Having a big-game guide’s license meant you could sign off on someone else’s Class A Assistant guide’s license, which George promptly did, for Kate Shugak, Demetri Totemoff, Jack Morgan and Old Sam Dementieff, his stable of assistants. This entitled them to a pale blue square of paper with the state of Alaska’s seal on the watermark. It bore the license number, the effective and expiration dates, two years apart, and the game management units in which it was valid, and if such a thing had been allowed, these could have been auctioned off on the open market for a fortune.
From that time forward, George’s gold camp was set for guiding big-game hunters to meat, trophies and, if they were lucky, fame of a kind, at least in Boone and Crockett. Officially called Taiga Lodge (taiga was Athabascan for bear shit), George had been doing business for four years now. He specialized in Europeans who had read a lot of Ernest Hemingway when they were young and impressionable and their parents should have known better. They had the armament to prove it, and, more to the point, a shitload of money.
George was happy to help them spend it, or he was for four weeks out of the year, the last two weeks of September (moose) and the first two weeks of October (bear). Guiding hunters from the lodge for four weeks out of the year meant he could write off the expenses for the other forty-eight, when it served its primary purpose as a romantic getaway a deux, and sometimes trois. The rest of the time he left the main house stocked and unlocked, as per Alaska law, in the event some yahoo on a snow machine got lost and needed shelter.
It was George’s contention that owning and maintaining such a wonderfully romantic getaway was worth any amount of trouble, even guiding hunting parties with more money than brains, although there were hunts that did severely test that premise. There were hunts when the clients were pleasant and good sports and helped pack out the meat, but there were also hunts when the clients’ most important piece of equipment was the tape measure and who shot at everything that moved regardless of size, sex and sometimes species—once he’d had to physically disarm a British hunter who had taken his rifle down to the creek to blast away at a king salmon. These hunters took their trophies and left the meat for carrion, or would have, given the chance.
This irritated George and infuriated Kate, especially when they had to make the long trek back to the site of the kill to recover what wasn’t spoiled or hadn’t been eaten by bears, wolves and coyotes. The trophy hunters, Kate was quick to point out, were always the same hunters who left their trash scattered the length and breadth of the campsite and who looked impatient when George made them clean up after themselves. Some refused. Some were invited by George to walk back to Anchorage. These were not likely to be repeat customers.
Back in Niniltna, Kate could always tell how irritated George was with his current hunting party by how much her checks were, which represented forty percent of his gross divided by the amount of assistants. Hunters George liked paid through the nose; the ones he didn’t were lucky to escape with enough for cab fare from Merrill Field to Anchorage International Airport. “The charges are dependent on the customer’s attitude,” he told her once. “The more they piss me off, the higher the price.”
It was a sentiment Kate understood and embraced wholeheartedly. She wouldn’t guide for anyone but George.
And then there were hunts when they couldn’t find anything to shoot, miserable stretches out in the woods when the only living things present were themselves and the mosquitoes and an occasional porcupine. It always seemed to rain on those hunts, too, not a torrent, which might end when the clouds ran out of water, but a steady drizzle that went on and on, dampening the underbrush and the spirit in equal proportion.
It wasn’t going to happen this week, although that wisp seemed almost imperceptibly larger than it had the last time she’d looked at it. She shrugged. Wasn’t here yet. Here, it was still sunny. Here, it was still hot. She picked berries steadily until the bucket was almost full.
She returned to the yard around which the shop, the garage and the main house were built. There was a twenty-foot log two feet in diameter lying on its side, the upside worn smooth from years of fannies sitting on it while their owners knocked back cases of beer and lied about rack widths. She got another bucket and went down to the well, the old-fashioned pump handle sprouting from the square, flat-topped wooden well housing. She worked it a few times, bringing up water, and shoved the bucket underneath the spout when water began to flow.
The bucket was almost full when two arms slid around her waist and started working at the buckle on her holster. “There’s just something so irresistible about a woman with a gun,” a voice growled in her ear.
