Celine

by Peter Heller

  “The tracks,” he said without hesitation in English. “The fucking tracks were all wrong.”

  “Just a sec,” he said.

  Chicksaw got up from his lawn chair and went into the house, came out a minute later with a bag of marshmallows and three long barbecue forks and handed them around. “No Graham crackers or chocolate. Still.” He browned himself a perfect treat and began to give them a lecture on grizzly tracks. He said that grizzlies walk with an “over-step” in which the rear track will appear just ahead of the front track of the same side. “The tracks will be offset, anglewise, something like twelve degrees and the rear track will be just a little deeper on account of the bear carrying more weight in the hind end. Now when he’s dragging something, usually a carcass, the rear tracks will set even deeper and the front tracks tend to lose their regular offset and may smear. If you get on all fours and try dragging that branch across the yard with your teeth you’ll see why.”

  “We might skip that part,” Celine said with a sweet smile.

  “Right. But the Lamont Bear—that’s what everyone calls him—his tracks ran in and out of the drag mark with the normal offset. Also, the depth of the impressions did not change.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Hmm. That’s what I said. Also, the impressions of the toes. Over uneven ground and especially dealing with cargo, so to speak, the toes will flex and move and the space between them will vary. Not to the untrained eye, but if you look closely.”

  “And these toes stayed put.”

  “Perfectly. Kept their spacing to the millimeter.”

  “But you didn’t have that many tracks to check,” Celine said, peeling the blackened skin off her burned marshmallow.

  Chicksaw looked up sharply. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, it snowed the night he would have encountered the bear, didn’t it?”

  He stared at her. “That’s right. I had the set beneath the big spruce by the road, the tree with the blood on it, and that was it. Five prints. A drag mark. The rest all covered up by snow in the night.”

  “So if you were going to plan your own disappearance you’d pick just such a night, wouldn’t you?”

  He studied her for a long beat. He had pieces of toasted marshmallow stuck to his beard. “Kinda what I was thinking,” he said.

  “What does L.B. stand for?” Celine said.

  “Lawrence Burton.”

  “Lawrence Burton Chicksaw?”

  “Chillingsworth.” He picked the bits of goo out of his whiskers. “In Montana you gotta pick your battles.” He took a flaming marshmallow out of the fire, blew it out, and gave it to the dog.

  Elbie explained that a plausible track could be carved. “I knew an eccentric painter once in Colorado who carved a set of huge clawed tracks and glued fur between the toes and bolted them to a pair of running shoes. Jim Wagner was a character. He stomped all over the mudbank of his favorite fishing hole and it worked. Scared the crap out of everybody and he had the place to himself. People thought he was crazy for fishing there in the evening. The rancher brought in the game wardens who just scratched their heads, they’d never seen anything like it.” He laughed his gravelly laugh.

  “Couldn’t you see human impressions off to the side? Of the Lamont Bear?”

  “There were plenty under the snow. It’s the first creek and first pull-off outside the park. It’s pretty, I guess. Seems people pull over to picnic and pee.”

  “Did you share your concerns?”

  Elbie squinted at her. “I’m not at all shy.”

  “And?”

  “Travers hired me. The sheriff. This is before he got overruled by the park. I gave him my report.”

  “Did you ever talk to Farney?”

  “Farney is ex-marine. Kinda the charge-the-beach mentality. I’m not saying he can’t be subtle because he can. But his first instinct is to go straight ahead. Go for the simplest and most plausible explanation of anything. Lex parsimoniae. The more assumptions there are, the more out of his depth he gets. He’s a good man, and I guess over the long run, all things being equal, he gets more right than wrong. Going with the simplest explanations, maybe he comes out ahead of the rest of us.”

  “Occam’s razor.”

  “Right. Bear tracks, drag mark, bloody boot, case closed. Plus, he really looked pained every time the girl showed up.”

  “Gabriela?”

  “Right. That was her name. We had a meeting, the four of us.”

  “You did? Who?”

  “Travers, Farney, Gabriela, and I. At the site. She kept insisting and finally Farney thought it was the least we could do. Show her how they found everything. Give her a little closure.”

