by Rob Scott
Versen spoke, interrupting his anxious thoughts. ‘It’s getting too busy out here. I don’t have a good feeling about this.’ The street was growing steadily more crowded, despite the early aven.
‘Let’s take a side street and cut through the orchard,’ Garec replied. ‘At least we’ll get some protection behind the buildings that way.’
‘I’m worried it’s too light out for that. Why would a wagon go through the orchard unless there was something to hide?’ Versen’s face was grim. ‘If anyone sees us go, we’re as good as dead.’
‘We just have to make it to the corner,’ Garec replied nervously. ‘We’ll check the window above Mika’s and then decide.’ As they approached a crossroads, Garec stared straight ahead and whispered, ‘You do it. We can’t look up there at the same time: anyone watching us would find that suspicious.’ They didn’t know if spies were actively searching for partisan groups in Estrad, but they were determined to take as few chances as possible.
Versen glanced up, casually, and reported, ‘One taper, not lit.’
‘Get us out of here quick,’ Garec said into cupped hands, ostensibly warming them against the morning chill.
Jacrys Marseth watched from the window of a local merchant’s stop as the wagon turned slowly down a side street towards an apple orchard that flanked the neighbourhood. When they disappeared from view, he motioned to a Malakasian soldier waiting quietly in an adjacent room and whispered, ‘Two streets down. Take them now.’
The soldier hurried out of the back of the shop to join the remainder of his patrol. He leaped into the saddle and led a small group of heavily armed men into the crowded street. Their horses pounded through the morning mud, parallelling the wagon’s path, and then turned quickly to cut off the two suspected partisans. Bursting into the orchard, the small patrol briskly surrounded the wagon and forced them to a stop.
‘Step down,’ a ruddy-faced corporal directed.
‘We’re unarmed,’ Versen answered, slowly raising his hands above his head. Garec did the same and moved quickly from the wagon.
‘Kneel down,’ the soldier commanded, ‘there in front of the horses.’ Both men did exactly as they had been ordered. Garec felt his hands shaking uncontrollably and put them firmly on top of his head, tightly gripping two handfuls of hair as an anchor.
‘We’re farmers,’ he said, ‘just taking this morning’s load to the village market.’ He heard his voice crack and decided to remain silent unless absolutely necessary.
‘Check it,’ the corporal ordered a nearby soldier who dismounted and began unfastening ropes that held down one corner of the large canvas tarp. Finding an unruly knot, the soldier drew a knife from his belt and sliced through the cloth in a long gash that exposed the wagon’s cargo. Garec sneaked a glance at Versen, who gave his friend a conspiratorial grin.
‘Apples, corporal,’ the soldier called. ‘It’s just apples.’
147 TENTH STREET
‘Why do you suppose they call it a trash receptacle?’ Mark Jenkins wrestled to fit a large pizza box into their kitchen garbage can. ‘I mean, as much rubbish as goes into this thing eventually comes out again, right? So it’s not really a receptacle as much as it is a holding centre.’ He bent the box in half against his knee as if he were breaking up kindling wood for a fireplace. ‘I say we start changing the way people refer to it. We can call it the trash holding centre.’ He thought for a moment, then added, ‘That really doesn’t work, does it?’
Steven Taylor wasn’t listening. He sat at one end of the sofa in their living room turning Higgins’s safe deposit box key over in his hands.
He had been enjoying one of the most wonderful weeks of his life. He had taken Hannah to dinner on Saturday, Catherine’s Duncan Phyfe cabinet lashed securely in the back of Mark’s truck while they drove around Denver looking for somewhere to eat. The following day they had gone for a long hike above the canyon. Hannah had joined him for dinner again on Tuesday, when he had, on an impulse, driven into the city after work and told her he couldn’t wait until Friday to see her again.
Her reaction had been well worth the headache from using the interstate during rush-hour on a weeknight: as she saw him enter the store she excused herself from her customers and walked towards him, smiling – and she took the last three or four paces at a slight run. He had never had a woman run – even a few steps – to be with him before: it was exhilarating.
