Burning Bright

by Nick Petrie

  The Yeti didn’t fuck around.

  Peter followed June back to the truck and drove through the gate, the gearshift solid in his hand. “We’re not closing that gate behind us,” she said with a grim look.

  “You’re the boss,” he said.

  “You’re goddamned right.” She put her hand on his arm.

  “Tell me how you see this going from here,” he said.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t have a plan past right now.”

  “Well, hell,” he said, patting her hand. “Why should you be any different?”

  48

  The landscape opened up before them and they drove into a beautiful little teardrop-shaped valley, maybe three miles long and a mile and a half wide at its bottom, with steep granite ridges like parapet walls, hemlocks and cedars on their lower slopes. The river wandered wide and slow down the middle from a high waterfall at the valley’s top.

  Peter overlaid the view with the map in his head, trying to find the features June had drawn at lunch the day before. He found the rocky outcrop on the far left, jutting out above a series of mature orchards. You could see the whole valley from there. The rows of gnarled fruit trees were punctuated by frame structures and a few open meadows. On the other side of the river was the flattest part of the valley where the river had flooded over the centuries and left rich bottomland dirt. Neat fields lay fallow and muddy, waiting for the tractor. Up the road was a cluster of funky-looking greenhouses that June hadn’t put on the map, and a few big structures he couldn’t quite make out. Dark dots smaller than people moved at the margins, maybe calves or newly shorn sheep, grazing.

  If you ignored the giant steel gate, it looked just like a nice little agricultural operation.

  No checkpoints, no machine-gun towers. No black Ford Explorers, no steely-eyed troops with automatic weapons. No security at all that Peter could see.

  No evidence that anything was other than it seemed.

  Except for the road. After the steel bridge, Peter had thought the road would revert to dirt. But it turned to concrete and became flat and arrow-straight, a single lane that ran almost the full length of the valley. The concrete alone would have cost hundreds of thousands of dollars. Not to mention the labor, the surveying and bulldozer work, two hundred dump trucks full of gravel. A million-dollar road, at a minimum.

  “Where does the money come from?” asked Peter.

  “I don’t know,” said June. “When I lived here, everything in the valley was old and beat-up and held together with duct tape. He always lived like every nickel was his last. But this road is sure new. And straight. It looks like a runway, don’t you think?”

  Peter nodded. That thought had already occurred to him.

  It was late morning, after eleven o’clock.

  He stepped on the gas and headed up the road. Toward the Yeti’s house and laboratory.

  A few figures moved in the orchard, maybe suckering branches or fertilizing. They paused in their work to watch the truck pass. Farther on he saw the partially framed skeleton of a house rising above the tops of the apple trees. The whine of a circular saw and the irregular pop-pop-pop of nail guns sounded faintly through the open windows. A few more low buildings were tucked into the trees, white-painted and steep-roofed like old farmhouses, links in a wide-spaced irregular chain leading toward the head of the valley.

  Halfway to the waterfall, they came to the group of greenhouses. They were simple A-frames covered with sheet plastic to collect and retain the heat of the sun. Inexpensive to build, they would shed any snow that might fall. The shorn sheep turned out to be goats of all sizes and colors, nibbling at weeds growing in the margins. A slender young man turned a compost heap with a pitchfork, revealing rich black soil at the bottom. He looked up as the truck approached.

  Outside the largest greenhouse, someone had parked a rusty red cargo tricycle, the two wide-set front wheels holding a platform between them. The platform carried assorted five-gallon buckets and gardening tools. “Stop the car, stop right here,” said June, and Peter hit the brakes.

  June was out of the truck before it stopped rolling. “Hey, Sally?” she called, walking toward the greenhouse with the tricycle. “Sally Sanchez, you in there?”

  The greenhouse door flapped open and a woman came out. The goats all looked up at the sound. She was brown and solid in muddy jeans and a brown barn jacket with her thick black hair up in a loose bun. When she saw June, a broad white smile opened up her face.

  “Junebug? Is that you?”

  “Sally!” The two women came together in a hug, then separated to look at each other.

  The slender young man now stood a few yards away. He wore double-front work pants and a gray University of Washington T-shirt and carried the pitchfork easily in his hand. He didn’t speak but he looked thoughtfully at June and Peter and the green pickup with its mahogany cargo box.

  “Look at you, all grown up,” said Sally. She didn’t mention the stitches in June’s lip or the slender young man, who had taken up a deferential position a few steps behind Sally and off to one side.

  “You look exactly the same,” said June. She called over her shoulder, “Hey, Peter, come meet my friend Sally.”

  Peter had already gotten out of the truck. Now he stepped forward and introduced himself. The air smelled of river mud and spring growth and the rich, loamy compost.

  Sally looked him up and down, taking in the stitches in his hair and the medical boot. He wasn’t sure he passed inspection. Sally said, “You two look like you’ve been down a hard road.”

  “Car accident,” said Peter. “Both of us. The other car was speeding.”

