The Starlight Claim

by Tim Wynne-Jones

  “Like you did my father? That kind of lesson?”

  Cal held his eyes in a tug-of-war gaze. But it wasn’t any game to Cal; he wasn’t used to being crossed. And Nate wasn’t used to anyone talking to him like this. He would not give in. Not here, of all places. He reminded himself that if push came to shove, all he needed to do was whack the old man in the thigh. The thought of it was just enough to keep him strong and determined.

  Cal blinked first. Nate saw him release the stranglehold on the gun, useless without what Nate was keeping from him. Then he handed the gun to him with the ill grace of a five-year-old having to give back a toy to his baby brother. Nate moved away so Cal couldn’t see the numbers he was inputting. Seven-zero-eight. The month and year the Hoebeeks moved to Ghost Lake. He put the trigger lock on the table and handed Cal the gun. He swiped it from Nate’s hands.

  “You’ll be thankin’ me, boy, when I save your sorry ass.”

  Nate’s heart was beating like a drum. Don’t say anything, he told himself. Just don’t bother. This man might be his grandfather, but Nate meant nothing to him. He’d already forgotten their bargain and Nate was back to being just “you” or “kid” or “boy.”

  Cal pulled back the pump and checked the chamber, felt inside with his finger to see if it was empty. Nate already knew it was. Cal closed the chamber, lay the Remington across the arms of his chair. “Ammo,” he said. Nate patted the pocket of his parka. Cal sneered. “It’s not gonna do much good in there,” he said.

  “There’s going to be lots of warning when and if Shaker comes back. I’ll give you the ammo then.”

  It was just about the last straw for Cal. Without taking his eyes off Nate, he lifted his bad leg from the chair piled with pillows and planted it on the floor. “I can still whup you, you know. It’d take more than a scratch to keep me from putting you on your back.”

  Nate stared at him. I can still whup you. Suddenly he realized why the old man couldn’t call him by his name: he didn’t see him as Nate. He saw him as Burl, as the boy he’d beat on, sent running off, sent into the wilderness, because it was here — right here — that Burl had ended up when he finally escaped from the old man’s fists. And knowing that, Nate felt his backbone straighten.

  He thinks I’m Burl.

  Without knowing it, Cal Crow had done exactly the wrong thing if he hoped to intimidate him.

  Cal was leaning forward in his chair. He had laid the gun aside. His hands, fingers splayed, were on the arms of the chair, ready to push himself up, his eyes full of threat. And instead of backing farther away, Nate came to him.

  “Maybe this stuff worked on my dad, but I wasn’t brought up with it. You don’t frighten me.”

  It was as if he had spoken to Cal in a foreign language. The simmering rage in the man was doused by incomprehension. “What’d you say to me?”

  Nate just shook his head. He wasn’t going to play this game. And he knew something now — knew it beyond the shadow of a doubt: this is what made his father hold his words, keep to the strength of silence. Wait.

  Wait. It. Out.

  Cal lowered himself back down into the chair. His face contorted, as if anger had suppressed, momentarily, the pain he was in. He leaned back, breathing heavily. Nate waited another moment and then slowly approached him. He squatted down beside the man’s wounded leg and then gently raised it to lay the foot again on the chair with the cushions so that the wound was above Cal’s heart.

  Cal swatted at his eyes. They were wet — whether with pain or grief, Nate was not about to ask. “He di’n’t always hate me, ya know.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Your father. We got along okay for a bit there. When he was a kid.” Nate’s shoulders went slack. There was bitterness in the downward curve of his grandfather’s mouth. He looked at Nate. His breathing was shallow. “He ever tell ya about his sister?”

  Nate tried to think. He had no aunt on his father’s side of the family. Not one he knew about. Wait, yes. Now he remembered. There had been a sister, but she died. He didn’t remember anything more about it. He nodded vaguely.

  If Cal had been going to say more, the expression on Nate’s face must have changed his mind. He blinked a couple of times, as if returning from somewhere a long way off. Then he stared at the woodstove.

  What was there to say to such a man? Actually, Nate knew exactly what he wanted to say. He again straddled the nearby chair, resting his chin on the top of it.