She laughed, and let her head fall back against Jack’s shoulder and his hands go where they would. He turned her around and took her there, sitting on the well housing, the sun dazzling his eyes and gilding her skin. It was urgent without being desperate, both of them so in tune that they came almost as one, and when it was over Kate sat with her legs wrapped around his waist, his hands cupping her ass, her ear against his thudding heart, satisfied, drained and incapable of movement, even of bolting when he said, “I love you, Kate.”
She nuzzled her face against his chest, and felt it rise and fall in a sigh.
“I know. The three most terrifying words in the English language.”
The tone of his voice was light-hearted and accepting, but before she could respond to the feeling beneath them he had reached behind her to work the handle of the water pump, causing a stream of ice cold water to cascade down her back. She yelped, and he ran for his life.
Two
Oops.
MOST OF THE GERMAN HUNTERS, thankfully, spoke impeccable English, with only the faintest trace of an accent, some stilted diction and occasionally putting their verbs last to give them away. “Some kind of corporate retreat,” George said when they had off-loaded the last of the group.
“What kind of corporation?” Jack said.
“What are they retreating from?” Kate said.
“I don’t know, Kate, pressures of business, reporters from Wall Street Week, their auditors? And the company is the German equivalent of Radio Shack or something like that.” George pulled out the manifest, squinting at the fine print. “Deutsche Radio Gesellschaft, it says here.”
“DRG?” Jack said. “They make computers?”
George shrugged and held out the manifest.
Jack read it. “Yeah, that’s them all right, DRG. They make computers—the operating systems for them, anyway. I think we’ve got a couple in the office.”
“I don’t care if they make ladies’ lingerie,” George said. “The check cleared the bank first time.”
Jack handed the manifest back. “You’re lucky.”
“Why?”
Jack grinned. “Because DRG is under investigation by the FBI, the SEC and probably the CIA for tax fraud, bribery and industrial espionage. It’s rumored that DRG’s playboy president, whom I recognized from the front page of the Enquirer when he got off the plane, is under investigation for improprieties in his own personal finances. The IRS has frozen all their American assets pending resolution of the court cases. Dell is suing them for patent infringement, and Microsoft is suing them for loading an illegal—so they claim—Windows99 clone on all their PCs. And that’s only in this country. Don’t you ever read the papers?”
“If it isn’t in Aviation Week, George doesn’t see it,” Kate said.
“And doesn’t worry about it,” George agreed. He wiped the dipstick, reinserted it and closed the hood of the Cub, giving it an affectionate pat. “Like I said, the check cleared the bank first time.”
“So, who’s the boss?”
George waved a vague hand in the direction of the lodge. “Dieter. The big blond guy.”
The three of them turned to survey the group. “They’re all big blond guys, George,” Jack said. “Except for the woman.”
George smiled, a long, slow, anticipatory smile, and managed, barely, to refra
in from licking his chops. “I noticed.” He stretched, working out the kinks caused by a day’s worth of flying. “Guess I better go help her with her luggage.”
There were ten in the group, the one woman and nine men, and there was a lot of luggage. It had been steadily accumulating from flight to incoming flight over the day—gun cases, rod cases, fly cases, creels, valises, suitcases, a case of schnapps, ten cases of beer, another ten of Evian, and boxes and bags of groceries. It was now in a haphazard pile in the center of the yard. Demetri and Old Sam had begun carrying the supplies into the lodge while their guests used the two outhouses and explored. A shout came from the creek, followed by sounds of hurried feet. “Dieter, there are fish in the water!”
“There better be fish in the water,” Dieter said, shooting George a challenging glance, as if to say that if there weren’t, George would be held personally responsible for the migratory habits of the Alaska silver salmon.
They all had last names, of course, but Kate considered that she was doing well to have mastered their first names, and if they considered that to be disrespectful of their august positions—what the hell, they had only to suffer her impudence for a mere ten days. Jack was right, they were all big and blond, including their token woman, who, if she’d been wearing a brass brassiere, would have looked just like the Ice Queen, or maybe a Valkyrie.
