6 The Wedding

by Melanie Jackson

  Max came slowly. It occurred to me that he might not have ever seen a child before and was probably as equally fascinated by the encounter.

  “Nice doggie,” Ricky said, perhaps a little doubtfully. My wolf is rather large.

  Max did something then that I had never seen him do to anyone else. He licked the boy’s cheek. Ricky began to giggle and he reached out a hand to pet Max who, though sitting, was still taller than the boy.

  “I bet someone needs some hot chocolate,” Judy said after a moment. She touched Ricky’s hair and he grinned up at her. She had gotten some of her color back and sounded normal.

  I was saying prayers of thanks that this kid, who had every right and reason to be upset, was so calm. We were very accepting of people who had run out of options and found their way to us, but this had been a shock to everyone and Judy especially would probably need a while to recover. The child’s calm was a help.

  “With marshmallow?” Ricky asked and then yawned again.

  “Of course with marshmallow,” Judy said and offered her hand. Ricky took it like it was the most natural thing in the world and I suddenly felt sure that everything would be fine.

  I wished very much that I had a way to talk to Chuck. This felt like a moment that I should share with him.

  * * *

  Sasha pulled on the oars which screeched in their rusty oar locks but managed to dig into the choppy water, delivering a tiny surge of progress to the bobbing dingy.

  It was early morning and Horace sat huddled in the back of the boat, holding his parka and scarf tight against a stiff wind while rocking to the rhythm of their slow progress. He hadn’t expected to be roused so early, but once Sasha was at the cabin, there had been nothing to do but get dressed and head out with the brooding Russian.

  On the floor of the slight craft sat their latest creation, their pride and joy—a rocket nearly a full meter in length. The slender white cylinder had a pointed black tip at one end and four black fins attached to the other. Sasha had painted the initials CCCP in red along its side as a joke for old time’s sake. The pyrotechnic inventors had borrowed their diminutive dingy from Big John in the hope of trying out their latest firework without causing personal injury or property damage.

  “I still don’t think it’s fair that now the town will only allow us to set off our fireworks in the middle of the lake,” Horace grumbled.

  “In Mother Russia, we have saying,” Sasha replied. “The one who does not row does not complain.”

  Sasha had been in a contemplative mood all morning and Horace was wondering if he should ask what was wrong. It’s what Chuck would do. Instead Horace remained silent and shivering during the remainder of their trip to the center of the lake. Once there, excitement reinvigorated him and he was able to pull his hands from his pockets and face down the wind and cold like a young boy at play. While Sasha removed the oars from their locks and stored them in the bottom of the boat, Horace rubbed his cold hands together in excited anticipation.

  “This is going to be great,” he exclaimed.

  “Calm down, my capitalist friend,” Sasha cautioned, though he was beginning to smile. “Remember last time?”

  Horace’s eyes went wide at this warning and he settled down. No one wanted a repeat of their last disaster; but then again, what could go wrong in the middle of a lake?

  While they bobbed on the relatively calm surface of the water, Sasha and Horace set to assembling their sophisticated launch gantry. The gantry, made of stripped saplings and tree branches, was designed to hold the rocket upright in preparation for the launch. They assembled it in the center of the boat using pieces of twine to hold the struts and crossbeams in place. By the time they were done, they’d constructed a meter-high tower which would secure the rocket in place before takeoff.

  Sasha lifted the rocket from the floor of the boat and gave it a kiss. He then held it out so that Horace could do the same. He slid the rocket into place in the center of the launch gantry and adjusted the fuse at the bottom so that it was easily accessible.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  “Ready,” Horace confirmed.

  Horace flipped open his lighter with his thumb and spun the flint wheel. The lighter ignited. He protected the gentle flame from the wind using his free hand and touched it to the tip of the fuse. The fuse sparked to life and began to sizzle toward the rocket’s engine. Sasha and Horace stepped back as far as the tiny boat would allow.

