by Michael Koryta

  “It’s Maine, not Mars,” he said good-naturedly. “Golf’s everywhere. Give Mars a year or two and they’ll get a course up. You play?”

  “Not really. My dad was teaching me, and we’d do the driving range or Top Golf.” That was where she began to shut down again. When Leah tried to nudge the conversation forward, mentioning that there were courses near Camden, the only curiosity she aroused was from Ed. It was the first she’d spoken of Camden in front of him.

  Hailey was as relaxed at times as Leah had seen her. At one point, she stretched out in the bow and propped her long legs up and leaned her head back and soaked in the sun as the Ranger bass boat rocked in the lake’s grasp.

  She could learn to like it here, Leah thought, but then memories of winter crept in, the isolation, the lack of peers. Leah knew better. She had seen the house in Louisville; she knew how Nick and Hailey had been raised. When Leah came to Piscataquis County, she’d been an adult seeking not only solitude but penance. Her children had asked for neither and deserved better.

  The day wore on, the sun kept shining, and Maine offered up its impossibly blue sky. Leah wondered how many summer people that sky had lured into trying a full-time move north. She didn’t have to wonder how many had stayed. The population in Maine was declining, not growing; the state had the oldest citizens in the nation per capita. Maine attracted visitors but not residents. Somewhere along the line, as mills closed and railroads went dormant and shipbuilding drifted south, Vacationland had become more of an identity than the state desired.

  Still, it was her state now. She didn’t want to leave. She could accept leaving the western mountains—fine. Head to the coast—fine. She wasn’t inclined to leave Maine entirely, though. She thought again of that Christmas in Camden, of Ed saying, If I ever had kids, I would want to raise them in this town.

  In the stern, Nick laughed as he reeled in a smallmouth bass scarcely larger than the Rapala lure it had attacked.

  “That little bass had big eyes,” Ed said. Nick thought that was funny. Leah knew the truth, though—bass would eat their own young. They were voracious predators. Big eyes indeed.

  By the time the sun was sinking behind the western mountains, Nick had caught a handful of sunfish, a pickerel, and two trout. Ed had just turned on the winch to lift the anchor when a floatplane passed overhead. He pointed it out to Nick and Hailey.

  “Your aunt can fly one of those,” he said.

  “What? Seriously!” Nick was enraptured, and even Hailey slid her sunglasses down her nose to look at Leah over the top of them.

  “My mom was a pilot,” Hailey said.

  Leah felt a pang of fear, irrational but visceral. “No,” she said. “I mean, yes, your mother was. My sister. But I’m not a pilot. All I did was pretend a few times. Ed was nice enough to let me do that.”

  Ed regarded her curiously. This was the first he’d heard of her dead sister being a pilot.

  “Mom was a professional,” Nick said. “Hailey used to watch the conrails—”

  “Contrails,” Hailey corrected.

  “Hailey used to watch the contrails in the sky and pretend our mom was flying past. She’d make up stories about where our mom was going and what she did. They were good stories. It would feel like Mom was really up there, you know? Like she’d never died. She was just somewhere else. And we would wave up to her, like she could see us.”

  Leah couldn’t draw a breath.

  Ed came to her rescue. “There’s a fly-in at this lake every year on Labor Day,” he said, breaking the silence. “They have contests, do races, simulate rescue operations, things like that. There will be planes and pilots from all over.”

  “Do you fly in the races?” Nick asked.

  “I make an attempt,” Ed said.

  “What are you best at?”

  “If your aunt is helping, I’d say the canoe race.”

  “The canoe race?” Nick echoed, confused.

  Ed nodded. “She paddles a canoe into the middle of the lake, and then I fly in and land. We lash the canoe to the floats and then take off and run a course. It’s all on the clock, you know. But the person in the canoe has to be as good as the pilot.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Leah said.

  “Hailey could do it,” Nick said. “She’d win it.”

  “Yeah?” Ed said, distracted, peeling tendrils of weed off the anchor and tossing them back into the water.

