“Maybe,” said Sergei, who had taken from his pocket a couple of the pencils—colored ones, Mary saw with surprise, “eight hundred pounds and ten feet long. It’s the biggest cat in existence. Its coat is black-striped, white and gold—different hues of gold—its face, like this—” He shoved the paper he’d been working on toward them.
It was beautiful. How could he have drawn this in the minute or two it had taken; how could he have drawn it at all? There was so much feeling in the strokes that outlined the tiger’s angular face. Against the white fur Sergei had sketched bands and patches of old gold and drawn a caramel blaze down the muzzle. The slanted gold eyes of the cat seemed to look past the observer toward a horizon the other could not see.
“You’re an artist,” said Mary. Anyone who could draw that quickly and exactingly had to be.
Sergei shrugged, smiling with that half of his mouth that could still respond. “I used to be.”
Reuel scoffed. “Used to be famous, is what Serge used to be. He did shows.” The way Reuel dragged the word out told how much he was in awe of someone who could do that.
“In Yakutsk?”
“No. In Moscow, Petersburg, places like that.” As if ‘places like that’ were accessible, for shows, to anyone. “I lived there, in St. Petersburg. I went back to Lazo later, to the reserve. Vladivostok: it was a sad place then, but it’s sadder now.”
Andi swept sadness aside for the moment. What really interested her was that he’d returned to the wildlife reserve. “But why, if you were an artist, did you go back to being a guide on the reserve?”
“Not a guide. To paint the animals.” He paused. He sat half facing the plain, half facing the little wood. “The Siberian tiger—to me it’s hard to imagine anyone would not be bothered by its extinction.”
The four were silent for a few moments, as if collectively meditating on this extinction, until Reuel sighed and said, “Girls, if you want to get over to Wine’s, we better hop it.” He got up. “We’ll see you later, Serge.”
Sergei remained seated. “Harry Wine’s?” The calm of his earlier manner seemed disturbed, a stone skipped over a placid lake.
“Uh-huh. The girls here thought they’d do some rafting.”
Sergei rose then, gave them his half smile. “Be careful. White water is sometimes extremely dangerous.”
28
Even Andi seemed relieved to have somebody else drive. Lord knows Mary was. She could relax, get out her pack of gum, pass it around, saying, “Sorry I don’t have a plug of tobacco.”
“For me or her?” Reuel caught Mary’s eyes in the rearview mirror and tried not to smile.
They left the main road and made their way through dripping green leaves, deciduous plants, and trees, pine and sumac. The leaves were raining an earlier rain onto a gray and brown forest floor. It felt sad to Mary; it had the look of November, as if it were always November. They passed a weathered gray house whose main structure had been added to over the years, first with some kind of imitation brick and then with log. A child was swinging on an inner tube in the front yard, another child beating it with a stick every time the tube swung his way. The boy looked familiar.
“That’s the Swanns’ house,” said Reuel, tapping the horn lightly. Both kids stopped in their desultory play and stared after the car. A half mile down the road they came to a large clearing with stores and a paved lot for cars. The building was a long white clapboard structure that included a store and a motel. The parking lot held perhaps a dozen cars and vans.
As they were getting out of the car, Andi said to Mary, “It’s got a motel.”
“You girls ain’t got a place to stay?”
“Not yet,” said Andi.
Reuel appeared to be giving this some thought. “Motel in town be better for you. I can call up and get you a room.” And, as if that were decided, he said, “Come on.”
Across the front of the building and painted in squared black letters was the legend: WINE’S OUTFITTERS, FLOAT TRIPS, FOOD. FUN. Beneath that, smaller letters advertised canoeing, kayaking, rafting, classes, private lessons.