He was completely smitten with Hannah Sorenson, and that should have been enough to have him walking on air. But all the while, the question of William Higgins’s safe deposit box was festering in the back of his mind.
Mark came in from the kitchen carrying two open beer bottles and handed one to Steven. ‘Are you done with the pizza?’
‘Yeah, I’m fine.’ Steven took a mouthful of cold beer and slipped the key back into his shirt pocket.
‘You know, we should start learning how to cook a few things. This Chinese-pizza-peanut butter diet is going to catch up with us someday,’ Mark mused. Steven laughed as he looked across the room at his best friend. Mark, at twenty-eight, was in perfect physical shape. A well-built African-American, he swam several miles every morning with student members of the high school swimming team, and was invariably up for running, biking, or the most gruelling climbs Steven could find for them on weekends. Steven was in good physical condition, but Mark was a natural athlete.
‘Are you kidding? Look at yourself. You’re a specimen; you look like you were constructed by teenage girls during a pyjama party fantasy game.’ Steven grimaced, then added, ‘But I agree: we ought to start thinking about eating better.’
‘After tomorrow night. One last super supreme – with extra everything – tomorrow night. We’ll finish the beer and kick off a trial period of healthy nutrition on Friday. Deal?’ Mark offered a hand to his roommate.
‘Deal. And then on Friday we’ll … I don’t know, we’ll roast some fish or steam some vegetables or something.’ Steven had no idea what was involved in either roasting or steaming.
Apparently, neither did Mark. ‘Do we have a steamer?’
‘No idea. Maybe we can get a book, or find an idiot’s guide to the kitchen website.’
Mark raised his bottle. ‘To roast fish and steamed vegetables.’
Steven returned the toast. He thought for a few seconds, then suggested, ‘Maybe those things are available as take-out from someplace.’
They both laughed, and Mark headed back to the kitchen: if they were seriously planning to improve their eating habits, it would be best not to leave any leftovers before the start of Nutrition Hell was upon them. As he heaped the remains of the pizza onto two plates, he called, ‘You know, you ought to hand that key over to Howard.’
‘I know, but I’m curious. I can’t even concentrate on work any more.’ Steven switched off the television, a boringly one-sided baseball game. ‘I’m closing up for Howard tomorrow night. When he leaves, I’ll find some reason to go into the safe. I’ll grab a quick look and be home in time for our last night of real food: long live fat, sugar and cholesterol.’
Mark walked over and handed him one of the plates. ‘Enjoy it: we’ll miss it when it’s gone. I understand you’re curious. But whatever is in there has been in there for a long time. You still ought to give Howard the key. Let him decide whether or not to open it.’
‘He’ll say no.’
‘He’s the bank manager. Of course he’ll say no.’
‘Damnit!’ Steven took a frustrated bite. ‘One peek and I’ll throw the key in Clear Creek. It’ll be out of my system for ever.’
Mark shook his head. ‘Dead cats. All over town dead cats. I hope it’s a hundred-and-thirty-five-year-old tuna sandwich. That’ll show you crime doesn’t pay.’ Changing the subject, he asked, ‘So, when do I get to meet the lovely Hannah?’
‘We’re climbing Decatur this weekend to get some shots of the aspens. The weather’s turning; it might be our last run up there without snowshoes. You want to come
?’
‘Great.’ Mark absentmindedly adjusted the dust jacket on a coffee-table book about Picasso, then said, ‘You’ve been seeing her a lot. She must be something.’
Steven brightened suddenly. ‘I can’t believe it; I’m completely knocked-down-the-road stupid by her. I think about her all the time—’ he corrected himself, ‘well, except for when I’m dwelling on that miserable safe deposit box.’ He added, ‘I can’t get her out of my head. I’ve never felt like this before and I’m sure I’m going to blow it – maybe hit her with my car, or catch her hair on fire with a flame-thrower, or something like that.’
Mark chuckled. ‘I can’t wait to meet her. If you do happen to see a flame-thrower lying around here, remember: flame-throwers don’t kill people. People kill people.’
