On Location

by Elizabeth Sims

  Alger said, "You know I wasn't in on any of it."

  Joey now looked at Alger cuttingly. "But you sure as hell didn't do anything to stop it."

  Alger shook his head. "Too much to ask, dude."

  "Were you the camp scapegoat, Joey?" Daniel asked.

  Alger said, "This was a savage place for boys back then, you know? You don't know. Lance de Sauvenard—what a little cannibal. The parents sent them here to toughen up, but that guy didn't need it. He victimized the counselors. Not a violent guy, necessarily, but a treacherous one."

  Joey Preston cleared his throat. "He wasn't so tough."

  "He got you so mad, though." Alger spoke quietly, persistently, and, Daniel thought, compassionately. He was a different sort of guy. Daniel barely knew him, yet he found himself admiring the Indian in the torn jean jacket.

  Alger said, "Guys got a kick out of how mad you'd get; your face would get—I swear—his face would turn purple, he'd get so mad. A little kid with a Welch's-purple face." He didn't smile.

  "What'd they do to him?" asked Daniel.

  "The madder a guy gets, the funnier it is. You know. Oh, they pushed him into stinging nettles. If there'd been poison oak around here, he would've got pushed into that too. They put ex-lax in his desserts."

  "I'd just as soon not discuss it," said Joey. Blood was rising up his neck.

  But Alger kept going, in his low voice that sounded to Daniel like the voice of a massive tree, if one talked. "How old were we? Twelve, thirteen?" He neither fidgeted with his hands nor twitched his legs, simply sat motionlessly and comfortably. "Lance de Sauvenard had a Polaroid camera, he swiped it from his grandpap or something, and he and some guys rigged the shower, and we knew Joey habitually jacked off in it every chance he got, so it was easy to get pictures of him doing it. Lance rigged it."

  Joey said nothing.

  "The older brother, he was OK; I don't think he got into shit like that anymore. Lance got two really good pictures and he threatened to mail them to a girl in town. Joey had said he liked her, which was a mistake. He was just being honest, trying to get the other guys to take him seriously, but that was—"

  "A big mistake," Joey finished. "How great that your memory's so good." His eyes fixed themselves in the middle distance.

  "Memory's a funny thing," said Alger as if agreeing with Joey about something important. "To keep Lance from sending those pictures, Joey here became Lance's slave. Did everything for him, brought him his food, did his cleaning detail for him. Even the counselors called him Lance de Sauvenard's bitch."

  "Good God," said Daniel, who had had problems of his own on the football bus.

  "Lance promised him he'd give him the pictures on the last day of camp. But he used a stamp and envelope from his parents, got the Grolechs' address from the phone book in the office, and mailed them to Olive Grolech anyway, didn't he, Joey?"

  "I don't remember."

  "He did it as soon as Joey became his slave. So when Joey finds this out, he knows that the whole time he was his slave, Olive already had the pictures. Ah, hey, that was a long time ago."

  "I'd almost forgot the whole thing." The casual smile on Joey's grape-juice purple face looked grotesque.

  "Well, Olive's a deputy now, she married Chip Lawson, then got that divorce. It's rest in peace for Lance now, huh?"

  "Yeah."

  "Daniel here says you guys bumped into each other out at the river gorge."

  "Yeah."

  "Funny coincidence," said Alger Whitecloud patiently.

  "Yeah, it was."

  "And he got in trouble at the edge and you tried to save him."

  "That's what happened, yeah."

  Chapter 27 – Like Ten Thunderclaps

  "Run!" urged George from behind. "Run faster!"

  Kenner and I tore through the undergrowth, dodging trees and leaping logs like rabbits.

  A couple of times George pulled even with me and took my arm to try to boost my speed with his, but I shook him off. Together, over that uneven terrain, it didn't work.

  We came to a place I remembered from our trip in, the stretch of deadfalls: hundreds of yards across, a jumble of colossal pickup sticks ready to shift, roll, and trap an ankle or leg beneath their tonnage.

  We could skirt it again, but it lay directly between us and the log bridge and I didn't want to take the extra time. It was here that my lighter body weight and yoga-fueled agility served me well. This, I thought, is why you do it. Why you work out, why you watch what you eat. So you can leap three-foot-high logs, one after the other, and not lose your balance.

