Jim Baen’s Universe

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Jim Baen’s Universe Page 32

by Edited by Eric Flint


  No hurt, no fo­ul, as Dad sa­id whe­ne­ver he fuc­ked up wit­ho­ut to­tal­ly fuc­king up, which was pretty much the ave­ra­ge for Dad.

  She gas­sed up, pa­id, pe­ed, and then de­ci­ded to mo­ve the car over to the ma­in par­king slots and sit down to eat at the co­un­ter. Der­rick was right. If she was go­ing to be dri­ving wit­hin a few ho­urs of fin­ding her so­ul, she re­al­ly ought to ta­ke so­me ca­re of her­self, for the sa­ke of ot­her dri­vers if not­hing el­se. Might as well ma­ke su­re she was com­for­tab­le, well-res­ted, and pre­pa­red, sin­ce the trip up Mag­gie's Cre­ek Can­yon Ro­ad in the dark was go­ing to be stressy.

  How had she let it get so la­te? Then she re­mem­be­red that she had spent abo­ut an ho­ur and a half in re­ve­rie. Aimee and Ami and mye had all sa­id that you for­got things a lot when you first got yo­ur so­ul back, tho­ugh it se­emed to Amy that she had be­en re­mem­be­ring things rat­her than for­get­ting them. Ex­cept that wha­te­ver she had be­en re­mem­be­ring, she'd be­en for­get­ting aga­in.

  Really, it was con­fu­sing and di­so­ri­en­ting. She must've be­en dri­ving a bit spa­ced out, but pro­bably awa­ke eno­ugh and the­re­fo­re sa­fe eno­ugh. She ho­ped.

  Her usu­al do­ub­le-bur­ger-with-not­hing had co­oled to abo­ut ro­om tem­pe­ra­tu­re, and the long hand on the clock had jum­ped hal­f­way ro­und. She wol­fed the bur­ger be­fo­re it co­uld get col­der, gul­ped her slightly war­mer chi­li, and left her lu­ke­warm cof­fee on the co­un­ter, beg­ging a re­fill with fresh hot stuff for her ther­mos. Forty mi­nu­tes for a bur­ger at a co­un­ter; li­fe was slip­ping away just li­ke that.

  The last ti­me she had co­me thro­ugh he­re had be­en with her fri­ends, with Co­lin sit­ting in the pas­sen­ger se­at of the red Mi­ata she'd had then, grab­bing the do­or­f­ra­me as she went up Mag­gie's Cre­ek Can­yon at a per­fectly re­aso­nab­le pa­ce. It had be­en for Dad's fu­ne­ral. Be­hind her the­re had be­en two mo­re car­lo­ads of her fri­ends, sup­po­sedly all the­re to sup­port her thro­ugh Dad's fu­ne­ral, and ac­tu­al­ly along to be ab­le to say that yes, they had known Lit­tle Amy in col­le­ge, and be­en to The Ca­bin, and even be­en at Bur­ton Gol­d­s­ba­ne's fu­ne­ral. It was the ul­ti­ma­te pri­vi­le­ge-or pay­ment-for ha­ving con­sen­ted to be fri­ends with pla­in old god­dam Amy.

  Extra pri­vi­le­ges, such as ac­tu­al­ly ri­ding shot­gun in Po­ga's Mi­ata, kno­wing the re­al story be­hind that Po­ga nic­k­na­me, and be­ing ab­le to tell pe­op­le that Lit­tle Amy dro­ve li­ke a lu­na­tic, ca­me for ag­re­e­ing to sle­ep with her or at le­ast to crash on her co­uch.

  At the fu­ne­ral she had al­most he­ard her fat­her whis­pe­ring in her ear what he sa­id of­ten when he was drunk; Amy, Po­ga, Amy-Amy-Po­ga, I de­al in li­es all the ti­me, lit­tle Po­ga, and the first thing to ke­ep in mind is that to lie well you can't lo­se what the truth is. Di­sap­pe­ar in­to the jaws of yo­ur own lie and it will di­gest you and le­ave you as a lit­tle pi­le of men­da­ci­o­us po­op by the ro­ad. So lie all you want, Po­ga, but don't let the god­dam lie eat you.

  She had kind of enj­oyed the shoc­ked lo­ok on her fri­ends' fa­ces when they saw Fe­at­her Mo­un­ta­in and The Ca­bin and the wa­ter­fall pond the way they we­re…

  Which had be­en what?