Several hours later, Steven was still awake and needing to talk to Hannah. He was worried about waking her, but at last he ventured a call.
‘No, I’m still awake,’ she told him. ‘I’ve missed you these past twenty hours – this is silly. It’s like I’m back in school.’
‘Yeah, I don’t mind, though.’ He took a risk, and added, ‘It’s been a long time since I’ve felt like this … I don’t know, maybe never.’
Hannah’s voice dropped slightly. ‘Me too … I wish I could see you, just for a minute, just to say good night properly.’
‘I’ll be there in forty minutes,’ Steven said.
‘We could meet halfway, say, the diner in Golden?’ she suggested, not knowing whether Steven was serious.
‘I’ll be there in twenty minutes,’ he said, and hung up.
It was after midnight when Steven crossed the parking lot to her car. Hannah was standing next to it drinking from a Styrofoam cup. The light from inside the diner gave her skin a warm, surreal glow. She was wearing old jeans, running shoes and a navy blue sweatshirt. Her hair hung over one shoulder like it had the day they met.
He hugged her close and bent slightly to catch the lilac aroma that scented her hair, then tilted her chin up and pressed his lips against hers. She fell into the kiss, her tongue teasing his as he probed the deepest recesses of her silken mouth. He ached for her; as he reached to caress the nape of her neck his hand brushed her breast and even beneath her sweatshirt he felt her nipple tauten.
Still kissing him, Hannah took his hand and moved it back to her breast as she stroked down his chest to his thighs. Steven pressed harder into her, backing her up against the car door.
She moaned softly and ground her hips into his. Steven thought he might explode, right then and there in the diner parking lot. When Hannah slid her hand between his legs, he backed away far enough to say, ‘You’ll need to check the morning paper.’
‘What? What are you— Why?’ Hannah wasn’t paying much attention.
‘Tomorrow’s paper,’ he said again, ‘just check it to be sure I make it home all right.’
‘Why is that?’ She returned to his mouth, licking his lips salaciously before kissing him hard again.
‘Because I fully expect to crash my car before getting anywhere near the highway.’
At that, Hannah laughed, an embarrassed, blustery chuckle that filled Steven’s heart.
He laughed too, and Hannah released him.
Sliding her hands into the back pockets of his jeans, she pouted, ‘All right, if I have to stop.’
‘I think it’s for the best. I’d hate to overhear the paramedics in the ambulance discussing the suspicious wet spot on the front of my jeans – Jesus, what would they tell my mother? “Uh, yes, Mrs Taylor, he was wearing underwear, but they were soiled … uh, no ma’am, the other side.” Good thing I’d be beyond caring; I’d never live that down!’
Hannah laughed out loud and pushed him away playfully. ‘Go on, silly. But this weekend, we’ll continue from where we left off, and no excuses.’ She growled softly. ‘It’ll be worth your while, soldier.’
‘It will, without doubt, be the greatest eleven seconds of my adult life.’ He bent down to take her lips once more.
They laughed together, and Hannah kissed him tenderly a final time. ‘Good night,’ she whispered, ‘dream of me.’
‘Believe it.’
Mark walked down Miner Street towards Owen’s Pub in the October twilight. It had snowed lightly during the afternoon and the students in his history classes had been impossible to manage: they were convinced a storm was coming and they would wake to a school closure. Mark knew the snowfall was just a dusting, the sight of the buildings coated thinly in white refreshed him: it was as if the entire town had been given a coat of whitewash, a brisk autumn cleansing to rinse away the vestiges of the summer tourist season. His boots left unmistakable prints on the snowy sidewalk.
He was glad the weekend was coming, although it was likely the snow would mean the cancellation of their planned assault on Decatur Peak. Light snow in town could mean several feet above the tree line.
