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Moutscher's florid face bending over him and yelling so loud that spittle
spattered on Sam's cheek. Go away Moutscher.
Moutscher would not go away, and Sam painfully separated his eyelids from one
another and saw where he was. In jail. Not his own, but jail; it was
unfamiliar-familiar. He looked beyond the Chelan County captain and saw that
the yellow-painted metal squares in the door didn't match up, that the cell
door wasn't closed.
"If you weren't a cop, you'd be in here for a month, you damned fool."
Moutscher's words fell into place and made
242
a sentence. "It's Monday morning; you've slept it off. We don't owe you
anything else. Now get your ass off that bunk and take it home."
". . . It's Monday?"
"Eleven in the morning. You drank up the bar at the hotel, you tried to deck
the bartender, and you vomited all over our patrol unit. Clinton, you are a
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fuck-up and I don't care to spend the whole day babysitting you."
"Go to hell."
He hated Moutscher, and it felt amazingly good, this strong, cleansing rage.
If Moutscher wasn't the enemy, he would do for the moment. Sam got up, folded
the army-green blanket neatly, hitched up his pants and headed for the opening
in the cell door. By the time he was in the corridor, he remembered where his
truck was, waiting for him parked beneath the maple trees.
"I called Fewell and told him where you were. He wants to see youùpronto."
Moutscher had little tiny piggy eyes; Sam wondered that he hadn't noticed that
before. And hairs growing out of his nostrils. And a gut that hung over his
silver belt buckle.
Sam turned to leave, turned back, and severed all good will.
"And you sir, my good captain, have a brain as tiny as your pecker."
24
It was dusk on their second Sunday together when Duane looked at the forest
and then at the slope of the land and knew he had made a mistake. The route
down below Bowan Mountain had appeared the easiest of all those he'd
considered. If he had not been so sure of it, he would never have let them
linger so long in the meadow. But he had been weak, and it had been too easy
to feel secure knowing that they
243
were only a few miles from the highway that could carry them swiftly to the
Canadian border, to the beginning of their new life.
While his arm hampered him from other movement, he had worked over the Forest
Service map for hours and found it rudimentary; the Pacific Crest Trail would
lead them in twoùor at the most, threeùdays to Slate Peak, and then into the
Pasayten Wilderness where no motorized rig could venture. Their food would
last a week or even two without supplement from his hunting and fishing. He
could build them shelter before the heavy snows came.
He had planned to tell her where they were going when they actually crossed
over into the Pasayten, and he was annoyed that she broke his concentration
with questions as he focused on leading them down the mountain. It was neither
coldùthey had left the thin snow layer behind themùnor was it dark; the moon
had swollen now to three-quarters of its face. Once their eyes adjusted to the
dim light, they could maneuver the trail. But what would have taken them four
hours in daylight required double that at night. Even draining of its poison,
his arm still ached and the aching distracted too. Her hand hooked in his belt
did not seem enough to assure her that he would not leave her behind. She
talked to him continually.
"Are you there?"
"You're touching me. You know I'm here."
"Talk to me."
"I'm trying to find the way."
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"Then tell me what you're thinking. Think out loud so I can hear your voice."
"I can't think out loud."
"Then sing."
"If we sing, we can't hear . . . things."
That frightened her. "Then talk to me."
He made no reply.
They reached Bridge Creek at dawn, but he allowed them to rest for only a few
minutes. They were an hour's walk from the highway, too exposed to other
hikers. She started
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to protest when he ordered her to follow him again, but she obeyed.
An hour later, he missed the turn-off at Fireweed Camp. They had gone on for
almost two hours before he felt the first niggling of doubt, so involved in
hiding them that he had misjudged the simplest turn they came upon. When he
put his finger on the pleated map, he saw the problem at onceùbut it was not
easily corrected. He had gone east at Fireweed instead of obliquely north. If
he backtracked, she would know that they were lost. It was a matter of pride [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]