  “Good God, the sheriff didn’t mention that.”

  “I don’t think it was anyone’s finest hour.”

  A gust blew along the pallet porch and sent sparks against Celine’s and Pete’s legs. A few dry snowflakes blew into their faces. The tracker got up and fetched more broken sticks from the stack and built up the fire.

  “How do you mean?” Celine said.

  “Well. Farney set it up. I wasn’t invited but Travers called me in. Like he knew what all Farney was going to tell her and he wanted me to be there. Like maybe the conscience of the outfit, I guess. She was so young and I gathered now she was an orphan. It was heartbreaking. But she was sharp as a tack.

  “The sheriff wasn’t allowed to give her his report and he never expressed his doubts about what all the park concluded. He had to keep a united front for so long—especially with the media. I mean. Imagine if he had broken ranks and started bringing up questions. What a media clusterfuck that would have been. And what would it have accomplished? Pain and doubt for the girl. Suffering, that’s what. Everyone knew they would never find this guy. Not dead, not alive. Whatever the hell happened that night it was for keeps. Sometimes you can just feel it, in your bones like a change in weather.”

  He shuddered. Celine could see that, like her, he took his assignments to heart.

  “So we all met,” he said. “She came in her own car, a little compact out of Bozeman probably. We parked at the bridge and walked the short distance into the trees. Cold, mid-November, a dry fall so far—except that one week—and not much snow, a lot of patchy dirt showing through. She was wearing a hooded parka that was too big for her, it had patches that said ‘Smithsonian-Arctic Institute Antarctica Expedition 1975.’ I guess it was her dad’s. And she wore mittens, I remember, and held a little picture in a frame. I asked her what it was and she showed me: her mother and father, close up, arms around each other, leaning close and smiling big as anything. There was a railing in the picture, looked like they were on a boat, their hair was blowing around. Lord, they were a handsome couple.”

  “So the four of you were under that tree.”

  “That’s right. And she was so skinny in the big parka. I mean I should talk. Farney and Travers are both big men, football players, and she looked like a child next to them. She pushed back her hood so she could hear better and the impression was not dispelled. I mean she looked so young and she was wearing mittens and holding on to that photograph. It broke my heart. I mean. I am not a sentimental man.”

  “Don’t be so sure of that,” Celine said.

  “Well. How she was, it may have had something to do with what happened. Farney cleared his throat and proceeded with about as much alacrity as if someone were holding a gun to his head. He went through all the details, the boot here, the blood here, the tracks, the cameras, the drag mark, not looking at her, not able to, then he’d glance over fast and bite his lip and clear his throat some more.

  “ ‘The conclusion—bla bla—is that he did not survive the initial attack. We have data on these sorts of attacks, bla bla bla. More than a very brief initial engagement, they are almost always fatal. Especially when equipment or clothing are separated from the, well, ah.’ He shut the fuck up. He was beet red. It wasn’t the cold. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. You could tell he w
anted to put a hand on her but he didn’t. Her eyes were big and shiny. You knew she was using all her strength. Farney clears his throat and looks over at Travers and says, ‘Sheriff?’ I told you how it was. Imagine the scene. Do you think Travers or I was going to pipe up and say, ‘Well, gee, young lady, who just lost your last remaining parent, there are about ten fishy things with this whole fucked-up disappearance—’ Wasn’t going to happen. We caved. I admit it. Not my finest hour. She deserved to know the truth. I thought it then and I have thought it often since. A little time passes and it’s, well…sleeping dogs.” He turned and spat off the porch.

  You let the sleeping dogs lie. Celine glanced at the beagle curled at the man’s feet, and the piece of marshmallow stuck to its black nose.

  They drove in silence back down the forest track. When they hit the county road Pete said, “What was that about argyle socks?”

  “Oh,” Celine said, “you honestly don’t know that one? Your alma mater and all.”

  Pete shook his head.