  There was a sputter before the engine ignited and the full force of the burning propellant was released. Flames and smoke shot across the floor of the boat to lick at the dancing feet of the rocket engineers. The rocket tried to take off but one of the fins was held in place by a broken strut on the launch gantry. Eventually the flaming beast tore itself free of its constraints and flew skyward.

  “There she goes,” Horace announced with a smile.

  Sasha was too busy extinguishing the smoldering cuffs of his jeans to comment.

  The rocket continued high into the sky and then began to arc toward shore. It was only then that the launch crew, who was left standing in the boat, noticed that the strong breeze had shifted toward the town of McIntyre’s Gulch not half a kilometer away. The slow steady arc of smoke from their explosive projectile continued to soar in the direction of town and then banked down into a steep descent.

  “Oh no,” Sasha said, finally free to look up. “Not again. God is malevolent.”

  The two men watched in horror as the rocket crashed into the roof of the Lonesome Moose and exploded. Pieces of shingle and broken boards flew in all directions. The only upside was that the fuel had spent itself and there appeared to be no fire.

  “Crap,” Horace declared.

  “Lots of crap,” Sasha agreed.

  Horace stood with his arms crossed, shivering against the cold. It was then that he noticed that his feet were particularly cold. Looking down, he saw gentle waves of water lapping against his boots. Then he noticed that the rocket had burned a fair-size hole in the bottom of their fiberglass craft.

  “Quick, Sasha, we’re sinking!” Horace noted.

  Sasha looked down to see the water flowing freely into their boat. Frantically, he slotted the oars into their locks and started rowing for shore. The boat sank only twenty meters from the beach, requiring the two men to swim the last leg.

  No one at the Lonesome Moose was happy to see the two wet and freezing aerospace engineers as they entered the debris-strewn tavern to warm themselves before the fire.

  “You’re just lucky my daughter isn’t here, eh,” Big John said. “And you can start fixing the roof after breakfast.”

  “Sure,” Horace agreed quickly.

  Big John started for the kitchen and then added, “And you owe me a boat.”

  * * *

  The tripwire having been tripped, the trap sprang out of the dirt not three meters from where the Mountie was standing. Chuck’s breath caught in his throat in the expectation of being pierced through the throat by an arrow or knife, sent twirling through the air at the head of a massive blast, or at the very least having his leg bitten off by a bear trap. Instead, a metal plate launched itself upright out of the ground to stand before Chuck’s face. On it, someone had attached a crudely painted sign.

  Bang!

  You

  Are

  Dead

  Chuck felt his body begin to shake. He could no longer control his muscles. He could no longer remain standing. He sat down hard in the middle of the road, dropping his rifle in the dirt. Anatoli rushed to his side. Chuck was just thankful that when he’d heard the sound of the trap being sprung his sphincter had slammed shut instead of wide open. His guts roiled in his belly all the same.

  “Mountie, you are alright,” Anatoli said.

  Chuck wasn’t sure whether his partner was expressing an observation, perhaps a confidence builder, or asking a question. He opted to interpret it as a question.

  “I’m fine. I just need to sit for a bit while
I regain control of myself.”

  The shaking eventually subsided. The Mountie pushed off the ground and teetered to his feet. Anatoli held on to his arm to steady him until he stood upright. At a nod of the head from Chuck, Anatoli released the arm and Chuck remained standing rock solid.

  “What now?” Anatoli asked.

  “We keep on going,” Chuck replied.

  The men continued down the street, stopping off to check the other cabins to either side of the road along the way. They found nothing else of interest in town, only the aftermath of old Woody’s earlier rampage. During their winding course to the church they managed to set off three more booby traps. Each was much like the first, with the exception of the last trap which actually was tied to a tiny explosive charge. By the time the men stood before the double doors of the old church at the end of town, their nerves were spent.

  “I do not know how much more I want to take. This smells of insanity,” Anatoli said as they considered the building.