  “She’s awesome in a canoe,” Nick said. “She could definitely win.”

  “What’s that?” Leah asked, sitting up straighter.

  Hailey looked annoyed, as if Nick had let a secret slip.

  “She’s really good at canoeing,” Nick said. “She started in camp a couple years ago but then she took classes that even had some rapids.”

  The earnest pride in his voice was enough to thaw Hailey. “Class-three rapids,” she said quietly. “Not that big of a deal.”

  “Still a big deal,” Leah said, excited at this knowledge of something she shared with her daughter. The feel of the paddle and the rush of the water. Leah in Maine, Hailey in Kentucky, but joined across the distance. It felt both lovely and eerie, the sense of nature versus nurture. In her life as Nina Morgan, she’d never been in a canoe. Then she’d arrived in Maine and built a new life, and canoeing became central to it, professionally and emotionally. On the water, she found a part of herself that began to restore her sense of identity, and the notion of her daughter taking up the same pursuit thousands of miles away in a state where Leah had never lived felt magical, destined. The two of them paddling together beneath the contrails of unknown aircraft, linked by the stories they told themselves.

  “We’ll need to go out and run some rivers together,” she said. “We should go to the St. John and Kennebec. The Dead River. There are some class-four stretches in that one too. If you like white water, we definitely need to—”

  “I don’t think I’ll want to do that for a while,” Hailey said. “That was something I did at home.”

  They all fell silent for a moment. Finally, Ed said, “Let’s get another bass in the boat before we call it a day, all right, Nick?”

  “Sure. Different lure, maybe?”

  “Yeah, let’s change it up, throw something new at them and in a new spot.”

  Ed was speaking to Nick but looking at Leah. She forced a smile, then imitated her daughter—sunglasses on, legs stretched out, face to the sky. They roared on across the lake, and Leah closed her eyes and breathed the world she knew and loved. Mountain air, pine trees, and fresh water. Soon, it would be the smell of the sea again. Different from Florida—the North Atlantic had little in common with the ocean you saw from Florida beaches—but still a world apart from Maine’s western mountains. Eyes closed, she pictured the house she had rented, walked through it in her mind. The right place.

  It occurred to her then that until Ed mentioned flying, there had been a few blissful hours when J. Corson Lowery hadn’t crossed Leah’s mind.

  Except for the little bass with big eyes, maybe. Yes, he’d crossed her mind then.

  13

  J. Corson Lowery owned an apartment on Central Park West and homes in Siesta Key, Florida; Martha’s Vineyard, Massachusetts; and Red Lodge, Montana.

  Red Lodge lay just twenty-five miles east of the site where Dax Blackwell’s father and uncle had died, and while thirty minutes of searching the internet had told Dax that Lowery was currently in Florida, it was to Montana that Dax traveled first.

  There was preliminary work to be done.

  He had never allowed himself to come this close to the place where they’d died. There was no point in blaming the land where they’d fallen. A place couldn’t carry any spirit or soul. A place was made of bits of dead stars. There was nothing more to it than that. Space dust and coincidence, dying stars that had burned hot, gone cold, and then allowed for the existence of something that simpler humans viewed as sacred and spiritually formed, created out of love by a higher power for a sp
ecies deserving of nothing.

  He had no fear of treading anywhere in the dust of dead stars.

  He flew into Billings and rented a truck and drove southwest through the plateaus toward Red Lodge and the Beartooth Highway, a snaking road of sheer cliff sides that curled through Wyoming and Montana. He knew that on top it would crest eleven thousand feet in Wyoming and then dip back down to about eight thousand across the Montana state line, where Cooke City and Silver Gate waited. Old mining towns. Those towns had smelled of smoke from fires many times before and they would again. They sat on the edge of the largest active volcanic caldera in North America, about thirty-four by forty-five miles of molten magma that churned beneath Yellowstone and considered its options. The smartest geologists in the world had no idea if, let alone when, it might erupt again. They knew only that it could. If it did, the western Rockies would be buried beneath three feet of charred earth, and cities on both coasts would see ash fall like snow. A few inches in New York and a few in San Francisco, depending on wind and weather. No one would miss it, that was for sure.

