A handful of lake gravel served to buff the rust off the hatchet head, then I honed it roughly by rubbing the edge, both sides, on a flat, wet stone. The good old hickory handle was in good shape, and the head was solid on it. We weren't gonna cut paper with it.
I strapped my tooled leather cowboy belt—good and sturdy; do I know how to pack for a camping trip or what?—over the shirts, and stuck the hatchet in at my hip. The belt also served to anchor the raccoon tails. I jammed my rain hat over my hair to protect the color from rinsing out in the drizzle, and went to find George.
The difference between simply wearing a costume, as Petey did on Halloween—little boy dressed up as tough guy grubbing candy—and living your role is the difference between playing hopscotch and deciding you're going to qualify for the Olympic track team. You must give yourself utterly to your new persona and be willing to do whatever you have to do to achieve your goal: in my case, getting a murderous bunch of crackers to believe I was a mute half-breed Indian of indeterminate origin.
The weight and suppleness of the pelts over my shoulders, hugging my waist, felt good. Having lost my jacket in the river, I needed the warmth. Moreover, I felt—armored. Armored against the elements, armored against a knife slash, armored against the reality of my own little duplicitous personality.
My reasoning was this: I knew, of course, that today's Native Americans dressed in modern clothes, but I also knew that sometimes they put on regalia. I knew nothing of the local Indians' tradition in this regard, but I also knew that just like other cultures, the Native population had to harbor its share of eccentrics. If a female Indian tracker wanted to wear pelts over her modern clothes, by the Great Spirit, she would.
As George studied the map, I closed my eyes and thought for a minute. "Let the threads give it to you," a wise TV director had once told me. Yeah. I squared my shoulders and flattened my face by letting all my facial muscles droop. I let my eyelids hood my eyes, which I kept sharp and quick.
I realized George had been watching me, incredulous but not daring to raise any objections. He did say, "You remember Gina said this Alger had a ponytail. D'you think any of these people could be Indian?"
"Meaning, maybe they'll see through me?"
"Yeah."
I laughed. "Because I have zero firsthand knowledge of being part Indian?"
"Yeah. What's so funny?"
"Now you're the one assuming that life is like the movies. Where I'll make some misstep, some tiny blunder, and they'll realize I'm faking being an Indian and set upon us with their chainsaws?"
"Well—yeah."
I faced him. The morning was actually, unbelievably, brightening. The drizzle eased off, not having turned to sleet. It was still damn cold. I hadn't seen the sun clearly in a week. Weeks? I felt an odd inner vibe and realized I was apprehensive of the sun hitting me in the face with no curtain of clouds mitigating it.
"This is going to be a quick situation," I explained. "I'm not going to engage in some discourse about native American legends and folkways, nor BIA politics or anything like that. I'm barely even gonna talk. I don't even know the names of the tribes around here, let alone what pelts are appropriate to wear after Labor Day. But I do know this: the Indians made it up as they went along. There was no central database. If some women were weaving cloth like they always did for three generations, and the matriarch said one day, 'Hey, from now on we're going to put a red stripe down the middle,' they did it. Things changed."
"How do you know the Indians made it up as they went along?"
"Because EVERYBODY makes it up as they go along!" His face got this faraway look like he was hearing a new sound. He said nothing.
"It's you," I added, "who's gonna get unmasked."
"Yeah."
And so here we were now, with the crazy idiots Gina had escaped from, who might still be harboring Kenner. No sign of him in the clearing, except in the eyes of the logger chick, which shifted uphill once or twice.
Chapter 25 – Bonechopper in Control
I had thought that George's boorish-ornithologist act would last a bit longer than it did. Well, it lasted long enough for these two individuals to introduce themselves to us in return.
George experienced a slight lapse. "Your name's Bonechopper?" he asked incredulously. "Your name is Bonechopper?"
"What's your problem with it?" He lit a cigarette, blowing the smoke toward us in a plume that whirled upward with the wind. The woman was smoking already.
George cleared his throat. "Well, it's just that I've never heard the nickname before."
