Nothing Gold Can Stay

by Dana Stabenow

  She wondered what was in it, in Windex. Alcohol, maybe, that was why it evaporated so fast. And why it stung the eyes so much. Who made it? Johnson and Johnson? Procter and Gamble? She would write their president a letter of appreciation, whoever they were and whomever he was. She would give a testimonial. She would clean her windows with Windex for the rest of her life. She’d order it by the case, by the pallet, by the truckload-

  Her stomach growled. Shut up. Shut up shut up shut up. I know you’re hungry. So am I. We don’t have any food, so just shut up.

  She’d found some highbush cranberries that morning and gobbled them down, equally oblivious to the piles of bear scat with cranberry seeds in them and the seeds themselves, which took up most of the fruit. They were so tart as to be nearly sour, but they gave her a spurt of energy that finally got her out of the valley.

  She was on the downside of a set of rolling foothills now. Before her spread an immense flat marsh with a wide river snaking across it. She knew the sun came up in the east, and she also knew that this was Alaska, that it was September and the sunrise was moving steadily south. Bristol Bay lay to the southeast. Newenham was in the southeast. They had changed planes in Newenham. There were houses in Newenham, warm houses, and stores, stores with food on the shelves, and running water, hot water, and telephones and television and maybe even a bead store.

  From something Mark had said once-no, no, don’t think of Mark, facedown in the icy water-she knew enough to follow the rill downstream to a creek, the creek downstream to a river, the river downstream to the sea and civilization. And she knew that he knew it, too, and would be hard on her heels.

  Her stomach growled again. Shut up shut up shut up. She found a stand of fireweed, and she remembered from the herb book that Natives ate the pith. She’d paused precious moments in her flight to strip the leaves and crack the stems, only to find the marrow woody. She ate it anyway, and dug up the roots because the book had said those were edible, too. The taste of the dirt was cool and metallic. Later she stumbled into a patch of wild celery, something her friend at work had called pushki, and she picked some and peeled it and ate it. It, too, was wooden and tasteless. Blisters were already forming where one of the leaves had brushed her arm. Because she was trying not to follow the creeks downhill too closely, she had no water to wash until it was too late.

  And then there was the blood.

  It wasn’t all hers.

  The bear had come out of nowhere, rising up out of the dense thicket of alders like a colossus, spreading his arms wide, claws extended, roaring out his rage and fear at her trespass. He’d been eating a snowshoe hare. He swiped at her with one taloned paw and sent her tumbling head over heels, until she crashed into the trunk of a birch tree. She was dizzy and disoriented, too stunned to move. She could feel the wound on her shoulder and back, but it was more of a dull ache than a biting pain.

  The bear growled and snarled and tore up a couple of alders. She heard him, but could not be stirred to move.

  After a while his grumblings faded into the distance.

  She’d been lying there waiting for him to come over and finish her off. She was even glad her flight was over. No one would ever know now what had happened to her, but she was too tired and too cold and too hungry to care.

  When the bear left, it took her a while to believe it. Why hadn’t he finished off his kill? Had the smell of human startled and surprised him so violently that he was actually afraid of her; weak, starving, freezing, defenseless Rebecca Hanover? So afraid that he’d run off and left his meal behind?

  She raised her head. The rabbit was still there, its body torn almost in two, red flesh gleaming between stained brown fur only beginning to turn winter white. She could smell its blood.

  Her stomach growled.

  Raw meat was harder to chew than cooked.

  If you’re going to be lost in the Bush, Rebecca, she thought now, be lost in the early summer. Chances of finding food are better then, if you’re too squeamish to shoot anything. Mark had said that with a smile when they’d first-no, no, don’t think about Mark, or Mark’s smile, or the way he-

  The wind roared overhead and there was a loud crash. She went totally still, not blinking, not breathing, straining to hear over the wind and the moan of the trees. It could have been a branch falling. That was it, a branch, breaking off and falling to the ground. She willed herself to relax, and discovered that her hands had thawed enough to feel the pushki blisters on her right arm. The thorns stung, too, the thorns she’d picked up when she stumbled into a patch of devil’s club. Tiny thorns, on the stems and the undersides of the leaves, so little she hadn’t noticed them, so little she could barely see them after they were embedded in her skin, so little they ought not to hurt as much as they did.