  A majestic power. People poured their life savings into making trips to that park and walked across the ground unaware of what it might do to them if it chose to.

  Dax liked the idea of it as a choice. Liked the idea that the chambers of magma down there were coiled like a snake and had eyes that watched the world and a forked tongue of flame that flickered out now and then in teasing flashes, incinerating a California town here, a Canadian forest there. Just teasing, tasting.

  Waiting.

  He drove and he thought and, from time to time, he argued with a voice in his head that sounded vaguely like his father’s.

  Why Lowery? For so little money. If there’s money to it at all.

  Why not Lowery? I’ve got to step back into the game somewhere. Why not with him?

  So little money and so much risk. A fool’s errand.

  That would hardly be a first for the family.

  There were reckless choices made a time or two but never grudge matches.

  This one is different, and not because of any grudge—or not only because of that—but because of what it might build. The mythology. Touch the untouchable, and people take note. The family brand could use a revitalization. A reminder that the Blackwell business is doing just fine.

  He was now off the highway and onto a dusty road broken occasionally by cattle-guard grates that he rattled over. He put the windows up to keep the dust out of the cab. The sun was descending and he could see the sparkle and shine of the Yellowstone River ahead. Lowery owned a few hundred acres and nearly a quarter of a mile of Yellowstone River frontage and yet it was unclear how many days he spent in this place.

  Good for him.

  The entrance to the ranch was as clichéd as they came, featuring a wrought-iron fence and a high arch and even a name, the L-C. Cute. One of the most famous ranches in this part of the West was the L-T (that was pronounced “L bar T,” and a sure sign someone was a tourist was asking why people called it that). Hemingway had fished and stayed at the L-T. He’d written some of A Farewell to Arms there. Dax had enjoyed that one more than he had most of Papa’s work. Reading had been important in his family. You must have a curious mind and an empty heart, his father would say. When it comes to matters of the human race, the one who questions the most and fears the least is the one who thrives.

  The Blackwell School for Curious Youth. Shooting classes mandatory. Knife work encouraged but not required.

  Dax drove beneath the arch and started up the winding dirt drive. He could see the house in the distance. One of the houses, at least. A long, low building of sprawling wings and wide windows set in massive logs. A rich man’s vision of the West, oozing with a hilarious blend of money and machismo. Refined testosterone. Decor that said, I might have been in a bar fight once, but if I hit anyone, it was with a bottle of fine cabernet.

  He smiled at the thought, but he knew that Lowery had plenty of men and women on his payroll who’d been in much worse than bar fights.

  He hadn’t made it even a quarter mile down the drive before one of those employees arrived. The guard drove an ATV with a roll bar and a spotlight. Dax put the truck in park and rolled down the window and waited until the ATV roared up alongside. The driver was dressed in black tactical gear and wore a sidearm and there were two shotguns in a rack across the back and one rifle in a custom slot that kept the stock near the driver’s hand. Well armed for a little jaunt from the barn.

  “You miss the private-property signs?” the man said.

  Dax shook his head and looked chagrined. “I seen ’em, but I figure I ain’t got much chance of meetin’ Mr. Lowery unless I come onto the property.”

  He thought his Western drawl sounded good, but his aunt had always cautioned him to be careful with accents. It was far easier to convince yourself of their authenticity than it was to convince the locals.

  “And what do you need with Mr. Lowery?” said the over-armed security guard. He was not a local and made no effort to speak as if he were.

  “Lookin’ to get paid.”

  “This is the wrong way to do it. No jobs, kid. Sorry.”

  Dax nodded and kept his forlorn expression while he looked away from the guard and out past the barn where three horses were visible in the paddock. He had never liked horses; he didn’t trust any animals with eyes on the sides of their heads. He preferred cats, creatures of speed and agility and silence who could terrify with a single stare. Or taunt.

  “You hear me, chief?” the guard said. “No jobs. Roll on down the road now.”