  No ti­me to think abo­ut that now. She was in­to the can­yon. In day­light this pla­ce was gor­ge­o­us, at night a scary chal­len­ge, tho­ugh a fa­mi­li­ar one. She didn't ne­ed to see an­y­t­hing mo­re than what was in her he­ad­lig­h­ts-she felt, or just knew, whe­re things we­re and whe­re she was. The rock walls, bri­ef pul­lo­uts, and ste­ep drop-of­fs we­re whe­re they be­lon­ged, held in pla­ce by her me­mory, and mar­ked by the sud­den flas­hes of the bright mad dan­ce of stars bet­we­en the pe­aks, spi­res, and can­yon lips.

  She knew and wat­c­hed for the ga­me tra­ils ac­ross the ro­ad. In icy la­te win­ter, in the last ho­ur of light and the first ho­ur of dar­k­ness, the­re we­re of­ten de­er and co­yo­te, even elk or be­ar, he­ading down for a drink from fast-flo­wing Mag­gie's Cre­ek, which ne­ver fro­ze all the way over. Or you co­uld see a Ute ghost, or even an elf flying low to fol­low the ro­ad, and be star­t­led just as you ca­me on­to black ice, and be in­to the can­yon be­fo­re you knew it-tho­ugh as long as so­me of the drops we­re, you'd know it for much too long.

  A mo­un­ta­in ro­ad at night is busy, if you in­tend to ma­ke ti­me and still get the­re ali­ve. Amy had le­ar­ned to dri­ve on this ro­ad but it still re­qu­ired her full at­ten­ti­on. She co­uld ne­ver re­mem­ber every pla­ce whe­re sha­dow lay on the ro­ad all day long so that ru­noff drib­bling ac­ross the ro­ad tur­ned in­to black ice, sud­denly un­der the ti­res, qu­ick, thin, slick, in­vi­sib­le, and hard as de­ath it­self. Traf­fic co­ming the ot­her way com­pel­led her to con­s­tantly pop brights on and off, and she was al­ways bra­king be­hind lo­cals who saw no re­ason to hurry, or pul­ling in­to tur­nof­fs to let ot­her lo­cals pass, blin­king from the bright he­ad­lights in the re­ar­vi­ew mir­ror, pe­ering ahe­ad for the not-pul­led-over eno­ugh car with na­ked, se­mi-drunk kids in it that co­uld be in any pull-off.

  She won­de­red idly how many of the­se tur­nof­fs she'd got­ten la­id in, du­ring high scho­ol. May­be the Bur­ton Gol­d­s­ba­ne Fo­un­da­ti­on wo­uld li­ke to put up so­me small mo­nu­ments: "Lit­tle Amy Was Slept With He­re." And by her bed­ro­om win­dow, a sta­tue of Bur­ton Gol­d­s­ba­ne him­self, ram­pant with a puz­zled ex­p­res­si­on-

  Why by her win­dow?

  Approaching the blind cur­ve that of­ten had elk on the ro­ad just be­yond it, she felt the re­ve­rie re­ac­hing up for her as if it we­re big, strong hands with un­na­tu­ral­ly long fin­gers trying to co­ver her eyes, to­uch her body, stro­ke her- Ne­ver mind! She was dri­ving the god­dam can­yon and the re­ve­rie wo­uld just ha­ve to le­ave her alo­ne. The re­ve­rie va­nis­hed li­ke the blur do­es when you fo­cus a te­les­co­pe.

  With the very small part of her mind that had ti­me to think, she was glad, al­most smug. No re­ve­rie was go­ing to sho­ve her aro­und. When she emer­ged at the he­ad of the can­yon, dri­ving ac­ross the long truss brid­ge that le­aped the raggy he­ad of the can­yon, and up in­to Fe­at­her Mo­un­ta­in Park, she glan­ced at the clock. As al­ways, it had ta­ken only abo­ut half an ho­ur but she felt as if she had be­en dri­ving all night.