  “Well, the kid from Arkansas arrives at Harvard and is trying to get his bearings and sees an upperclassman striding across the Yard—wearing argyle socks and smoking a pipe. ‘Excuse me,’ says the kid very respectfully, ‘can you tell me where the library’s at?’ The upperclassman peers down and haughtily says, ‘Young man, at Harvard we do not end our sentences with a preposition.’ ‘Oh,’ says the boy, mortified. ‘Let me rephrase that: Where’s the library at, asshole?’ ”

  Pete’s soft chuckle was the best part of the day so far. “I do remember it now,” Pete said. “I guess I just wanted to hear you tell it. Speaking of libraries, I think that should be our next stop.”

  “You’re reading my mind again.” She licked clean two sticky fingertips. “We need to read a little history and find the National Geographics we are missing. Lamont was in South America a lot, and I have a hunch he was there at just the worst time.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  In Red Lodge they decided that they needed more than marshmallows to fuel a research session. Pete knew that if there had been cotton candy it would have rounded things out for Celine. Instead, they were enticed by fourteen Harleys parked along a hitch rail outside a log building called Billy’s Crab Shack. The crabs would be very far from their native habitat, but the bikes looked right at home. They were mostly black, three were fully chopped, and four had death skeletons painted on the tanks: two Grim Reapers were in flagrante delicto with buxom naked babes, one skeleton was shooting up, and the last held binocs and looked like he was bird-watching. They pulled in next to the bikes.

  Celine was excited. Pete could tell because she unwrapped two sticks of Juicy Fruit. “Look, Pete,” she said between chews. “The Boy Scouts are in town.” As an artist steeped in the iconography of death who often used skulls and bones, she cast an aficionado’s critical eye over the airbrushed art shimmering on the Harleys. “Not anatomically correct,” she said.

  “The skeletons or the girls?”

  “I would say both. Do you think they really have crabs?”

  “I hope not,” he said simply.

  They got out. The clouds were scudding fast and the day was warming and for a moment they were in full sun. Celine stopped on the sidewalk and let the sun soak in for a minute and then they pushed through the batwing doors. It was not like in the movies where every head turned. The bikers were too engaged with the business at hand. Six were shoulder to shoulder at the long bar, which was probably built to accommodate fifteen normally sized humans, three were playing darts under a lobster pot hanging from the ceiling, two were at a pool table in back with two thin biker babes, and three were hoisting one of their leather-vested girls onto a small table where she began to dance to “Free Bird” on the jukebox. Every one had Sons of Silence colors on the back of his leather jacket. A thin-faced local with a gray ponytail was drawing draft beer behind the bar, and a pretty young girl served fish-and-chips in baskets to the dart players. She wore a blue checked short dress with frills at the sleeves, white sneakers, an apron, and she moved with the flitting, hesitant grace of a springbok in a lion pen.

  Every head didn’t swivel, but every eye did glance at the posh elderly tourists who came through the front door; the eyes, registering neither threat nor opportunity, went back to the party. Celine made a head count in an instant and tallied it against the motorcycles out front. All males accounted for, no one in the bathroom. It was habit. She also saw that she and Pete made about as much of an impression as two flies. Well. But. She would have to ask one of the men what the skeleton was doing with the binoculars.

  The place was an odd mix of family lunch spot and bar. The round tables were covered in red checkered vinyl tablecloths and bottles of hot sauce and ketchup, there were fishing nets and lobster buoys and boat hooks on the walls, and Foster’s Ale and Budweiser neon blinking in the window. Celine wrinkled her nose. It didn’t smell of stale beer like a frat basement, at least, but she thought several of the nice bikers could really use a bath.

  The bartender waved them to one of the tables. Celine chose the one closest to the dart players. Thankfully the music was not so loud as to kill the possibility of conversation. Two bearded Sons holding beer mugs watched the third brother throw. One was saying to the other, “Yeah, I went to J.R.’s funeral in Denver. The chaplain stood up in front of two thousand One Percenters, I shit you not, said, ‘Every day I thank Gawd that today I haven’t killed anyone, or maimed anyone, or robbed anyone—and then I get out of bed!’ ”

  Laughter. Celine gestured to the round patches of their colors—an eagle spread-winged over a Latin phrase in cursive.