"Yeah, it's short for Bonechopper of People Who Bug Me."
"Ah," laughed George, "good one!"
I studied this couple. First impressions take barely a moment, but you don't need a hell of a lot more time to form a pretty thorough second one.
As I gazed with my half-lidded, half-breed eyes, I reviewed what I knew about them: they were "renegade loggers," according to Gina, which I gathered didn't mean the same thing as wildcatters; they were wood thieves. Given the amounts of money that must be involved to make such a miserable line of work rewarding, we were talking offenses on the order of felony, as well as trespassing, malicious destruction of property, un-ecological camping habits, and God knew what else.
Heavy enough. Now add kidnapping. Before I began studying law, I thought kidnapping meant snatching somebody from their regular habitat, taping their mouth shut, and dragging them off to a secret location.
But I learned in first-year law that kidnapping simply means holding a person against his or her will. Therefore, you can kidnap somebody in their own house. In California, kidnapping was just short of a capital offense.
So these wood crooks had turned into people crooks, based on the opportunity presented to them by the happenstance of running into some Sauvenards in the woods.
They had been quarreling hard. The woman, who had just called herself Dendra—what a weird name, appropriate for here; weren't dendrites plant parts?; hey, I'm studying law, not biology—realized she'd given me a clue by glancing uphill, and now she trained her stare resolutely at George and me, back and forth. The skin on her face was pale and saggy, the mark of a heavy smoker. She held her cigarette cupped under her hand, as if keeping it dry, even though the drizzle had subsided. Force of habit.
From those initial apprehensive glances, I sensed that Kenner was not dead. If they'd killed him, they'd have buried him or otherwise disposed of his body, and they'd be out of these woods.
So it was good that we were all here together, and at the same time it was bad that we were all here together.
Dendra was defiant but scared. It appeared to me that while she might have the stomach for casual cruelty, whatever they'd done to Kenner had challenged her threshold. But she wasn't ready to bail. She wasn't a quitter; she wasn't the type to suddenly see the light and repent, join the Tupperware sales force.
She was the type that considered quitting anything tantamount to failure. A stubborn streak, that was it. Gosh, yeah, the not-able-to-let-go-of-the-plan-or-your-man no matter how to hell things are sliding—that was a combo I realized led to a whole lot of grief in this world.
In short, there wasn't going to be a wedge into Dendra. I saw her sizing me up just like I was her. What did she see? A part-time Hollywood actress and full-time law student dressed up like she'd just crawled out of a rotting log?
No, it was clear from Dendra's worried bafflement that I had her fooled; I had both of them fooled. She was trying to figure me out at the level of how dangerous is this Indian, rather than is this person an Indian in the first place? I swelled my chest confidently against my raccoon pelts and spread my feet slightly farther apart. I worked to project intelligent savagery.
As for Bonechopper, I knew him too: a marrow-bred badass who'd recognized the Sauvenard name and seen opportunity in it, just add water. And violence.
How could I tell these things? Their postures, for one. Pure defiance, pure self-justification, ch
ins out, Dendra's inclined slightly toward Bonechopper—and their eyes. The eyes always reveal how much people need from you, and how much of themselves they're trying to hide. Dendra was trying to hide her greed, and for some reason needed me to believe it. A shred of shame, I guess. The instant she'd seen us, she'd frozen in place, her knees locked, a posture most women believe is strong but actually betrays tension as well as being useless for action.
Bonechopper's legs were slightly flexed, his arms at his sides, fingers curled. As well, he had turned slightly, so that his body was side-on to us: a male's unconscious reaction to an anticipated threat—the body side-on is a smaller target than full-on. Bonechopper didn't give a fuck about us, her, or anybody else. Up close, he was a scraggly guy in a filthy work jacket.
You learn a lot about body language and psychology in acting school, and then if you want to get good you learn more on your own. Moreover, acting self-selects avid students of the human condition.
I felt my heart accelerate as George talked with Bonechopper.