  Feather Mo­un­ta­in Park is not ter­ribly im­p­res­si­ve, as parks go. When she had go­ne off to col­le­ge and met pe­op­le from ot­her parts of the co­untry for the first ti­me, Amy had fo­re­ver be­en ex­p­la­ining that she had not grown up in a na­ti­onal park, that a park is a wi­de flat spa­ce bet­we­en the mo­un­ta­ins with too much wind and not eno­ugh ra­in for tre­es or crops, but per­fect for hor­ses and cat­tle. "Aryan Mas­cu­li­ne Pa­ra­di­se," she used to ex­p­la­in. "Ro­om for many cat­tle for the Ta­mer of Hor­ses, and al­so lots of ro­om for pla­ying with guns and dri­ving drunk re­al fast. Lots of long vi­ews you can sni­pe at fe­de­ral agents from. Ro­ad­ho­uses with six co­untry songs, no­ne chan­ged sin­ce 1970, on a tho­usand ye­ar old juke­box. When the Lord of the Park wants ba­bi­es, the­re are lo­cal girls, dumb as rocks, blon­de and well-knoc­ke­red, drin­king un­der-age at every ro­ad­ho­use, drunk as shit and des­pe­ra­te to mo­ve out of the­ir pa­rents' ho­use. And lots of ro­om for a man to bu­ild his ca­bin-or park his do­ub­le­wi­de. With all that go­ing for it, what's a few months of be­low-ze­ro, a wind that ne­ver stops whis­t­ling, and a lit­tle iso­la­ti­on and in­sa­nity?"

  For so­me re­ason that had ma­de pe­op­le un­com­for­tab­le, tho­ugh red­neck jokes we­re com­mon cur­rency at UNC, es­pe­ci­al­ly among pe­op­le who we­re af­ra­id that they might not ha­ve s
cra­ped all the red­neck off yet. Af­ter a whi­le she ma­de the con­nec­ti­on and stop­ped tel­ling tho­se jokes; the prob­lem wasn't what li­fe in Fe­at­her Mo­un­ta­in Park was li­ke, or that pe­op­le felt bad abo­ut la­ug­hing at it. The prob­lem was that the kids who had de­vo­ured all of Bur­ton Gol­d­s­ba­ne's Lit­tle Amy bo­oks did not want to pic­tu­re swe­et, dre­amy Lit­tle Amy out on the bac­k­ro­ads with ol­der boys. Co­lin fo­und it a lit­tle too in­te­res­ting. May­be that was why she stuck with him, tho­ugh she ne­ver tal­ked abo­ut li­fe in Ar­yan Mas­cu­li­ne Pa­ra­di­se any mo­re aro­und him.

  What ever­yo­ne had wan­ted, Amy tho­ught, was to cla­im fri­en­d­s­hip with Lit­tle Amy from the bo­oks, with shy bo­okish go­od lo­oks and a dre­amy artsy iri­des­cent va­len­ti­ne-cen­te­red so­ul; it didn't mat­ter whet­her they wan­ted to wor­s­hip her or win her he­art or de­ba­uch her, they wan­ted Lit­tle Amy, and whi­le she might ha­ve be­en per­fectly happy to be wor­s­hip­ped or lo­ved or de­ba­uc­hed-bet­ter yet, all three-she just didn't ha­ve that iri­des­cent so­ul.

  And that bro­ught her back to the tho­ught of what was in her duf­fel bag. She had had such a cle­ar pic­tu­re in her he­ad of her mag­ni­fi­cent so­ul, and he­re she had a gray rag with a bril­li­antly drawn tec­h­ni­cal il­lus­t­ra­ti­on: a re­al he­art and not a va­len­ti­ne. Why had she ever go­ne lo­oking for it in the first pla­ce, if it was go­ing to turn out li­ke this?

  She top­ped the ri­se and lo­oked down on the town of Fe­at­her Mo­un­ta­in. She'd al­so tri­ed to ma­ke a joke out of the ob­ser­va­ti­on that the­re was a na­me shor­ta­ge out he­re, that towns very of­ten we­re na­med af­ter pro­mi­nent lo­cal fe­atu­res and so was ever­y­t­hing el­se wit­hin re­ach, Fe­at­her Mo­un­ta­in stan­ding abo­ve Fe­at­her Mo­un­ta­in Park whe­re the town of Fe­at­her Mo­un­ta­in lay at the cros­sing of Fe­at­her Mo­un­ta­in Ro­ad and Mag­gie's Cre­ek Can­yon Ro­ad; she sa­id when she was lit­tle she didn't know that an­y­w­he­re co­uld be na­med an­y­t­hing ex­cept Fe­at­her Mo­un­ta­in and Mag­gie's Cre­ek. But no­body el­se tho­ught that was we­ird, so she ga­ve up on that joke too.

  In the night with the mi­les of blin­ding-sil­ver snow all aro­und it, Fe­at­her Mo­un­ta­in was at le­ast in­te­res­ting, vi­su­al­ly, and may­be even at­trac­ti­ve. The sky was spat­te­red with stars; you co­uld see so many up he­re, down to very dim ones, and the mo­on had not yet ri­sen.