Inside, the autumnal feeling gave way to the vigorous cheeriness coming from the salespeople. That’s who Mary concluded the several young men and women were who wore gray sweatshirts with the name of the store printed in dark red letters. At summer’s height she imagined the place would be really crowded. Now, there were perhaps a couple of dozen people, adults and kids. A couple of very flirty girls who were looking over a tableful of caps, shirts, and vests were probably Andi’s age yet seemed younger even than Mary, because they were sillier, probably, in their attempts to make an impression on the good-looking salesmen. There were several families, middle-aged couples in sweats and jogging gear, with kids running around. One of the employees was talking to an elderly man, both of them looking over a row of canoes and kayaks strung up against the wall. A man peering in one of the tents looked like a younger version of the old man, and two pudding-faced little boys looked like the younger man. None of them appeared to be up to a white-water float trip, certainly not the kids, who were too busy shooting each other with neon-colored plastic assault weapons to work up interest in the tents or boats.
They had been standing here—Reuel, Andi, and Mary—for just a few moments looking around the store when another man came in from one of the doors behind the sales counter carrying a stack of big boxes that he dumped on the counter.
Mary could feel Andi go rigid. Her hand gripped Mary’s arm. When Mary turned to look at her, Andi seemed to be having trouble getting her breath. Finally she said, “It’s him.”
The man they were looking at wore one of the WINE’s sweatshirts and was removing boots from the boxes. He was perhaps five-ten or -eleven, had very dark and slightly curly hair to which the westerly sunlight coming through the window lent a watery sheen. She knew when he finally looked their way his eyes would be cobalt blue.
They were. Even from this distance she could see that. He looked at them, recognized Reuel, gave him a mock salute and a smile that Mary could only describe as ravishing. He looked at Andi and Mary, looked away, looked back. His eyes came to rest on Andi, and the smile was more hesitant, flickered, seemed to want to go on, to go farther, but hit on some obstacle, like a fern, a leaf, a fishing line snagged on a rock, held prisoner in water.
Mary did not know what to make of that smile; it could as easily have been prompted by pleased surprise as fearful memory. She didn’t know who else he might be, but he was clearly Harry Wine. And, according to Andi, the driver who had given her a lift months ago.
Andi’s fingers were like pincers on Mary’s forearm. She seemed as frozen as his smile.
Harry Wine was dangerously attractive; he was what Mary supposed would be called magnetic. The eyes of every female in the room were drawn to him. It seemed almost impossible not to look.
And in the heartbeat it took for these thoughts to go through Mary’s mind, he had clearly recognized Andi. He had left the boots in a clutter and come around from the counter over to them. He and Reuel said their hellos with nods of the head, but his eyes were fastened on Andi.
“Where’d you pop up from?” His smile was even more resplendent.
Before Andi could answer, Reuel said, “Friends of mine. Both these girls, they’re friends.”
The tone of his voice told Mary that Reuel didn’t like Harry Wine at all.
“Do your friends have names?”
“Sure do,” said Reuel. “This one’s Andi Oliver—”
“Olivier,” said Andi again.
“—and this here’s Mary Dark Hope. Girls, this is Harry Wine. He owns this place.”
Mary said hello to him; Andi said nothing.
“So what are you girls doing in Salmon?”
“The same reason as most people, I guess.” Andi spoke with surprising composure. “White-water rafting.”
Oh, hell, thought Mary. The future looked predictable.
Harry Wine’s smile broadened.
“Well, you sure have come to the right place for that. How was the skiing?”
Andi looked puzzled.
“Sandia Peak. Where I dropped you off. Don’t say you don’t remember me.”
“It was wonderful. Sure, I remember you. This is your place? Do you take people out?”
“Me? Sure. But not the novices. Tom or Lou over there, and Bette”—he gestured toward the salespeople, several of them clumped and laughing about something—“they can take you out.”
“I wouldn’t go out a garden gate with Tom or Lou,” said Reuel. “Jesus, Harry, those kids don’t know oars from asses—excuse me, girls.” Reuel tipped his hat. “Them two oughtn’t to be takin’ anyone out.”
Andi rolled right over both of them. “What makes you think we’re novices? Do you take out the advanced boaters, then? The intermediates? Or do you only bother with the experts?” Her tone was sarcastic, even verging on contempt for the high price he put on his own expertise.