  I scampered ahead of the guys, not lighting on any one log long enough to dislodge it, not slipping far enough down any crevice to catch a foot.

  A long green twig came lashing at my eye as I plunged onward, but my senses were so heightened that my eye snapped shut just in time. Sharp sting on my lid.

  Funny how you get so...acute...at times like this.

  I scrambled and jumped, heedless of anything but speed, glad that I was putting distance between me and the guys—all the guys—because a special job waited at the bridge and I wanted to do it myself.

  I ran faster still, aware of the burning in my lungs but not caring.

  The deadfall zone now behind me, I made it to the river, remembering enough landmarks to know which way to turn to find the log bridge, for somehow I'd strayed from the faint path we'd beaten.

  The huge cedar trunk spanned the chasm. It had been felled from the camp side of the river, and I guess it was about thirty inches in diameter, its adzed surface narrower than that but nice and level, its flimsy railing wobbling uselessly as I dashed the sixty or so feet across.

  I pawed away a cluster of ferns, holding my breath for an anxious second—yes, there it was, just as I'd left it. I uncovered my carefully cached prize, hauled it free, and set it heavily on the ground, each of my movements beginning a split second before the last was finished.

  Its blaze-orange composite engine casing glowed bright against the espresso-brown dirt. I squeezed the safety trigger and flipped the choke full on. The T-shaped starter handle felt just right in my fingers. Forcing myself to calmness, I pulled smoothly. The cylinder gave that satisfying chuggly resistance as it gulped fuel, then I pulled again and the spark fired, and the fucker roared to snarling, timber-chewing life!

  I flipped down the choke and revved the throttle—such an easy saw.

  By the time George and Kenner got to the bridge, I'd begun my top cut.

  To tell you the truth, I didn't know a hell of a lot about felling trees, but I did know how to cut up downed ones. When you've got a log suspended on both ends, you cut out a wedge on top first until it starts to compress.

  George and Kenner zoomed across to me, and I allowed myself a microsecond's worth of pleasure to look up.

  In the dictionary next to the word ecstatic ought to be a picture of George Rowe's face at that moment.

  "Goddamn!" he shouted. "Keep cutting!"

  Seeing my plan, he positioned himself below, ready to take the saw for the final cut.

  I cut a nice big V out of the top of that log, the chips flying. I kicked the wedge out, and it bounded down the gorge's rockface—silently to me, as my ears were filled with the saw's aggressive vvvvrrrrRRRR!

  "Pass it down to me now!" George yelled, extending his hands.

  I glanced toward the woods and saw no one, so I figured there was enough time to do this my way.

  I dropped down to them, the saw still running.

  "Out of my way!" I shrieked.

  It's miraculous how people instinctively shy away from a growling chainsaw manipulated by a woman dressed in raccoon skins. The guys scrambled backward and formed a human chain as I wedged myself between a couple of rocks, George's hand locked on my belt, Kenner holding to a root with his good arm, his legs laced around George's midsection.

  "Here he comes!" Kenner's voice pitched upward in excitement.

  A sudden, total peace came ove
r me as I realized, peeking up to see Bonechopper emerge from the woods and snap his eyes left and right, that I had enough time to finish the cut.

  My hands guided the heavy machine evenly as the fountain of yellow chips gushed on. I felt George's steady knuckles at the small of my back. The job was awkward; the sharp chips sprayed downward into my face, but I shifted position slightly and kept on. The resinous smell of cedar swirled with the acrid exhaust fumes.

  Chainsaws take time to make a big cut; you can't force them. I'd reached to my limit first, starting the cut away from me, so to speak, and drawing the saw ever closer and higher, doing a sort of diagonal thing because the log was wider than the saw was long. A down and dirty way to make a cut, but good enough for the purpose today.

  The log creaked. It was a long creak, a wood-fibers-splitting-down-the-length creak.

  Bonechopper halted as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing.

  "Look who's cutting timber now!" I hollered.

  He decided to chance it. With a samurai-like cry, he launched himself across the bridge, his boots thundering straight at my face.