  “We’re fine,” said June. “Peter, I was telling you about Sally. After my mom left, she basically raised me.”

  “Don’t look at me for all that,” said Sally. A little spotted goat came up and put its head against her hip. She scratched it absently behind the ear. “All I did was make sure you got fed and clothed.”

  “And hugged and loved,” said June. “Found me books and lessons, made sure I did them. A lot more than my dad ever did.”

  “Well, your dad always did have a lot on his mind,” said Sally. “Now more than ever.” She seemed to notice the young man for the first time. “This is Oliver, he just started working with me here.”

  Oliver nodded politely without speaking. He had thick black hair and almond-shaped eyes with only faint folds at the lids. Peter thought at least one of Oliver’s parents had ancestors in Asia. His weight was balanced, the pitchfork light in his hands.

  Sally looked at June again. “So. What brings you back now?”

  “Partly to see you,” said June. “I wasn’t sure if you’d still be here.”

  “Golden handcuffs,” said Sally. She patted the goat. “Where else would I get the funding to do this work? We’ve got these greenhouses working well enough to grow tomatoes in a snowstorm. We produce enough food now to feed ourselves and export some to the outside, completely sustainable.”

  “I’d love to hear about it,” said June.

  “I’ll give you the tour and talk your ear off.” Sally cocked her head like a curious cat. “But you didn’t come just to see me.”

  “No,” said June. “You know my mom died?”

  Sally nodded sadly. “I saw it online. Hit by a car, right?”

  “Hit-and-run. They never caught the guy. I thought it was time to come see my dad. See if we can work things out.”

  Oliver looked steadily at Peter without threat or malice, and carried himself with a stillness that was part observation and part simple readiness. His face was smooth and unlined but Peter was pretty sure Oliver was older than he looked. And not really a farmworker, although he looked capable enough with that pitchfork.

  Sally said, “Your dad’s not what you think. He’s not a bad man.”

  June g
ave the older woman a look. “Are you and my dad, you know. Together?”

  “Oh,” Sally said, looking away as a faint blush reached her cheeks. The goat nudged her hand with its nose, reminding her to keep petting it. “I wouldn’t call it that. We’ve just known each other a long time.” She glanced up the valley to a group of buildings. “I don’t think there’s ever really been anyone for Sasha but your mom. And you, of course. He’s really missed you.”

  “Well, I need to talk to him,” said June. “Do you still do family-style dinners on Saturday?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Sally. “You’re staying, of course. We’ll be in the orchard for the first time since last fall. We’ve grown a bit, there are more people than there used to be. The cooks are making cabrito, it should be wonderful.”

  Cabrito was goat meat.

  Sally saw Peter glance at the goat she was petting. “You’re not a vegetarian, are you?” She laughed, an infectious cackle. “Don’t worry, we’re not eating this one for a few more years. Not ’til she’s past her breeding years. Lucky for me I’m not a goat!” She laughed again.

  He said, “You have any unusual visitors lately?”

  “Just us chickens,” she said. “Why do you ask?”

  He figured Chip and his people would be hard to miss. Depending on how many people he had, at least two cars, maybe three or four. If it was more than four, they might be in trouble.

  “No real reason. We’ve met some interesting characters in the last few days. They all seem pretty interested in June.”

  She beamed at June. “Well, who wouldn’t be, a beautiful young woman like you?”

  June rolled her eyes. “Listen, we should go find my dad.” She gave Sally another hug. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

  “You might want to find me before. You’ll understand when you see your dad. I’ll call him so he knows you’re coming. You know how he hates surprises.”

  The older woman raised her eyes to the sky. Peter followed her gaze and saw the shadow above them, still circling but lower now.

  “Of course,” Sally added, “he probably already knows you’re here.”

  Peter walked back to the truck, feeling Oliver’s eyes on him the whole way.

  He had a feeling he’d just seen the first signs of the valley’s security.

  • • •

  HE PULLED THE TRUCK onto the road again, window down, headed toward the group of buildings at the head of the valley. The road was straight and flat enough to hit the truck’s top speed of eighty, but he kept it in second gear. He didn’t want to run into any goats. “How many farmworkers will the bunkhouse hold?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “It’s changed so much since I left.” She looked at him. “You’re thinking about Oliver, aren’t you?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “He’s just like you,” she said. “Lewis, too. Self-contained and still. But with this kind of, I don’t know, awareness. Like he’s always ready for anything.”

  “Yeah,” said Peter. “He’s not what I expected.”

  “What did you expect?”

  “I don’t know. A bunch of farmers with guns? Some ex-Army tough guys flexing their muscles? Not a guy like Oliver.”

  They were close enough now to begin picking out the individual structures. A rambling white frame farmhouse stood in a stand of maples off to one side, but the road led directly to a wide cement apron between a pair of matching stone barns.

  These were not like the usual broken-down barns Peter had seen every day of his young life in northern Wisconsin, or the long low metal sheds of a pig or chicken farm. They had the traditional gambrel rooflines of a child’s farm drawing, but their walls and gables were built of black granite with black-painted trim and they were three stories tall, bigger than any barn he had ever seen. They looked more like something built to house a hedge fund manager’s collection of antique tractors, thought Peter. Or maybe a herd of vampire cows.