  She cros­sed the last stretch of Fe­at­her Mo­un­ta­in Park on the swo­oping mi­les-wi­de arcs of blac­k­top as the town pop­ped in and out of vi­ew, un­til fi­nal­ly she ca­me over the last low rid­ge just abo­ve the town and the wild spill of stars va­nis­hed in the gla­re on her win­d­s­hi­eld.

  Two blocks of fa­ade-st­y­le bu­il­dings with ste­ep pit­c­hed ro­ofs be­hind the fa­ade, the re­al old-ti­mey pla­ces from when this had be­en a tank town on the nar­row ga­uge. May­be twenty fra­me ho­uses, Se­ars ra­il­ro­ad bun­ga­lows that the re­al es­ta­te pe­op­le now cal­led Vic­to­ri­ans, clus­te­red aro­und tho­se two blocks, and then aro­und that was the usu­al sprawl of alu­mi­num si­ded fa­ke fra­me ho­uses, pre­fabs, and mo­bi­le ho­mes on gra­vel stre­ets. Out on the ed­ge of that di­sor­derly clus­ter, lin­ked to the dow­n­town by the ot­her well-lig­h­ted stre­et, lay a hu­ge so­di­um-gla­ring par­king lot sur­ro­un­ded by Wal-Mart, McDo­nald's, KFC, and Gib­son's; the gla­re il­lu­mi­na­ted the ir­re­gu­lar sprawl of mo­bi­le ho­mes up­hill from the par­king lot.

  Amy's Le­Sab­re shot by the fa­ade row of Ma­in Stre­et. No light on at Mrs. Put­ta­nes­ca's-but what wo­uld you ex­pect at ni­ne o'clock on a Fri­day night?

  She wo­uld ha­ve to ma­ke so­me ti­me for a vi­sit. She hadn't tal­ked with Mrs. P sin­ce the fu­ne­ral.

  Just be­yond the stre­et­lights, as the stars pop­ped back out of the black sky, Amy to­ok the fa­mi­li­ar tur­noff up the ste­ep win­ding ro­ad to The Ca­bin. Over the first hill, down in­to the lit­tle draw among the pi­nes, and the fri­endly dark clo­sed aro­und her; she se­emed to dri­ve in­to that vi­vid spill of stars as she ma­de the long climb up the ma­in hill.

  There we­re se­ve­ral ho­uses back he­re, and she pas­sed them all wit­ho­ut se­e­ing any sign of li­fe. When she ca­me to the dri­ve­way for The Ca­bin-ac­tu­al­ly just a pla­ce whe­re the ro­ad nar­ro­wed and a sign an­no­un­ced that this was now pri­va­te pro­perty rat­her than a pub­lic ro­ad-she was re­li­eved to find that Bar­tie Brown had be­en up the­re with his snow­p­low, sin­ce when she'd known him in high scho­ol he'd only be­en re­li­ab­le abo­ut get­ting be­er. But when she'd tal­ked to him to ar­ran­ge the plo­wing, he'd rat­her shyly sa­id that no­wa­days he had fo­ur trucks and was gro­wing in­to a re­al bu­si­ness, and had as­ked per­mis­si­on to put up one of his ad­ver­ti­sing signs be­si­de her pri­va­te ro­ad.

  She la­ug­hed when she saw his sign; the na­me of his com­pany was How Now Brown Plow. Pos­sibly the­re was mo­re to Bar­tie than she'd re­ali­zed ten ye­ars ago-may­be not be­ing drunk and high all the ti­me had so­met­hing to do with it.

  At The Ca­bin she par­ked in the sa­me spot un­der the bu­ilt-on car­port whe­re she had al­ways par­ked her old VW Bug du­ring high scho­ol, and her red Mi­ata du­ring col­le­ge. "Pla­in old god­dam Amy, ho­me aga­in," she sa­id, alo­ud, but so­me­how it lac­ked the bit­ter­ness and irony she had in­ten­ded. The car do­or ope­ned in­to the ex­pec­ted blast of cold, and she pul­led her duf­fel from the back se­at and sho­ul­de­red it up.

  What was she do­ing he­re?

  The qu­es­ti­on was what she had be­en trying to re­mem­ber. Her who­le re­ason for go­ing up to Fe­at­her Mo­un­ta­in and The Ca­bin had be­en to lo­ok for her so­ul (a big ex­pan­se of vi­vid iri­des­cen­ce, in raw silk, with the most glo­ri­o­us em­b­ro­ide­red ruby-red Va­len­ti­ne he­art at its cen­ter), which she was su­re was so­mew­he­re in one of the elf-craf­ted ce­dar chests along one wall of her bed­ro­om.