  She burrowed down again, in search of some particle of warmth left over from the morning sun.

  She should have taken her gun down to the creek that morning. What morning was that, exactly? There had been no clocks at the little cabin in the canyon, and no calendar. Days had passed, but maybe weeks. She didn’t know anymore.

  One thing she did know. The man who had killed her husband and kidnapped and raped her repeatedly was still after her. Her escape had been an affront to his pride, and if she had any doubt of his determination to keep her forever, it had been banished by the sight of those wooden markers.

  All Elaines. He had called her Elaine. All those Elaines. Twelve. My god, twelve of them. Twelve women before her. Had he kidnapped them all? Raped them all? Buried them all? Fashioned markers for them all? Why had no one noticed? Why had no one cared? There were mothers there, she was sure of it, daughters, nieces, aunts. Why had no one come looking for them? Where were their fathers, their mothers, their sisters and brothers? Where were their friends? Where were the police, and the state troopers, and the FBI? Where wasAmerica’s Most Wanted? Where wasCops? Where was60 goddamnMinutes?

  She knew one more thing. Wounded, cold, hungry, huddled beneath a few branches and leaves, hundreds of miles from help, her own death one degree in temperature away, she knew she was luckier than anyone buried beneath those perfect wooden markers at the head of that perfect little canyon, a quick walk from the front door of that perfect little house.

  Something rumbled in the pit of her belly. At first she thought it was a reaction to the rabbit. It took a moment to recognize it as anger, an emotion she had last felt aimed at Mark. She shied away from the memory at first, but it was such a tiny presence, barely a spark. She wrapped her arms around her middle and curled around it, creating a protective shield. The spark caught and grew, warming her.

  If he doesn’t catch me.

  If I don’t starve to death.

  If I don’t die of exposure.

  If I make it out of here.

  If all those things, it will be because of you, Elaine.

  The words ran through her mind again and again and at some point the “if” changed, faded, disappeared.

  I won’t let him catch me.

  I won’t starve to death.

  I won’t die of exposure.

  I will make it out of here.

  I will beat him, Elaine.

  I will beat him for you.

  Here it was in the middle of the first fall storm, and his Elaine was right out in the middle of it. She wasn’t strong enough to brave the wind and the rain, and if his weather sense was not mistaken-and it hardly ever was-it would snow before morning. He bent his head against the storm and plodded patiently on.

  She had to have water, and it had to be running water, so she had to stay close to the drainage system. Really, it was simply a matter of following her downhill, and she left enough tumbled rocks, broken branches and trampled grass to make that easy enough. He was worried, though; she had no jacket, no gloves, no sleeping bag. The highbush cranberry patch hadn’t been that big, and cranberries would not sustain her for long. She was probably hungry. His heart ached for her. Poor little girl.

  Yes, o
f course, she had been naughty, and she had to be punished. She had broken a rule and she would have to pay for it. She always did.

  Still, he couldn’t help feeling sorry for her. He’d seen three bears and at least a dozen moose. She had been lucky enough so far, but it was only a matter of time before she ran into something she couldn’t handle. He would be there for her.

  Kind but firm, that was the best way. She would be nervous, perhaps even a little rebellious at first, but that was only natural. Deep down, she knew how things were.

  And if she had forgotten, he would have to teach her.

  Again.

  He smiled into the upturned collar of his jacket, and plodded on.

  NINETEEN

  Newenham, September 6

  “You’re not going,” Liam said.

  Wy looked at him, her face empty of all expression. “That’s my son up there. You can’t stop me.” She walked over to the map of southwest Alaska. They’d driven to the post with Prince, who was standing with her arms folded, shaking her head.