  The Mountie could see that there was light coming from inside. The light was pouring through the wide seams around each door. The light presented itself as an orange glow, as if the church might be on fire. Then the Mountie heard a voice. A single man was speaking, or rather orating, as if before an enraptured audience. The Mountie grabbed the handle of one door, Anatoli the other. At a silent signal between them, they threw the doors wide and stepped into the church with their rifles at the ready.

  “… besides, the Mounties are never going to come,” a man dressed in dusty bib overalls and standing behind a simple altar declared.

  “Royal Canadian Mounted Police, Inspector Chuck Goodhead,” Chuck declared in his most authoritative tone. “Everyone remain seated and don’t move.”

  Of course, all the people moved, spinning in their pews to see who it was. Half the people jumped from their seats. Fully half of those now standing were armed. Fortunately, the Mountie’s initial words and bright red parka with sleeve insignia saved everyone from what could have easily become a bloodbath.

  “Who are you people?” Chuck asked, releasing the trigger on his rifle and pointing the barrel toward the ceiling.

  “The citizens of Soda Springs,” answered the man behind the altar. “Who are you?”

  By this time, half the firearms in the room had been either pointed away in a harmless direction or reholstered.

  “I’m Chuck Goodhead, RCMP,” he repeated. This prompted the other half of the firearms to be dealt with safely. “What are you doing in here?”

  “Deciding what to do with the madman we have tied up at the other end of town. What are you doing here?”

  “I’m here looking to subdue and arrest Mr. Woody Sykes.”

  “It’s about time!” someone declared from the congregation of about thirty.

  “Who do you think we have tied up at the other end of town, eh?” demanded the man in bib overalls.

  The Mountie and Anatoli exchanged thoughtful glances. In unison they reached behind their backs and each pushed open a door to the church. They looked down the street toward the other end of town. There was a man dressed only in long johns dancing in the middle of the dirt track. He was holding up his clothes in one fist and a whisky bottle in the other. He was cackling at them and screaming obscene oaths. As they watched, the old man danced off into the woods, never to be seen again by humankind.

  * * *

  I worked all morning on my dress and was relieved when the Flowers arrived, giving me an excuse to put it away. I learned to sew out of self-defense, but I sure didn’t enjoy it.

  “How’s Ricky?” I asked, getting up to make tea.

  “Better than I am,” the Flowers admitted. “I’m going to head down to Seven Forks in a bit and see about getting him some clothes. Dad’s going to watch him.”

  The Flowers didn’t need to add that Ricky wasn’t joining her because we were going to be keeping very quiet about his presence, at least for a while. The kid was probably going to end up being homeschooled.

  “Did he tell you any more about what happened?” I asked, breaking an unwritten rule of privacy. I figured that we were going to need to know the basics of Ricky’s story so we didn’t say or do something to upset the kid or put him in danger.

  “A little. The Snake had been dating my neighbor, encouraging her to look after Ricky while he was doing business.” The Flowers’ tightening face told me the business wasn’t legal and probably dangerous. “I guess it all finally caught up with him. Thank God Vanessa kept Gavin’s number and that he was willing to bring Ricky to Canada for me. I just wish that I had been given some warning. I don’t have anything for him—no clothes, no cereal, no toys.”

  “You will in a few hours,” I said calmly, thinking that this Gavin had to be a very close friend to risk transporting a minor across borders. “Ricky’s from the States?” I asked, setting out mugs.

  “Yes, Los Angeles.”

  This surprised me. I knew that the Flowers had been down south, but not all the way to California.

  “The Snake isn’t a US citizen,” the Flowers said, watching the mug and not me as I poured water into the teapot. “He isn’t … isn’t lots of things. But he’s beautiful and charming. So beautiful that it took me a while to realize what he truly is.” She stopped, searching for words. “There were no warnings—not that I saw. He doesn’t rattle—just strikes out. Never at Ricky—he loves the kid—but everyone else….”

  I nodded. Lucifer had been beautiful too.