  But she had fo­und her so­ul. It was right he­re in her duf­fel. What was she do­ing he­re?

  She had re­ason eno­ugh to want to ta­ke so­me ti­me off, but on­ce she'd fo­und her so­ul, she co­uld ha­ve just tur­ned left on 25, he­aded down to Den­ver or San­ta Fe or even in­to Me­xi­co, or pic­ked up 70 in Den­ver and he­aded to Ve­gas or L.A.

  She still co­uld. If the we­at­her didn't su­it her clot­hes she co­uld just buy clot­hes on the way; her job was to ke­ep her busy and be­ca­use she li­ked sa­ving mo­ney of her own, but she co­uld buy a new war­d­ro­be any ti­me she wan­ted one, she just ne­ver did. She co­uld he­ad to so­mew­he­re sunny and spend the next we­ek in ga­uzy bits of fab­ric that cost mo­re than her first car, in a ho­tel ro­om that cost, for a we­ek, what her apar­t­ment cost for three months, and li­ve on um­b­rel­la drinks and des­serts if she wan­ted. And she just might want.

  No po­int in run­ning the can­yon aga­in, tho­ugh. Not in the dark when she was ti­red. To­mor­row co­uld be anot­her day.

  Inside the front do­or, she fo­und six ti­ed-up gar­ba­ge bags.

  The Fo­un­da­ti­on had sa­id that they had tho­ro­ughly chec­ked Sa­man­t­ha out of the pla­ce, and yet they'd left the­se lying aro­und? She had so­me bo­nes to pick with the ma­na­ger-

  There was a pi­le of dis­hes in the sink, too. Had they not cle­aned up at all, or-

  She ope­ned the ref­ri­ge­ra­tor.

  Fresh milk and fru­it, bo­log­na that co­uldn't ha­ve be­en mo­re than a co­up­le days out of the sto­re.

  There was so­me lit­tle so­und from up­s­ta­irs. She re­ac­hed for her cell pho­ne, tho­ught for a se­cond, and di­aled.

  "Derrick de Zo­os."

  "Derrick, it's me, Amy. I'
m at The Ca­bin, but I want you to stay on the li­ne with me for a lit­tle bit, if you ha­ve ti­me and you can. I think the­re's so­me­one el­se in he­re, squ­at­ting in The Ca­bin."

  " What?! Get the hell out of the­re-"

  "Easy. I think I know who I'm go­ing to find. And it will be fi­ne. I just want you on the li­ne just in ca­se. If so­met­hing do­esn't so­und go­od, call the La­ri­mer Co­unty She­riff and tell them to send a de­puty up he­re, they'll know the pla­ce, but I think it's all fi­ne. I just want a back up plan in pla­ce in ca­se this isn't who I think it is."

  "I don't li­ke you ta­king chan­ces-"

  "And I don't li­ke you be­ing pro­tec­ti­ve, but we'll both ha­ve to li­ve with it. My gu­ess is it's Sa­man­t­ha, and trust me, she's har­m­less. And a fri­end. I just want you on the li­ne in ca­se a co­up­le Te­xas-hun­ter as­sho­les are squ­at­ting in he­re. But I bet it's just Sa­man­t­ha."

  Samantha was a wa­if-thin, tiny, black-ha­ired girl who chur­ned out pic­tu­re bo­ok scripts at a ter­rif­ying ra­te, sho­wing gre­at pro­mi­se wit­ho­ut ever qu­ite sel­ling one.

  Amy car­ri­ed her duf­fel up to her ro­om as a way of tem­po­ri­zing. Sin­ce who­ever was in the ho­use didn't se­em to ha­ve much fur­ni­tu­re, and the only bed was in Amy's ro­om, it se­emed li­ke the pla­ce to lo­ok.

  "What are you do­ing now?"

  "Climbing the sta­irs, Der­rick. Go­ing to the only ro­om with a bed."

  Amy's ro­om, with the fur­ni­tu­re her mot­her had gi­ven her be­fo­re le­aving, and Dad's of­fi­ce we­re the two ro­oms the Fo­un­da­ti­on re­qu­ired to be pre­ser­ved pretty much as they had be­en, tho­ugh Amy's ro­om was a bit ne­ater, and Dad's of­fi­ce phe­no­me­nal­ly ne­ater, than they had be­en when an­yo­ne li­ved the­re. Not to men­ti­on that they had ta­ken down all of Amy's Kurt Co­ba­in pos­ters and dug the Ca­re Be­ars back out of sto­ra­ge.

 

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