  As the mighty Stihl reached the conclusion of the cut, the saw moving freer as the volume of wood decreased, a sound like a rifle shot split through all other sounds.

  The log lurched.

  Bonechopper stopped on his heels, perhaps only fifteen feet from me.

  The cut end began to ease clear of the stub. With astonishing agility, he spun and rushed for safety, his boots pounding bam-bam-bam just ahead of the increasing incline.

  He made it to the bank as the last resistance from that end gave up and the whole damn thing plunged into the gorge.

  The sound was like ten thunderclaps piling one on the other, and more terrifying still was how the earth shook in response, as if flinching away from a life-threatening injury.

  Chapter 28 – Think Revenge

  Daniel told Alger Whitecloud, "Kenner or no Kenner, as soon as they get back, we'll get organized and carry these two out."

  "I saw your vehicles." The two men were warming themselves at the fire pit in the mess shelter. They'd scrounged more wood from deadfalls, Alger showing Daniel how to pry chunks of heartwood with a sharp stick. The semi-decayed wood smoked considerably but gave off BTUs.

  "Yeah," said Daniel, "we can get 'em to the washout, and if nothing else, I can cross the river with a safety line and hike to town for help. What's left of town, anyway. Bound to be people around."

  "That's a good plan," said Alger.

  "Yeah, I think so."

  "Except for one thing."

  "What's that?"

  "There's another bad front coming in."

  "There is? I know it's colder, but—" Daniel ducked out to inspect the sky's high, even overcast. "We even had some sun today. How do you know?"

  "Nothing supernatural, believe me; I just know the skies. The feel here. Air pressure's dropping, can't you feel it in your head? The wind's shifted, east wind now, never good. I think we'll get snow tonight. Don't you feel it?"

  Daniel tried to tune himself in. "Yeah, I guess so."

  Alger smiled. "You can't really put your finger on how you know stuff."

  Daniel understood that. It's true, he thought, people read signs without knowing how they read them, or even exactly what they're reading.

  He thought in his own life how, when he and some friends would arrive at his (current) favorite restaurant, the Ironmonger in Beverly Hills, without a reservation, he could tell right away whether they'd get a good table: obvious factors like the number of people crowding the bar, which maitre d' was on duty, the expression on the face of the maitre d' before he caught sight of Daniel, the expression on his face after, his expression once Daniel slipped him a fifty. Then other, more subtle factors such as who was accompanying Daniel—were they industry people or family in for the week from North Carolina? If industry people, were they better known than he? Lesser known? How many limos were nestled at the curb, what's the level of intensity in the bar, is a megastar in Booth One?

  Yes, he could read these countless signs and instantly know whether he and his party would be granted a table, how soon, and if so, whether they'd be seated in Siberia or not.

  How could he do this? Years of experience.

  That's all it ever is.

  ——

  Our old friend ass-kicking rain caught up with us just before we reached camp, a slow spatter that built within five minutes to a lashing storm.

  George said, "I don't like this wind."

  Daniel and Petey joyfully met us as we slogged into camp, Petey wrapping himself around first my legs, then George's. He'd been worried, no doubt about it.

  It was a quarter to five by my watch, a long day for him to have waited.

  Kenner's eyes floated over Petey's head unacknowledgingly, as people often do with children. I remembered being sort of invisible to adults at times myself, which never bothered me; to the contrary, it's an advantage, just one of the very slight edges the world offers children.

  As I was past being surprised at anything, I took Alger Whitecloud's presence here in stride. He and Daniel took Kenner to Badger Cabin to see what they could do for his arm.

  Petey seemed a bit horrified at Kenner's condition. "He's so—like—hollowed out," he whispered to me.

  "He's been through a lot," I said, squatting so I was looking up to his face, under the brim of that hat. I stroked his warm cheek. "When grown-ups have harrowing experiences, they tend to look real tired."

  "What's a harrowing experience?" His blue eyes blinked with earnestness. "Like when we rescued Joey?"

  "Like what he went through waiting for someone to find him."

  Petey paused. "What if we'd gone another way?"

  I shrugged and lied. "He'd still be waiting, I guess."

  "No, Mom, he'd be dead."

  My precious boy.