  “Donec Mors Non Separat, Pete. Pretty much the same as the wedding vow, Donec mors nos separaverit. Till death do us part. Something like Semper fi is less…marital, don’t you think?”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t mention it.”

  “Humph.”

  They watched the waitress arrange three baskets on the table by the dart board. She waved at Celine. The bearded bikers smiled and thanked her. She fled. Not fast enough. The tallest, clean-shaven, with a long ponytail and bare arms and spiderweb tattoos at the elbows, reached out with the hand holding the dart and pinched the hem of her dress. He was lightning fast and it stopped her cold. She took another step against the pressure as if not willing to register the grab and Celine saw the cotton stretch flat against her thigh and stomach.

  “Not so fast, girl. I said: Did you have salsa?”

  The girl spun around. She was flushed under her freckles. “I didn’t hear you, sorry. There’s hot sauce on the table, sir.”

  Spiderwebs cracked a grin. Two gold teeth flashed. He looked her up and down, sheathed in her twisted dress. He held the hem up between his fingers as if he were pinching a butterfly. Her leg was now exposed to the upper thigh. Celine could see the flower pattern on her underwear. “Sir,” he growled. “That makes me feel almost old. Hot sauce ain’t salsa.” He didn’t let go and the girl panicked. Celine could see it in her eyes. She muttered, “Sorry. I think we have some in the kitchen.” Celine could read her lips, and the girl’s hands went nervously to her hips where she tried to smooth down her tangled dress.

  Pete saw his wife’s breathing become labored. She pursed her lips. He had carried in the oxygen condenser over his shoulder just in case, and now he turned it on and handed her the tubing. She was annoyed, but her eyes were big the way they were when they were looking for oxygen, and reluctantly she took the cannula and hooked it over her ears. She took two breaths, unhooked the tube, and stood up. Pete did not entreat her to sit back down. Nope, not in his job description. He simply turned the condenser off.

  Spiderwebs had balled the hem of the girl’s dress into his fist, and she made to twist away. His free hand darted to her open button-collar in a fluid, practiced gesture. He hooked two fingers, covered the little gold crucifix that hung on a thin chain in the notch between her breasts, and he pulled just enough so that she had to take a stumbling half step to
him. She looked wild, like a horse in a burning barn.

  “Where we going? I ain’t in no hurry. Let’s talk about condiments. Sauce and the like. You got sauce, I bet. Hot, too.”

  Celine took one last deep breath and slipped between two wooden chairs. She reached up and tapped Spiderwebs on his shoulder. He jumped. “Fuck!” He let go of the girl and wheeled around, fists up, and didn’t see anything until he looked down.

  “Fuck was that?” he said. Across the fingers of one fist, one letter to a digit, was a big blue “FUCK”; across the other “OFF.”

  “That’s very clever,” Celine said. “Fingers that make words. Remind me to tell you my tattooed-penis joke.”

  The waitress took a second to register that she was free, and she gaped at Celine and shot across the floor to the swinging doors that led to the kitchen. Pete saw heads turn now. The Sons at the bar swiveled on their stools. The dancing girl on the table frowned. She had unbuttoned her vest and she was naked underneath.

  Without breaking the man’s stare, Celine reached for a plastic bottle on the table beside her and held it up. “Salsa,” she said. “I guess no one noticed.” Spiderwebs unclenched a fist and took the bottle. He blinked. He had zero idea of what to make of this little old lady. Celine could see he was trying to summon his warrior’s rage but it had fled him in his confusion. Well, she could bring it back.

  “That wasn’t very polite,” she said. “Do you always grab young women by the dress? Or hair, maybe? Maybe the only way you can ever get them to pay attention?”

  The man’s mouth closed and his face hardened. His black eyes went opaque. Just like shutters clapping shut, she thought. He was a very tough customer. One of his buddies unplugged the jukebox.

  “Granny,” he said. “I strongly suggest you sit the fuck back down. That’s me being merciful. Big-time.” Celine took three steps back. The 26 lay beneath her jacket under her ribs. If she had to draw down on the man, she didn’t want to be within his reach. She gauged the distance. She looked around the strange Montana crab shack. Half of the bikers were grinning.