  Wy pointed. “The airstrip for the Old Man Creek fish camp is Portage Creek. The fish camp is about four miles downriver from the strip. Moses keeps his skiff at Portage, but it’ll be at the fish camp now.”

  “So even if you are crazy enough to get in the air in the first place,” Prince said, “and even if you’re lucky enough to get down in one piece, you’ve got to get from the airstrip to the fish camp. How?”

  “There will be a boat. There’s always a skiff, somebody’s dory, something that floats that somebody leaves behind.”

  “You don’t know that for sure. What if you get out there and this is the first time there isn’t? And what makes you so sure anyone is heading in that direction anyway? That’s a hell of a long way to hike through a storm. Especially when there are other settlements along the way.”

  “Look,” Wy said, her tone so patient that Prince gritted her teeth. “Dead woman at Kagati Lake. Dead man at Rainbow. Dead man at Nenevok Creek. Connect the dots.” She snapped her fingers impatiently and Liam tossed her a pen. She drew a line between the three settlements. “Old Man Creek is the only dry ground on the Scandinavian Slough besides Portage Creek, and the creek is on the wrong side of the slough. The rest of the area is just one big swamp. Everyone in the Bay and on the river knows this, and by now she has to know that everyone in the Bay and on the river knows that some nutcase is killing people. The river is the best road out of here, she hits it, steals a boat, floats downstream and is home free. It’s logical for her to head in that direction.”

  “You keep saying ‘her’ and ‘she,’ like one person killed all three people and that person is Rebecca Hanover,” Prince said. “She wasn’t anywhere near Kagati Lake. She couldn’t have killed Opal Nunapitchuk. And she didn’t have any reason to, no motive, nothing. Not to mention which, you just got done painting the most heartrending picture of Little Miss City Girl, who doesn’t know squat about surviving a trek through the Bush. How is she supposed to know where she’s going? What does she think she’s going to find when she gets there?”

  Wy’s temper flared. “Look. There is a trail of bodies on a line heading southeast. The last body reported found-and please note we have no idea if it’s the last body to be found-is lying twelve miles from Old Man Creek. You’re right, I don’t know that Rebecca Hanover killed her husband, let alone Opal or Peter. Hell, for all we know, maybe she’s got a lover, maybe they’re in it together, maybe he killed Opal and Pete to make it look like there is a crazed killer on the loose. I don’t know and I don’t care. I am not taking any chances with Tim’s safety.” She tossed Liam’s pen back. He snatched it out of the air before it skewered his eye. “I don’t care what the two of you do or don’t do. I’m getting in the air and I’m going to Portage Creek. I’ll find a way to Old Man Creek when I get there.”

  “You can’t do that.”

  “The hell I can’t,” she said curtly, opening the door. The wind snatched it from her hand and slammed it against the wall. “I’m a private pilot flying alone. There’s no law against that. Yet.”

  The wind snatched the door from her hand a second time and slammed it shut behind her. When Liam wrenched it open again to follow, a raven, riding out the wind on the bough of a spruce tree, croaked overhead. For once, Liam didn’t even look up.

  Little Muklung River, September 6

  She didn’t, couldn’t know how far she had come.

  All sense of direction had been lost in the fog and the snow.

  She knew she was leaving footprints to follow. The weather had betrayed her, a storm with snow in September, how could that be? Until then, she’d had a chance.

  Now all she wanted was warmth and food. Coffee. Hot coffee, creamy with half-and-half and sweet with a heaping spoonful of sugar, two spoonfuls, three. She could almost smell it, and her mouth watered.

  There was a river. She was following it downstream, although she knew he would be following it, too, knew that her footprints in the new-fallen snow left a track a child could follow.

  The biggest battle now was to put one foot in front of the other. The left foot had lost all feeling, but that wasn’t surprising, as she’d lost her left shoe in a half-frozen bog a mile back. Or maybe it was yesterday.

  She stepped slowly, with all the deliberation of a drunk.

  There was the sound of water running swiftly between banks, as if the creek had widened suddenly. She looked, but it wasn’t so. She had long ago stopped believing her eyes. Now she could not believe her ears.