"I sense you two would be just as happy being by yourselves," George said, "and believe me, I can appreciate that! Truly!" He leered at me, then grinned to Bonechopper. "Truly, I can!"
He was so unconsciously good. People use extraneous words when they feel weak or insecure.
George babbled about birds and field counts, making up species like the spruce warbler and the "mullet-headed lesser heron," which almost made me break character.
"We'll be moving right along," George said, turning uphill, where Dendra had first glanced. But quickly, his timing perfect so that they had an instant to feel sudden panic but not react, he turned back to them. "But first, I wonder if I might ask you, have you seen any ravens around here this morning?" Bonechopper answered slowly, "Seen 'em and heard 'em. Down by the river," he added, flipping his cigarette butt. "That way."
Dendra flipped her stub too. "Lots of 'em! That way."
"Ah! Thank you! Lastly, any, ah, hummingbirds today? I ask because I'm studying a particular species—"
"Which one?" interrupted Bonechopper.
"The, ah, the red-tailed."
"You mean the rufous?"
"Yes, yes!"
Bonechopper's eyes narrowed like a lion's. "I oughta just shoot you now."
"Oh, do it later, later," said George, as if he thought Bonechopper was joking, also during the short course of that sentence dropping from batty scientist to defeated trickster. He hung his head. "No such thing as a rufous hummingbird, right?"
"Sure there is," Bonechopper told him. "But I do know that all the hummingbirds are in Mexico this time of year. They only come around in the summer. My aunt used to have a feeder."
Bonechopper wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, dragging it through his beard. "Them other kinds you said, I never heard of. What a stupe to come in here like that," he jeered, as George dropped his head even further in chagrin.
Then George looked up at Bonechopper calmly, all George now.
"I think you can guess why we're here."
I watched Bonechopper process that, and it didn't take long.
He drew a gun from his coat, a hulking black semiautomatic, the same as he'd waved about yesterday at the riverbank. This time the slide was not locked open and empty.
He leveled the barrel at George's belly.
Because George was within striking distance—barely—I knew that he could disarm Bonechopper if he wanted to. Intellectually I knew that, but my adrenaline spiked as if we'd just stepped on twin cobras.
Without hurrying his speech, George said, "We brought the money."
Dendra inhaled audibly. Bonechopper stood still for many seconds, staring at us.
"Get down," he commanded at last, gesturing with his gun.
"No," said George, "I'm not going to hit the dirt for you. I'm unarmed."
"Where's the money?"
"Not on us."
"How did you find us?" Dendra was stunned.
"I know how," said Bonechopper, looking at me.
"How?"
George jerked his thumb at me. "She guided me here."
Dendra stared at me, really taking a look now at this backwoods Indian.
"Look," said George. "Mrs. de Sauvenard is nobody's fool. You think she's just gonna drop off a million-two in somebody's trash can? Which, by the way, is underwater."
"What?" Dendra's afternoon was not getting off to a good start.
"Yeah, the whole town of Harkett's flooded. The houses are submerged up to the satellite dishes. Above that, some of them."
"What about the people?"
"I guess," George responded, "the authorities either got them out or gave them swimming lessons."
Bonechopper's gun twitched.
With experience, I've learned that any situation involving a firearm heightens the senses.
As this conversation went on, I heard the distant spirit-rattle of a raven, as well as the pointillistic chips of tiny brown wren-looking things that darted in and out of the bushes.
"My mom's there," Dendra said. "In Harkett. She's getting up there."
"I'm sure the neighbors helped her," said George.
"The neighbors hate her," said Dendra.
"I'm sure that wouldn't make any difference at a time like this."
"You don't know the neighbors. She might be dead." Her eyes were speculative, looking into a future without her mother. "She might be dead at last." A smile crept to her lips, which she quickly pressed away.
Bonechopper said, "She was supposed to keep an eye on that can in the alley. You guys didn't drop the money there before the water rose, did you?" The corners of his eyes were deeply creased.
"Of course not," said George. "It's safe."
"You brought all of it?"