Idaho Springs on a weeknight was an interesting dichotomy: welcoming, colourful tourist shops that were completely devoid of tourists. Mark preferred it that way. Idaho Springs was a tourist stop – just that, a stop, never anyone’s destination – but that still meant several important perks for those who lived in town. Mark mentally tallied his favourites: first, a wide variety of news sources. Mark, a New York native, loved being able to pick up the New York Times or even the Boston Globe to catch up on news from the northeast. The second was great coffee, perhaps the town’s most important contribution to the state economy since the mining boom, with outstanding varieties, from Brazilian to Turkish, available every day. Just thinking about it made his mouth water.
He checked his watch and crossed Miner. Steven was slated to close the bank at 5.30, so Howard would have a thirty-minute head start at the bar. The roommates already had plans for their last pizza later that evening, but one never knew how the night would unfold, especially when Howard had a comfortable lead on the pack.
Coming through the front door of the pub, Mark had a moment of self-consciousness about being black. The bar was filled end-to-end with white people and although he knew most of them, it was at times like this he felt out of place. It didn’t often happen – he was known and respected by the local community because he taught their children at the high school – but even so, there were not many people of colour in the Springs and from time to time he felt strangely isolated, although he was coming to feel as if the town was his true home.
Those people rushing by on the interstate had no idea how gratifying it could be to live in the foothills. They were all in such a hurry to get to a destination; their stop here rarely merited more than a quick glance while buying an out-of-state paper or stirring sugar into an espresso.
Mark had been drawn to the mountains ever since he was a young boy, when his parents had taken him and his sister on a cross-country trip. The majestic beauty of the Rocky Mountains had made an indelible impression on Mark’s father: he had not wanted to leave. Mark’s parents had planned and saved for years for this trip; they had hoped to reach the Pacific Ocean and drink expensive wine on Fisherman’s Wharf in San Francisco. Instead, their journey was stalled in the Rockies for several days.
It was as though Mark’s father could not force himself to drive west over the Continental Divide and on into Utah. Instead, they had gone hiking, taken mining tours, ridden the George-town Loop Railroad and even tried fly-fishing in the national park. While his sister had grown bored, Mark had been happy to remain in the hills. He knew, even then, that he would return.
Grainy 8" × 10" photos enlarged from snapshots of expansive mountain vistas had adorned the walls of the Jenkins home on Long Island and ten years later Mark’s father returned to help his son move into the residence hall at Colorado State University in Fort Collins. It was like coming home for both of them. Mark’s father had never forgotten the impact that trip had on him, and the strange way he had made such a powerful connection with the craggy peaks and lush green forests.
Standing in the
doorway of Owen’s Pub now, Mark thought of his father and decided to call home the following day, then he moved into the crowd and began searching for Howard Griffin. Like any neighbourhood bar at 5.00 p.m., Owen’s was noisy, but it was crowd noise, the directionless, rhythmless, flat tones of people carrying on about politics, romance, October baseball and the coming ski season. Mark found weekends at Owen’s more enjoyable, when an elderly Italian couple provided music from a small stage in the far corner of the bar. Vincent and Maria Casparelli had been playing together since the fifties and Mark was convinced there was not a song in the entire jazz repertoire they did not know. Enthusiastic patrons would scribble barely legible requests on cocktail napkins and deliver them with a few dollars to the top of Maria’s piano. Vincent would glance at the napkins, nod telepathically to Maria and the duo would begin piece after piece without missing a beat. Vincent played saxophone, improvising between verses, but it was Maria who carried the act. Her jazz work verged on perfection; Mark rarely heard her recycle riffs, even though she played hundreds of songs, week after week.
Vincent invariably wore a suit with a Paisley ascot, his pork pie hat hanging on a wooden peg above the piano; Maria was dressed in the uniform of the serious piano matron: a dark skirt with a white blouse and a pink corsage accented with baby’s breath pinned over her breast. Buying Vincent a rye on the rocks late in the evening would always bring on a story about summers in the Catskills or playing nightclubs in New York City with Woody Herman’s band.
Howard Griffin was not difficult to spot. He was leaning against the bar expounding to a small group of twenty-one-year-olds that included Myrna Kessler, a former student of his. As he headed towards them, Mark overheard Howard’s sermon – he had obviously worked his way through several beers already.