  He squared himself, and to my minor shock it was exactly how George squared himself: a straightening, a little shoulder roll, then a settling into manly readiness. "I'm hungry," he said.

  The pang I felt was so complex: love, wistfulness, amusement. No question that Petey idolized Daniel, had for years. But a shift was going on: Petey was connecting with George on a cellular level.

  I said, "Everybody's hungry, I think. I'll wash up in a few minutes, then I'll cook up some grub. But I'll need a man to open some cans for me."

  "I'll do it!"

  "Think you're muscular enough?"

  "You bet!"

  "Better check to see if we even have any canned food left. Report back, OK?"

  "OK!"

  Alger Whitecloud came over to talk while Daniel went into the woods to cut some new splints for Kenner. Alger palmed a chunk of wood like a basketball and rolled it into the coals. "Thank you," I said, "for rescuing my sister."

  "You're welcome. Wish I'd done a better job of it and gotten Kenner too." He looked me up and down. "She's your blood sister?"

  "Oh!" I said. "You mean—"

  "What tribe?" A smile crept over his face.

  "Damn, I didn't fool you?" I kicked the dirt. "Is it my face? The skins?"

  "The skins are good! Your color's OK; you could have gone darker, actually. The problem is the way you move, the way you stand."

  "Well, I'm not in character anymore." I settled my face and body to show him, drawing on the spirit of my inner raccoon.

  "That's better," he laughed.

  George came over, followed by Daniel. George and I related what had happened at the outlaw camp and then at the log bridge.

  Daniel looked at me in true horror. "You bashed somebody in the face with that hatchet?"

  "With the flat of it," I corrected. "I didn't use it, you know, in a bone-chopping way."

  Alger said, "If Bonechopper lost you at the river, he'll leave. He doesn't know about the washout, so he'll think we're moving out right now. He's gonna get out via the fire roads, the other side of the mountains, with or without Dendra." He hooke
d his thumb into his braided leather belt. "I have a feeling she's woken up to his real self. Her morality wouldn't win any trophies, though."

  "Yeah?" I prompted, suddenly seeking to feel better about having walloped her.

  "She'd sell her mother for a beer, no kidding. Ehhh—" He made a dismissive sound.

  I said, "So I guess that was one of you guys' chainsaws I found in the shed here."

  "What?"

  "The Stihl. That I found in the shed."

  Alger rubbed his back against one of the mess shelter's corner supports, a peeled log almost as wide as he was. "That can't be one of Bonechopper's."

  "Why not? It's got to be."

  "We've never used this camp. Too far from the road, too hard to get logs out. We've never used it."

  "Oh."

  "Plus he only uses Huskies."

  "Oh."

  "That's a mystery."

  Indeed it was.

  Daniel and Alger returned to Badger Cabin to treat Kenner's arm.

  I dipped a pot of water from the lake and went to one of the unused cabins. I stripped, shivering like mad, my breath puffing white even here, indoors. My native skin tone came off fairly well with my bandanna as a scrubber. I gave myself a quick all-over wash with the icy water, shivering until my lips were going buh-buh-buh-buh. I combed water through my hair with my fingers; a real shampoo would have to wait. A Camp Saskee-wee-wit shirt served as a towel, and it felt so great to rub my head hard with it. I hung it on a bunk rail, looking around the room, feeling the boy-energy that somehow lingered there.

  I put my normal clothes on. Since the raccoon-pelt vest added wonderfully to my warmth, I donned it again. My belt kept the tails from flopping annoyingly as I returned to the fire pit.

  Petey touched the fur, unsure whether it was appropriate garb for his mom or not.

  A sharp cry issued from Badger Cabin. Petey clutched my pelt.

  "It's OK, honey; I think Daniel and Alger just put Kenner's arm to rights."

  Indeed they had. About twenty minutes later a pale Kenner, his arm strapped in a cloth sling, was helped through the rain to the kitchen cabin by Alger, while Daniel came over to us.

  "Kenner'll be OK," he said. "Alger, he was a medic in the service, he took that arm and said, 'I'm gonna give ya the old one-two, Kenner,' and he went ca-ruunch! and there it was, straight as Vince Devereaux."