  “Problem is, the job’s already been done,” Dax said, keeping his eyes on the paddock.

  “What’s that?”

  “There’s a past-due balance.”

  “Mail a fucking invoice, then. Don’t drive your dumb ass up here and get into trouble.”

  Dax turned and looked at him.

  “If he’s here,” Dax said, “I’m talking to him. Just for a minute.”

  The guard seemed to ponder how much fun to have with this opportunity, the opportunity being an ass-kicking and the extent of fun being how long he wished to administer it.

  “He’s not here,” the guard said, “and he’s not going to hire you, and there aren’t any horses to break or hogs to wrestle or whatever the hell it is you do.”

  Dax nodded sadly. “Fair enough,” he said. “I figured it was too pretty a place for all of that, anyhow. Just tell him I passed through, all right? I’m telling you, mister, he’s heard of me.”

  The guard leaned over and spit in the dust beside the ATV. “Sure, I bet he’ll be awfully impressed when he learns you passed through. What’s the name?”

  “Blackwell,” Dax said.

  Nothing.

  Nothing at all. Blank-faced. How was that possible? It had been a few years, yes, but…

  Time to refresh the brand.

  “Blackwell,” the guard repeated. “Great. I’ll be sure to pass the word.”

  Dax stared at the guard and wondered if he ever thought about the Yellowstone caldera. Of all that heat and pressure building up beneath his boots, of an ash cloud settling onto distant seas.

  “Thanks,” Dax said, and he turned to reach for the gearshift, then stopped himself and said, “Oh yeah—I’ll need to leave the old invoice with you.”

  “I’m not taking your stupid—”

  Dax drew a suppressed pistol from the console beside the gearshift, lifted it, and shot the guard once in the forehead. The pistol made a soft sound that was lost immediately in the vastness of the countryside. The guard made a slightly louder sound when he crumpled to the dirt, but not enough to carry far.

  Dax set the gun on the dashboard, stepped out of the truck, and removed a folded piece of paper from his back pocket. He used his foot to roll the dead guard over, then he withdrew a slim knife with a five-inch blade with his right hand while he unfolded the paper and centered it on the guard’s chest with his left.


  He buried the blade just below the base of the guard’s throat. He sat back on his heels and watched the blood ooze and then leaned forward and adjusted the dead man’s head so that the blood would not drip down across his chest and render the note illegible.

  The note read:

  Past-due balance: $250,000

  For: Murder of Nina Morgan

  Plus interest in amount of: $250,000

  Outstanding total: $500,000

  Please remit payment at your earliest convenience.

  Regards,

  The Blackwell Company

  Independent contractors, family-owned and -operated, unlicensed, uninsured

  When he was satisfied, Dax climbed back into the truck, drove under the L-C sign and arch, off the ranch property, and down the dirt road to the pavement. The Beartooth Mountains loomed in the deepening twilight in the west. He turned east and put them at his back and drove away.

  He could have sworn he smelled smoke on the wind.

  He kept the speed up all the way back to Red Lodge, ready for sirens and flashing lights but doubtful they would appear. Anyone who carried guns for Lowery probably knew better than to make the local police the first call.

  The mile markers passed by, and no sirens or lights appeared in either direction. It was a quiet trip back to Billings. He found a hotel close to the airport, a place called the Northern, that had clean rooms, a well-stocked bar, and a good amount of the nation’s cowhides nailed to the walls for a charming atmospheric touch. He reserved a room for one night, put his bags in the room, then came back down and walked through the ornate old lobby that had welcomed so many ranchers and oilmen in its time—and probably still did—to the long, dark bar in the restaurant. Steaks were on special. He had a feeling steaks were usually going to be on special here.

  He ordered an old-fashioned with Maker’s Mark. The bartender carded him.

  “Sorry,” she said. “It’s just, you know, I gotta go through the motions when somebody looks as young as you. Trust me, you’ll miss it one day.”

  “I bet,” Dax said, and he gave her a smile and a New York driver’s license identifying him as twenty-six-year-old Thomas Levy.