Kate had only the haziest notion of what a Valkyrie should look like, but whatever that was, Senta fit the bill. She could have been anywhere from thirty to fifty. She was six feet tall if she was an inch, with broad shoulders holding up very large, perfectly shaped breasts whose nipples jutted straight out in a manner that was vaguely threatening. She had a tiny waist, hips as wide as her shoulders and long, well-muscled legs. Her hair, makeup and nails looked as if she had come to camp straight from Elizabeth Arden. Like the men, she was dressed in khakis. Hers fit better.
Dieter was almost but not quite as tall as Senta, and Kate noticed that he took care not to stand next to her so as not to call attention to the difference. In his late forties or early fifties, Kate estimated, Dieter was all Teuton, a broad forehead, a square jaw, a thick neck, short, stiff blond hair and blue eyes so pale they were almost gray. His mouth was wide and fleshy, his chin prognathous and obstinate. His nose was oddly flattened and uptilted, the nostrils facing forward like a pig’s. His chin hinted at arrogance, his belly at a lifelong fight with his weight, and his attitude was pompous, self-important and patronizing. The first thing he unpacked was his rifle. The first thing he said was, “How many can I kill?”
Not what, Kate thought, just how many. Okay. One of those kinds of hunts. She reminded herself of her generous wages and let it pass.
Everyone deferred to Dieter. They didn’t defer to Eberhard. They stepped out of his way. They never looked directly at him if they could avoid it, either. First rule of the wilderness, Kate thought, never look a predator in the eye; he’ll take it as an invitation to attack. He was taller than Senta, with a brush cut that had more gray than blond in it, more of an indication of his age than his face, which was clear and unlined except for two deep scars, one in each cheek. He looked as if he’d been sliced open with a carving knife and stitched together afterward with an eye toward preserving the marks.
Without thinking about what she was doing, her hand went to her throat. The roped scar tissue there, extending almost ear to ear, had not healed as well.
Eberhard was agile in movement in spite of his bulk, quick and sure on his feet. He looked up to see Kate watching, saw her fingering the scar at her neck. His eyes were flat and impersonal. She felt a distinct chill and dropped her hand.
He stood at Dieter’s shoulder, in Dieter’s shadow. He made no effort to help with the unloading, not even his own bags.
Muscle, Kate thought. Muscle, pure and simple. What the hell does Dieter need with muscle out here? Maybe Eberhard’ll wrestle a bear for him.
Gunther was about Kate’s age, slim and muscular with a round pink face, bright eyes, a quick handshake and an engaging grin. “You are an Alaska Native,” he said, proudly, as if he had been the first person ever to discover this wonderful fact.
“That’s right,” Kate said, stifling a sigh. He was so good-natured she couldn’t snap at him.
“A Native guide, yes?” He laughed uproariously.
“That’s right,” Kate said grimly.
Klemens was the eldest of the bunch, Kate estimated in his mid to late sixties. He was a thin man with a kindly smile that deepened the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth. He said gently, “Forgive him, he is very young. Is it true, there are fish in the stream? I like fishing.”
“Yes,” she said. “There are rainbow trout and Dolly Varden, even some late silvers, although they’re looking pretty rough by now. Probably not very good eating, and certainly no good for trophies. Unless you go for dark red monsters with hooked snouts hanging on your wall.”
He had trouble understanding this. He smoothed back a glorious mane of pure white hair, carefully trimmed and styled, and said, “But there are fish, yes?”
“There are fish, yes,” Kate said solemnly.
“Good.” He nodded once, satisfied.
Hendrik and Fedor were so alike they seemed to be twins; in their mid thirties, they had dark blond hair, dark brown eyes, beautiful teeth and slim, graceful bodies. They asked no questions and took little interest in the proceedings except when Dieter’s eye was upon them.