  “What’s your plan?”

  The old man seemed surprised, suspicious, as if Nate had pulled the rug out from under him. Disarmed him. He glanced at him, disoriented. Maybe there was no plan after all. He waited.

  “Okay,” said Cal. “Except, I don’t think you’re gonna like it.”

  “Most likely. Try me.”

  “You’re going to set this here chair up, right over there, facing the front door.” He turned to look at the door. “’Bout five feet back, I’d say.” He sniffed, rubbed his nose. “Yeah, that oughta do it. Then, once you give me that box of shells, you’re gonna make me a sandwich or two, give me back that bottle of Johnnie Walker Red you’ve been hoarding, and leave. Beat it.”

  Nate stared at him. “That’s all? That’s your plan?”

  “If that big bruiser comes through the door with a gun in his hand, I’m gonna need some method of persuadin’ him to put it down. After all, I wouldn’t want to get your nice clean linoleum all covered with gore or nothin’.”

  Nate frowned. “I don’t have any idea what time it is. Are you saying I just head out to the track and leave you here?”

  “Don’t say you di’n’t think about it,” said Cal. “You out there in the shed toppin’ up the Ski-Doo. Sure you did. Get the hell outa here, you was thinkin’.”

  “Maybe I was.”

  “No maybe about it.”

  “But the thing is, I didn’t go.”

  “Well, there’s still time.” He swiveled his head around to squint out the window at the sun. “By my calculations, it’s before noon. You oughta have enough time to rendezvous with the train if you head out right away.”

  Nate sat up straight, his frown deepening. “If I take the Ski-Doo, I can be out at the track in fifteen, twenty minutes, max. And there’s no way it’s going to be on time anyway.”

  Cal held up his finger. “Ah, that’s where you got it wrong. You think I’m talking about Mile Thirty-Nine.”

  “What do you mean? I should head down the lake, catch it at Southend?” Cal nodded. “But why?”

  “Because, you damn fool, if Shaker is able to find his way back here, he’ll be comin’ down that same damn trail and you’d never be able to turn around, even if you heard him, which you wouldn’t anyhow because you’d be makin’ as much racket as he was.”

  Nate hadn’t really thought of that. He wasn’t used to thinking of the trail as two-lane, let alone dangerous. He shook his head, more out of bewilderment than anything else.

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “It’s not that,” said Nate. “I mean . . . Okay, he takes off from this logging camp, running from the cops. If he weren’t here by now, then he must have found some other way out or, like you said, run out of fuel.”

  “Could be,” said Cal. “And like I said before, that’d be the best a man or boy could wish for. But there are other camps. More ’n one camper uses them loggin’ roads, and this time of year it’s easy as hell to find one: just follow the guy’s trail in the snow. That sadistic lunatic — he ain’t gonna have any problem coaxing some fool out of his fuel. Or a place to stay for the night, with his host hog-tied or chucked out in the cold. Hell, he might steal himself a whole new snowmobile.”

  Nate hadn’t thought of that, either. He wasn’t in the habit of thinking like a criminal. But the whole thing bothered him, and he wasn’t quite sure why. “So you were saying earlier that he’d come back here because he needs a hostage. If he finds somebody out there and he’s planning on stealing their snowmobile anywa
y, why wouldn’t he just make them his hostage? Why would he want to come all the way back here and take the risk of running into the cops on the way?”

  Now Cal grinned, every trace of confusion gone. He leaned forward in his chair. “Because he’s got a hate on for you, Nathaniel Crow. Ain’t that the truth?” Reluctantly, Nate nodded. “And you gotta understand somethin’: that SOB would travel a thousand miles to make life miserable for someone who crossed him.”

  Nate believed it. Shaker might want to keep him alive as a bargaining chip, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t make things hard on him. Still, the plan didn’t sit right with him. He looked at Cal. “What about you?”

  “What about me? I got food, a bottle, and a twelve-gauge. Sounds like a party to me.”

  “But —”

  “Shut it!” said Cal. He picked up the gun and held the butt end up threateningly. “You want butt, I’ll give you butt.”

  Nate sighed and raised his hands in surrender. This man had no knack for conversation. Everything was a show of force — retaliation. But Nate was the one who was mobile and the one who had the ammo for that Remington.