  “I don’t know why I was so blind to what he was, but I was blind. Completely sightless. Until he hit me.”

  I understood and murmured sympathetically. Some attraction is primordial and even reptiles can be appealing. Until they bite.

  “The pain woke me up quick enough. I saw everything very clearly after that and got out.”

  Pain serves an important purpose. And it isn’t pointless unless you fail to learn from it. The Flowers had gotten the message and left.

  It couldn’t have been easy though, especially leaving Ricky. But life in the Gulch prepares you to do hard things, to make decisions without a lot of emotion getting in the way. We haven’t much scope for melodrama here. We are too close to the edge of extinction to act like we are in an opera.

  “Ricky’s mom was still alive then. I told myself that she would look after him….”

  “It was her place,” I agreed.

  “But she died last year. A car accident. And with Ricky’s mother being dead now, and his father an illegal alien, I don’t know what would have happened to him if Gavin hadn’t gotten him away. The system isn’t the greatest for dealing with orphan kids.”

  “I know,” I said and then stopped there. This wasn’t the time to tell stories about my own messed-up childhood. “But he isn’t orphaned. He has you and Big John. And he has all of us.”

  The Flowers’ face finally eased.

  “It will be okay, won’t it? We can keep him safe.”

  “Of course,” I said firmly, pouring out tea. “The Snake is in jail. And if he does get out … he doesn’t know how to find you?”

  “No. I covered my trail when I left. Vanessa might tell someone about Gavin if she isn’t bright enough to leave town for a while herself, but he won’t talk. Gavin is … an entrepreneur and spends a lot of time in Mexico. He wants no official entanglements. I suspect it may be a while before he’s back in California, or even in the States.”

  “Then everything is fine.”

  “Thanks. I needed to hear someone say that. I’ve been imagining all kinds of horrible things—but what could happen to Ricky here?”

  “Nothing, not with the whole town looking after him.”

  “So, do you think the Mountie will be back in time to hunt for the wedding feast?”

  I shrugged. It was in the lap of the gods.

  Chapter 3

  Sasha and Horace were working clandestinely on their fireworks display in an old shed they’d cleared out behind the Lonesome Moose. They
’d spent the morning on the roof of the tavern repairing the huge hole produced by their failed rocket experiment. They were now exhausted but also excited by the task at hand. While Horace worked on the shorter rockets for the pinwheels, Sasha was painting the long tubes for what they now referred to as their CCCP Specials. They worked in secrecy since Big John had forbidden them to build or set off any more fireworks within a hundred kilometers of town. Both their heads turned when they heard the wooden door of the shed creak open.

  Standing in the doorway, wearing a worn and dirty parka that was so big it looked like a full-length dress, was a little boy no older than six. His hair was bright red, identifying him as a potential Gulcher. His eyes were wide, glued to the rockets that each man held in his hand. Wow, the boy’s expression said without the need of a voice to express his thoughts. Sasha and Horace exchanged glances.

  “Who are you?” Horace asked bluntly.

  “Ricky,” the boy replied timidly.

  Though the boy had answered Horace’s question directly, he had failed to answer the question Horace had actually meant to ask. Horace tried again. Kids had never been his thing. His wife had always looked after Chuck.

  “Where did you come from?”

  “The stork brought me,” the boy said.

  “A stork brought you here to the Gulch?”

  “No. To a hospital in Los Angeles,” the boy corrected.

  “He is child of Judy’s.…” Words failed Sasha. “He is a stepson of the Flowers. The Wings brought him last night.”

  “I see,” Horace said.

  “Best you get out,” Sasha added gruffly. “Is not safe work for a child.”

  “Wait just a second. Don’t be hasty,” Horace corrected, holding up a hand. “After all, we don’t want little mouths telling stories out of turn.”

  Sasha considered Horace’s point and nodded his head in agreement. Horace set his project aside and went to the door to kneel before Ricky.

  “What do you want, Ricky?” he asked.