  But what about her nose? She was sure she could smell the coffee now. She closed her eyes and inhaled. Coffee and woodsmoke. And fish.

  There was a sense of brightness before her, or rather a thinning of the gloom. She squinted.

  She was in a clearing.

  There was a cabin in the clearing.

  There was a light in the cabin window, and movement behind that light.

  She stopped dead and stared, disbelieving. Was it another hallucination? She’d had so many, of Mark holding out his hand and smiling, of Nina laughing, of Linda’s table strewn with beads, of her mother’s fried chicken, of Maalaea Bay on Maui, where she had spent so many vacations, and where it was so very, very warm.

  She took a hesitant step.

  The cabin did not vanish into the snow and the fog. There might even be voices.

  There was a door.

  She stumbled into a run.

  Old Man Creek, September 6

  “Hey!”

  “What? You unnatural brat,” Moses added, somewhat unfairly, since he’d been awake for an hour.

  “It snowed!” Tim opened the door wider. “Look!”

  The snow lay two inches on the ground, and the pure, pristine white lightened the low, leaden look of the sky.

  Moses came to stand behind him. “And more coming, I bet.” The snow swirled up in a sudden gust of wind and he shivered. “Come on, get out or get in.”

  “I gotta pee,” Tim said, and dashed around the corner.

  Amelia yawned and stretched. Moses looked at her approvingly, or as close to approvingly as he ever looked at anyone. The bruises had nearly faded from her face, there was color in her cheeks, and even rumpled with sleep her hair had regained a healthy shine. She looked good. “You look good,” he said.

  She was startled, and a little wary. “Thank you, uncle.”

  “Get your pants on, let’s stand a little post while my woman makes us some coffee.”

  Bill sent him a haughty look, and he grinned.

  They assumed the position, and Tim walked in. “Oh man. It’s too small in here to do tai chi.”

  “I’ve done form in airplane bathrooms,” Moses said. “Where there ain’t even enough room to crap, I might add. There’s all the room in the world. Get your butt over here.”

  Grumbling, Tim complied, and Bill noticed that both kids were moving more easily. The price of a good teacher is above rubies, she thought. She made coffee then, but only be
cause she wanted some herself.My woman, indeed.

  She looked out the small window over the counter. Gray skies, swirling snow, and only yesterday it had been Indian summer. The thermometer mounted to the outside wall of the cabin read thirty-nine degrees. The snow would be gone by noon. She peered skyward. The storm looked as if it were taking five before turning around into a real nor’wester.

  She lit the Coleman stove and put the pot on to boil before checking the woodstove. The wood box was nearly empty after she stoked the fire. “Hey guys, sorry to interrupt, but we’re about out of wood.”

  “Then go get some,” Moses growled.

  She turned and gave him a smile. “Your woman gets the coffee made. Her man gets the wood in.”

  That surprised him into a laugh and he stood up. “I can’t be freezing my ass off out there alone. Come on, boy.”

  He and Tim donned jackets and went outside. Amelia continued to stand post, forearms perpendicular to her torso, forming a gentle curve, legs bent with her knees directly over her toes. Bill admired her for a moment before going back to the counter and getting out the ingredients for her famous oatmeal. The secret was lots of butter and brown sugar, but steel-cut rolled oats were also very important, as was the evaporated milk. Heart attack in a bowl, she thought fondly, and dumped raisins into the pot.

  “Bill?”

  “What, honey?”

  “How did you come to Newenham?”

  Bill turned with the bag of oats in her hands to meet Amelia’s inquiring gaze. “What brought that up?”

  “I don’t know,” Amelia said. “No reason, I guess.”

  Bill looked at her thoughtfully. She was asking for something, Bill wasn’t sure what, exactly, but she was asking, and Bill had the feeling that Amelia hadn’t asked for much in her life. She turned back to the counter. “I was married once. To an Army officer. It didn’t work out. I left him, and came to Newenham. I’ve been here ever since.”