He smiled. “Aren’t that many experts.” He looked her up and down; the look was less sexy than it was a playful assessment of her ability, as if he could see the way she handled a boat in the way she stood, in her gestures. “That what you are, then?”
“Me. No, of course not. But I’ve done pretty good running number-four rapids. I guess you’d call me advanced. Or at least intermediate.” She smiled. “I couldn’t make it all the way down the Gauley. But I did most of it.”
He looked astonished. “In West Virginia? That Gauley?”
“Well, there’s only one, isn’t there?”
“Yeah, but my lord, there must be a hundred rapids there, and hardly a one under class three.” He smiled. “Do you remember—”
Again, Andi cut off the question, whatever it was to be. “What about you? Have you done it?”
“Yeah. Couple of times. What was your takeout point?”
She frowned. “I can’t remember. The thing is, the Salmon’s not that tough. I mean, not until you get to, say, Salmon Falls. I hear that’s pretty hard.”
Where, wondered Mary, was she getting this information? And then she remembered: Andi standing by shelves of books under a sign, SPORTING. She’d been leafing through books in the Santa Fe bookstore and she’d bought a couple of them. And she’d also remembered what the cook had said in the Roadrunner. But how was Mary going to keep her from committing them to this folly?
She wasn’t, obviously. Andi was signing on for a float trip. Signing on both of them, or trying to.
“Trouble is,” said Harry Wine, “I’m booked pretty solid till the end of the season.”
“We only have four days.” Andi said this as if she hadn’t heard him.
“Sure you don’t want to do the easier runs? My guides—”
Andi seemed to grow more solid as she stood there. Solid and uncompromising. “I told you, we want the best rapids.”
He chewed his lip, regarding her, then said, “Let me look in the book, see exactly what I have. Might be someone that hasn’t paid up or changed his mind. I’ll be back.”
He turned to walk over to the counter, Andi and Mary behind him, Reuel behind them, keeping close. Mary wondered about this, his seeming to have set himself up as guardian. He wasn’t, though, doing much about this float-trip scheme of Andi’s, but then he didn’t know she’d never been on a raft in her life. At least, had no living memory of such.
If Harry Wine was “Daddy” (and Mary knew Andi was convinced they were the same person), wouldn’t he have acted more upset to see the girl he’d kidnapped and God-only-knew what else, to see that girl, missing for months, walk into his place of business? No, not necessarily. For he knew that evening back in February when he’d given her a ride that something was wrong, that she didn’t remember. Still, wouldn’t he be suspicious of her turning up at his place? Mary thought about this and decided even if he was, the “Daddy” who’d walked into that bed-and-breakfast place was the kind of person who loved danger. He was the person who had talked and talked to Patsy Orr, the person who’d left Andi alone with her. So either he loved a dangerous game or he was so stuck on himself he thought no woman would challenge him to one.
At the counter, Harry slapped open a heavy book, studied it, shook his head, then nodded. “Okay, now there’s a good possibility this couple won’t show. I don’t know why they’re still on the book, because they haven’t paid the rest of the charges and we go out tomorrow.”
“So?” Andi shrugged. “Cross them out.”
He looked up at her from under long dark lashes. “You’re determined, that’s for sure.” He drew a line through the name. “They should have paid long ago. Okay. We’ll try to leave a little after eight tomorrow morning. Can you get here?” She nodded. He closed the book. “You know, for such an outdoors person, you sure are awful pale.”
Mary looked over at Andi. Translucent, she’d have said. Yes, she was pale, all right.
“It’s the sunscreen,” said Andi. “I wear tons of it. Skin cancer.”
Reuel, who’d been silent through all of this, spoke up, and his tone was angry. “Just one damn minute, Harry. Before you and these two little ninnies here—”
One ninny, Mary wanted to shout, glaring up at him, so tall it was like trying to talk to the top of a tree.
“—before you get into all this callin’ and fixin’ up for a float trip, I just wonder if everybody’s on to the fact that the Salmon can be dangerous. If you ever upend in a boat or you spill out and your raft flips over atop you, well, that ain’t no picnic. Or you hit one of them eddy walls the wrong way, or land in one of them deep pools at flood stage, you could find yourself going round and round in a damned whirlpool.”