Hubert and Gregor were another set of near twins; stocky, stolid and sober, pants legs tucked neatly into their boots, boot strings carefully double-knotted. Hubert looked a little more upright, Gregor a little seedier. They’d helped with the luggage not out of a friendly spirit but because it was the socially accepted thing to do. They would have wives, 1.9 children each, paid-up life and medical insurance and a retirement plan that called for a vacation cruise to St. Croix every other year while they lived and adequate provision for their wives after their deaths. They looked like suburban characters out of a John Updike novel, minus the angst.
The final member of the party was Berg, who was tall and beefy and silent, blinking at the world through lenses so thick you could count his eyelashes from the other side. He spoke when he was spoken to. Kate saw him watching Senta when he thought no one was looking. He had a dog-like devotion in his eyes that was magnified by the lenses and uncomfortable to witness, and she turned her back on it in some embarrassment.
No one except Dieter seemed overly excited to be there. Was this hunt a command performance by the boss, perhaps? Kate wondered if any of them had had any experience on the trail. If not, it was going to be a long ten days. But the good weather was holding, and she and Jack could always sneak off once in a while, visit the beavers up at the top of the airstrip. She smiled to herself.
Her attention was drawn to the luggage pile, where some sort of confrontation appeared to be taking place.
“You will help with the luggage,” Eberhard said. He picked up a very large suitcase in one hand without apparent effort, and handed it to Old Sam.
Old Sam accepted it, and then, deliberately, let it fall to the ground. It was heavy, and when it landed something inside broke.
There was an unpleasant pause.
“I didn’t hire on to be a goddamn pack mule,” Old Sam said. He was talking to George but he was looking at Eberhard. Eberhard stared stolidly back. Without any recollection of how she got there, Kate found herself standing at Old Sam’s shoulder. Eberhard’s flat gaze acknowledged her appearance without expression.
“I know,” George agreed, at his most soothing.
“I ain’t a goddamn coolie.”
“You certainly aren’t.”
“You hired me as a guide, as I understood it.”
“Yes, I did.”
“I ain’t humping no bags to no cabins, and while we’re on the subject of humping, I ain’t nobody’s gun bearer, either, and I ain’t packing out no meat I don’t shoot or that I don’t get to put in my o
wn cache, neither.”
“No.”
“Glad you agree,” Old Sam said. “Think I’ll make some coffee. You want some, you come get it.”
“We will.”
Old Sam brushed by Kate on his way to the lodge.
George spoke to Dieter but he, too, looked at Eberhard as he spoke. “Dieter,” George said, “you folks paid for a wilderness experience. This experience includes hauling your own bags and your own guns and your own game. I explained this to you when you called. You had the choice to sign up with an outfit that would butter your bread for you. I even gave you some names. You chose my outfit instead. You having a problem with that now?”
Eberhard outweighed George by about fifty pounds, and as George himself would explain to anyone who asked, “I’m in good enough shape to fly and fuck. What else is there?”
It seemed that Eberhard was right on the verge of showing him when Dieter said with false heartiness, “Come on, Eberhard. We’re in Alaska now, not Munich. Let’s get all this stuff into the cabins.”
He gave Eberhard a comradely slap on the back and waited, confident, more so than Kate thought he had a right to be. Eberhard broke the stalemate by hefting two of the larger suitcases and turning to carry them to the cabins. Dieter reached for a carry-on and followed. The others fell in line.
Kate, not wishing to exacerbate the situation by watching, turned away and bumped into Jack. He stared over her head at the party straggling into the woods. “Yeah. Like I thought. This is going to be one of the fun ones.”
By evening, everyone had eaten heartily of Demetri’s superb cooking and had subsequently mellowed out, at least on the surface. Kate herself, full of spaghetti and garlic bread, was charitably inclined to write Eberhard’s attitude off to jet lag. She sat down next to Senta and George, who were sipping schnapps with their backs against the driftwood log. “Would you like some schnapps?” Senta inquired hospitably, holding up a bottle.
Hunter's Moon Page 2