  “If I’m heading down the lake, why don’t you come, too?”

  “Yeah, right. I’m gonna ride tandem with this leg? No, thank you.”

  “We’ve got a new freight sled.”

  “You gotta be kidding me.”

  “I’m not. I can fill it up with, like, quilts and pillows. It’s flat the whole way across the lake.”

  “You’re not thinking straight, kid.”

  “Nate! My name is Nate.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever. With that old Doo we’ll be dawdling along. It’s too far to Southend, in case you di’n’t know.”

  “Yeah, I know, but —”

  “And when Mr. Hothead gets here and sees our tracks heading out, he’ll be on our tail in no time.” Cal slapped one hand against the other. It was funny, thought Nate, how “if” had become “when” with regard to Shaker coming. Well, not really funny.

  “So the sooner we get moving, the better,” said Nate.

  “You’re not listening.”

  “The Doo can top sixty miles an hour.”

  “Hah!” said Cal. “Maybe thirty years ago when it rolled off the assembly line. And not pullin’ a goddamned sled through new powder. While that Polaris —”

  “Listen!” said Nate. He said it sharply and held his hand to his ear, managing to knock Cal clear off course.

  They listened. “I don’t hear nothin’,” said the old man.

  “Exactly!” said Nate. “We’d be able to hear him coming way up the trail, just like I heard you earlier. So we leave now and we get a good head start.”

  “That Polaris we borrowed from your next-door neighbor,” said Cal, undaunted. “On a clear day like this, no headwind, that thing can top ninety.”

  But Nate was on his feet now. He’d never taken off his snow pants when he returned from his errands. Now he found his coat and started to put it on. “Here’s the deal,” he said. “You sit here while I get the sled hooked up. I load you in —” Cal started to interrupt, but Nate cut him off. His adrenaline was rising to the occasion. He wanted out so bad he could taste it. “I’ll come around here, load you on. Then we listen again. If we don’t hear any snowmobile coming, we have at least ten or fifteen minutes lead time.”

  “You’re a raving psycho,” said Cal.

  “No, the psycho is the one who you said might be coming back here. And since I don’t want to see anyone dying in this camp and making a mess of it — whether it’s me, him, or you — I want to get out. It’s that simple.”

  “Simple, hah!”

  “And you’ll be riding shotgun,” said Nate. “He chases us, you can blow him up for all I care!”

  Cal actually seemed to like that idea, but it didn’t matter to Nate one way or another what the old man thought. He wanted out. He was breathing hard. His voice was scratchy. He needed water. He needed to load up some supplies if he was going to do this. And he needed to close the place up, good and tight. You never left the place open, vulnerable. You never left the firebox empty; you never left without cleaning the fridge or without bear-proofing. You just didn’t. Not for any reason. His shoulders fell, exhausted by the thought of it all. Then he started for the door.

  “Nate, stop.”

  “No, you stop,” Nate shouted. “No one invited you here. You don’t make the decisions. Got that? It’s my place. Mine and my father’s and my mother’s. It’s our place. You aren’t welcome here.”

  His voice was rough as sandpaper, but he seemed to have broken through at last. He actually thought Cal heard him.

  Nate took a deep breath. His mitts were on the table. He reached for them, and his trapper’s hat with the fur-lined earflaps. Pulled them on. His father would understand about leaving like this. His father understood priorities.

  “You was looking at my leg earlier,” said Cal, his voice low, beaten.

  Nate turned up the flap of his hat. “What’d you say?”

  “My leg,” said Cal, raising his voice. “You saw the burns.”

  “Yeah, I saw the burns. What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “It’s got everything to do with everything,” said Cal testily.

  Nate threw back his head, ready to howl with frustration. “You burned down the frigging place. I’ve seen the burns on my dad’s arms — the burns he got dragging you to safety. So what’s your point?”

  Cal glared at him. “When Shaker gets here and finds the place deserted, how you think he’s gonna feel?” He waited. “You think he might be just a wee bit pissed off? Think he might wanna make somebody pay?” He raised his eyebrows. “How long did it take your daddy to build this place again?”