“That’s what he’s for,” Andi said, hooking a thumb in Harry’s direction.
Reuel grunted.
“You’re making the Salmon out to be a lot more treacherous than it is.”
“Rivers themselves ain’t treacherous. Not being prepared is.”
“Oh, come on, Reuel. I don’t lose clients.” He laughed.
Slowly Reuel worked over his gum. “Not but one, no.”
Harry Wine flushed, but more in anger than embarrassment, Mary thought. What had Reuel meant? And she wondered if Reuel sensed neither of them had ever as much as seen the inside of a raft, despite Andi’s facile recounting of life on the Gauley. Mary wasn’t really prepared when Harry Wine turned to her.
“You too? It’s the both of you want to go?”
And here a strange feeling came over Mary. Suddenly, she felt cornered, not by them, oddly—for with them it really was a question, not a buried command—but by herself. Her answer hinged on some idea of herself, although she wasn’t sure what that idea was. It was not so simple as the thought of being “courageous” or “cowardly.” It hinged on nothing beyond herself: on no one’s good opinion, on no reward or punishment. She thought of Mel in Cripple Creek, sitting there dealing out blackjack hands to an empty table. It was like that, like playing blackjack at an empty table. You win, nobody’d know besides yourself. But on the other hand, she had come this far; she had done enough, hadn’t she? It wasn’t in her plan to drown in the cold currents of the River of Fucking No Return.
Mary didn’t realize until she started in chewing her gum again that she’d stopped. Like holding your breath. She was (admit it) terrified of going out in that roiling water with its hundred rapids.
“The both of us.” She went on chewing her gum.
29
When they got back to Salmon, Reuel took them to the Coffee Shop for hamburgers and coffee. The light inside was harsh, a washday glare, light reflected back off white Formica tabletops and the waitresses’ starched aprons. A jukebox, its front dizzy with dissolving colors, was playing an old Willie Nelson song. Set into the wall in each booth was a menu of the jukebox offerings.
The three of them took a booth, Mary and Andi sitting across from Reuel. The tables were preset with knives and forks wrapped in paper napkins lying beside paper place mats sc
alloped around the edges. They were covered with join-the-dots puzzles, and objects buried in clouds, and differences between two cartoon pictures that looked the same but weren’t.
Kids’ games, Mary thought. Oh, well. . . .
As she was joining dots, a waitress came over to the booth to take their order. She and Reuel exchanged a few pleasant words, and they ordered burgers and coffee and chocolate milkshakes. After this, Mary went back to the place mat. The games were so easy, she couldn’t imagine they’d hold a kid’s interest for more than ten minutes. She completed all of them in seven, while Andi and Reuel sat talking about trapping and poaching.
Mary wished they wouldn’t, for it only took her back to the awful incident in Medicine Bow. Distracting herself with the place mat hadn’t lasted long. She could hardly bear thinking about the coyote pups. If you thought about it too long, you could wind up thinking you had to do something.
Andi was talking about Harry Wine. “When he said he’d never lost anyone yet, what did you mean by ‘except one’?”
Reuel didn’t answer right away. He had fitted himself back against the wall, one arm thrown across the top of the bloodred Naugahyde seat as his long fingers turned a matchbook cover around and around on its edge. “Young girl name of Atkins, Peggy Atkins. Can’t recall exactly where she was from, somewhere back east—”
“That’s the one!” Mary said to Andi.
Reuel frowned. “What one?”
Andi said, “In the paper I was reading. It was several years ago, wasn’t it?”
“Three, maybe four. She’d come here several times to float the Salmon. She joined up with Wine’s Outfitters.” His look at Andi was rueful. “I got a feeling it’d be better if I didn’t tell you all this.”
Andi shrugged. “You might as well.”
Mary knew the shrug did not imply indifference, unless it was indifference about how she got the information. As long as she got it.
Biting the Moon Page 17