  The barns had wide doors in their sides for big equipment, but instead of the usual sliding wood doors that swayed in the breeze and allowed cats to come and go unimpeded, these doors were gleaming stainless roll-ups like delivery doors at the Federal Reserve.

  There were also smaller doors for people, each under an overhang for shelter from the weather. Beside the people-doors were little boxes that looked like security keypads. Those weren’t to keep the farm help from looking at the antique tractors.

  One door opened, and a man walked out.

  It was difficult to tell the scale of him, set against the big barns and the grand landscape. It wasn’t until he got closer that Peter saw again how big he was, six-eight and broad in the shoulders. His hair fell below his shoulders, his beard reached his chest, and both were full and tangled and white as snow.

  He was the same man they’d seen on the floatplane pier in Seattle.

  June’s dad. The Yeti.

  Lewis had said the man was in his late fifties, but he moved like someone ten years younger, like someone who used his body. He wore a shapeless tweed jacket over a denim shirt, green corduroys frayed at the pockets and cuffs, and enormous scuffed leather hiking boots. His shirt pocket was stuffed with pens and a notebook peeked out of his jacket pocket. There were pine needles in his beard and hair.

  Peter could understand why his friends had called him Sasquatch, until his hair had turned.

  “Hello, Juniper.”

  His voice was deep enough to rattle the windows or calm a fussy baby. His face was craggy and creased, and his eyes were a keen, unearthly blue, projecting a wild, implacable intelligence.

  The overall effect was somewhere between a youthful grandfather and the face of God from the Old Testament.

  It wasn’t hard to imagine him at the forefront of a technological revolution.

  Or arranging the death of his wife.

  June didn’t move from beside Peter, her whole body thrumming with tension. “Hello, Dad.”

  The Yeti’s face crinkled up in a beatific smile. “It’s so good to have you home,” he said. “You know how worried I get when you go away. How was your conference? Get any good ideas?”

  June stared at him. “Dad, it’s me. June. Your daughter.”

  “Oh,” he said, startled. “Of course.” Then the smile came back, slightly dimmed. “You looked just like your mother for a minute. I got a little confused. How’s your day, honey? Catch any frogs for your terrarium?”

  “Dad? What the fuck?” June looked at Peter. “I made that terrarium when I was like ten.”

  The Yeti gave her a stern look. “Language, Juniper, please. What would your mother say?”

  “Dad,” she said. “I’m thirty years old. Mom’s dead. She was killed by a plumber’s truck in San Francisco.”

  A spasm of grief washed across his face like rain across a plate-glass window, then drained away. “No,” he said, filled with conviction. “We’ve talked about this, Junebug. Just because your mother’s away on a trip doesn’t mean she doesn’t love you. She loves you a lot. She just has to be away right now.”

  June opened her mouth and closed it again. She was trembling. Peter put his hand on her arm.

  He was thinking about his own grandfather.

  At first they’d thought his age was catching up to him in fits and starts. He’d have calm weeks of fishing in the bay and splitting firewood, then misplace his checkbook and storm around thinking someone had been in his house. He’d come for dinner, then stand up after coffee, pat his pockets for his keys, and accuse Peter’s dad of taking the car without permission when the keys were still hanging in the ignition of his old Buick.

  He’d work himself into a rage, this old man who’d been a paratrooper in the Second World War at nineteen, and was still strong and fit at seventy-nine. He became furious at the Russians and spent most of his eightieth summer hand-digging the foun
dation for a bomb shelter behind his house. This almost half a decade after the wall had come down in Germany.

  When Peter’s aunt discovered the giant hole in his yard, she made an appointment in Rochester and the pieces fell together. Alzheimer’s wasn’t any less difficult, but at least they knew what was happening. His grandfather would call Peter by his dad’s name and leave the stove burner on all day, but he could still rebuild old boat motors and lawn mower engines in his garage, which was both retirement income and a survival strategy, a way to plant himself in the living moment. He’d died of a heart attack on the cracked floor of that garage during Peter’s first tour, with a newly rebuilt Mercury twelve-horse clamped to a sawhorse and ready to be picked up by its owner.

  Peter didn’t know anything about the Yeti, but the man wasn’t just paranoid. He was trapped in his own past, or maybe had locked himself away there voluntarily. In the days or years when he still had a wife and daughter, before his mental disorder had driven them away.

  He said, “Hello, sir, I’m Peter,” and put out his hand. “It’s an honor to meet you.”

  “Likewise,” the Yeti said, and shook.

  Peter’s big hands were strong and calloused from his years as a Marine and carpenter. The Yeti’s were on another scale entirely, more like a catcher’s mitt left out to bake in the sun. But he didn’t crush Peter in his grip the way some giant men might have. Instead it was the handshake of a minister at a joyful occasion, two-handed and full of kindness.