  Nate took off his mitts and threw them on the table. He took off his hat and unzipped his quilted vest. Then he just hung his head, defeated.

  “You know it’s true,” said Cal.

  Nate managed a nod.

  “Come here,” said Cal quietly. “Sit down.”

  And because it was the kind of thing somebody who gave a damn might say, Nate responded. At the moment, he couldn’t think of what else to do.

  Cal reached over, grimacing as he did, and pulled the kitchen chair close, then patted the seat. Nate didn’t trust the guy, but he didn’t have the energy to pull the chair out of swatting distance. He didn’t sit down so much as slump, like his skeleton had given up on him. He’d slept well enough, but he was bone weary and emotionally exhausted.

  “I’ve made a dog’s breakfast of my life, Nate. I lost my daughter, drove my son away, and eventually his mother.” He stopped for a moment, as if maybe he hadn’t thought of her for a long time. “She got out okay, went up to her folks. Your dad ever hear from her?” Nate shook his head. “I’m not surprised,” said Cal. “She closed the door after her when she left.” He tapped his forehead as if to suggest closing the door was some kind of metaphor for losing your marbles.

  Cal looked at the gun lying across the chair in front of him. He fingered the stock, traced a line down to the trigger. “I never been all that good at makin’ logical decisions about nothin’.” He chuckled. “Just ask your father. On second thought, don’t bother.” He suddenly breathed in sharply through his teeth, making Nate look up to see him writhe in pain.

  “Should I get you something?”

  “I’m tempted to say the bottle, but I might need to be sober sometime today. Sharp. A little hand-eye coordination, you know what I mean? So, no. It’s okay. I’m good.”

  Nate got up anyway, poured a glass of water, and got the Tylenol Extra Strength from the table. Handed them to Cal.

  “Thanks,” said the old man, but he just put the glass and the pills down on the arm. “What I said way back when about this gig here, this mess I got myself into — it was true. They offered me good money to help ’em out. I just wanted one last shot at gettin’ the hell outa here. Oh, at first I figured this was the way to
the big money, a chance to play with the big boys. It took gettin’ shot to figure out they was just gonna use me up and spit me out. I ain’t the sharpest knife in the drawer.

  “But, see, I’ve got this buddy — the one man I can truly call a friend. He lives up in Yellowknife, up there in the territories. He said I could come anytime, share his place. And I figured if I could get myself up there, then I could close the door, like Dolores did. Your grandmother. Collect my old-age pension. Try to —”

  “Hold it, hold it!” said Nate, throwing up his hands, his face strained as if he were Superman trying to stop a freight train. “I want to hear this story, Cal. Honest. But if you think Shaker is coming, maybe this isn’t the time, right?” It took a moment, but Cal nodded. “So what do you say? Is he coming or were you just blowing smoke? Trying to scare me so I’d do what you want?”

  Cal actually smiled. “Looks like you got me pegged.”

  “Just tell me,” said Nate.

  “Then, yeah, I think he’s comin’, all right, and I’ll tell you why. When we was holed up in the loggin’ camp waiting to be ‘rescued,’ he wouldn’t stop talking about what he was going to do to you when he got the chance.” Cal looked directly at Nate, and Nate searched his eyes for some telltale hint that this was just more guff. But it wasn’t.

  “He was talking trash, the kind of trash a guy talks when he’s in lockup: What he’s gonna do to the sons of bitches that put him behind bars. How he’s gonna make it last, the torture. How it’s not just gonna be painful but humiliatin’. That kind of crap.” He shook his head. “He’s one sick puppy. The kind of guy who’d rather get back at you than get away.”

  Again, Nate searched his grandfather’s weathered face and saw only the truth.

  “Come to think of it,” said Cal. “That man is in jail.” He tapped his head again.

  “Okay,” said Nate. “I get it. And if that’s the case, I really don’t want to hang around.”

  “But you don’t want to lose this place either, right? You don’t want some lunatic availin’ himself of all that fuel you’ve got out in the shed and havin’ hisself a marshmallow roast, do you?” Nate shook his head vehemently. “Which is why I’m gonna stay,” said Cal, tapping himself on the chest.