"You asked for 'one point two million,' right?"
"Right."
"Well, that's how much I brought. Do you know how much a million-two in hundreds weighs?"
Bonechopper shook his head.
Dendra licked her lips.
"Twenty-five pounds. Who wants to hump that much deadweight through these woods? The money's under armed guard in Chelming." A town name I didn't recognize, but our new friends seemed to. "I have the authority to release it to you once Kenner de Sauvenard is in a safe situation. My name really is Tom Webber," he added, "and I'm a professional abduction negotiator."
"Yeah?" said Dendra, impressed.
"Shut up," said Bonechopper reflexively.
Dendra said, "Really, how did you find us? You must have run into—"
"Shut up!" Bonechopper told her fiercely. "Shut your goddamn face!"
"Run into who? We haven't seen anybody except you two since we left Harkett." George flicked his thumb toward me. "Mary Two Loons found you. I've known her for years. She can find anybody in the woods. And she's led me straight here."
Bonechopper and Dendra glanced at me with respectful puzzlement, as well as the veiled fear a proper witch should command.
"Now I need to see Kenner," said George in a businesslike tone.
"Bring the money first," countered Bonechopper.
"You want some of it right now?"
"Yeah!"
"I'm gonna open my coat, OK?"
Bonechopper shifted his weight, kept his gun on George's stomach. "OK." His finger, I saw, was squeezing the trigger tightly, so the safety must be on. I guess the guy knew himself pretty well.
George drew a banded packet of currency from his coat. "That's five thousand." He tossed the packet at Bonechopper's feet. It hit the toe of his black, scuffed logging boot and lay there, pristinely, on the ground. A packet of hundred-dollar bills looks as natural in the forest as a sequined cocktail dress.
Bonechopper kept his gun pointed at George, but he did glance down at the money with the same pride as if it were a record fish he'd just landed.
Dendra snatched it up. "It feels real," she told her man. "Smells real." She handed it to Bonechopper, who hefted it in his hand—a brief
caress—and put it inside his black-and-white plaid coat. The white squares were stained with filth, especially in front, probably from chainsaw grease.
George had gained some trust by not flipping the packet of money into Bonechopper's face and trying to grab the gun, which Bonechopper had been ready for.
Now the forest ape-man patted his coat where he'd stowed the money and said, "OK."
A lovely pair, they were.
"Why did you pretend to be a bird guy?" asked Dendra, lighting a fresh cigarette with a yellow plastic lighter. White nail polish, what a trip. The lines on her fingers were black with forest schmutz.
"I wasn't sure you were the people we were looking for. Rather than be confrontational, I thought we'd just try to have a look around first."
Dendra exhaled a huge lungful of smoke. "I hate confrontation."
"Come on," said Bonechopper.
Judging by how intently they were trying to act casual, I doubted either of them had seen that much cash at one time.
We all hiked a short distance uphill, into thicker forest, George and I following Dendra, with Bonechopper last. He had put his gun back inside his coat.
George had told me stories of the miracles he'd seen a banded stack of hundreds do, but I'd thought he was exaggerating.
Silly me.
Kenner was sitting limply at the base of a cedar. He must have done some problematic yelling, because his mouth was covered with a strip of duct tape. Wire cable encircled his body and bound it to the tree about a foot and a half in diameter. His hands were in front of him, wrists circled with duct tape.
He was wearing his bright-blue hiking jacket, and I tried to figure out which arm they'd broken, for Gina had told us about that, but I couldn't.
"Turn him loose," said George, as I began to slowly stalk around the tree, to see how the cable was fastened. Any kind of cable is stronger than rope, but this looked quite thin. Quite doable.
Kenner's eyes were sunken, and his skin, always very pale, looked wax-white. I remembered him at Griffith Park, having so much fun, his body vibrating with intensity about his picture, that sewing-machine leg of his bouncing up and down as he sat on the picnic table. Now he was worn-out physically and at the end of his emotional rope. What goes through your mind when you're taken hostage? I couldn't imagine.
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