The Guide

Home > Literature > The Guide > Page 7
The Guide Page 7

by Peter Heller


  He climbed. He skirted a tower of sandstone jutting from the pines and the trail topped out into a grove of aspen and he found himself looking through their dripping leaves to the flying scud of the sky. He left the track and brushed through thick ferns and worked himself toward the river. As he did, he heard the faint rush. He saw an opening in the trees. He crouched. A hunter’s instinct. He pushed through a screen of serviceberry and then he was out in the rain on a rock ledge. He crawled. Got to the lip beside a broken slab of sandstone and he peered over.

  He could see it all. He must have climbed almost eight hundred feet. The canyon was shaped like a broad funnel. Upstream, to his left, in the widest part of it, were woods and Kreutzer’s wide hayfield. The river ran down the near side of the tapering funnel and the county highway down the far side. The canyon walls angled toward each other, pinched the road and the river closer together. Still plenty of room: enough to give the river its wildness. And there, right below him, were the bends they had fished, the lodge in the tightest part of the canyon. Through the trees, he could see a short ribbon of paved county highway outside the gate. He could see the massive steel gate and its cogs. The tall hurricane fence, chain-link, on either side of it running into the pines. He could see the massage and pool cabins, trout pond, a couple of guest cabins in the woods, not his. As he scanned with naked eyes he saw a figure come out of the lodge and toss a bucket over the bank and into the trees. Shay, he could see the white sailor shirt. Probably tossing bacon grease from breakfast; she didn’t care about the rain. He let his eyes travel back to his left and he saw the main office house. Half a dozen cars and trucks parked in the lot. Not Kurt’s black Ford. Again to the river: he could see the bridge. He followed the flurry of white above it and lost it at the bend, but found it again in the riffle below the sign on its hated post. He worked the binocs out of his rain jacket and set his elbows on the rocks and scanned.

  There in the field was Kreutzer’s log house. The central core with tall windows, two stories, and the lower wings, symmetrical and ranch style, on either side. In the middle was an octagonal tower, a crow’s nest, also made of logs, surrounded by windows like a control tower. Like the main lodge, Kreutzer’s had a wide deck on the river side of the building, but this one had planters with trained Japanese pines and a single rectangular table in the middle. Jack adjusted the focus and saw three chairs.

  Next, he followed the long drive that curved from the log mansion out through the hay meadow. At the paved road, through a gap in the trees, he could see signposts. Probably as inviting as the sign on the river. But then something curious. There was a hedgerow of pines screening the meadows and lodge from the highway; many fine houses had the same. And just inside the trees, at the edge of the fields, was another massive steel gate. No cogs or engraved trout, but similar dimensions, similar state of rust, as if they’d been installed at a similar time. And a hurricane fence, same height and design, running up- and downcanyon. He followed it downstream with the binocs. The fence entered trees and appeared in gaps and he could see it running straight into the visible line of the lodge’s chain-link. As if they were the same property.

  Made no sense. He heard the faint rip of traffic and he lowered the binocs and saw a camper van hauling a johnboat heading down the county road, and passing it going the other way a 4Runner with kayaks and an Audi with bikes on the roof. Everybody enjoying the green late summer, not too concerned, clearly, with any virus or if it was going to cause another pandemic. Why wasn’t he? Enjoying himself? He lifted the glasses. He saw movement by the highway again and this time there were four vehicles and they were turning into Kreutzer’s drive: a full-size black pickup with ladder rack, followed by a white van, windowless—Jack refocused and saw a logo and the word plumbing—then a dull silver four-door pickup with a door sign he couldn’t read. Cody? Cody had a gray Silverado, no topper, no rod rack. Jack had seen it his first afternoon, and it had a sign painted on the front doors that said cody’s premium guide service. At the rear of the line was a white squad car with a bar light and a gold badge decal on the front door.

  Jack felt rain trickling into the back of his collar. He turned his head and spat and watched again as the big gate ground open and the little convoy entered and the steel plates slid closed behind them.

  * * *

  •

  He lowered the binoculars and rubbed his eyes with the back of a hand. He felt a faint queasiness of vertigo. Kreutzer. He’s a batshit crazy old coot. Isn’t that what Kurt had said? Can’t go talk to him ’cause the gate is locked, he’d never open it. Something like that? And his boss was burning mad at Jack for putting a client, and the business, at risk. And now. Now Kurt was driving right up to this volatile neighbor’s house, right through a gate that looked exactly like the lodge’s own, followed, it seemed, by Cody. Who had warned him strictly to stay to his side of the sign when fishing, who said he had gotten shot at himself. And it was looking more and more like Kreutzer was not a neighbor at all but another lodge on a contiguous section of land. Looked to Jack like the same fence, same property. And he’d bet the ranch that Den had landed there. There was no helipad but so what? He could have landed on the driveway, it was wide enough. What the heck? He scooted back and stood and let himself steady. He tucked the binoculars back into his jacket and beat tracks the way he had come.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Three summers ago he had gone on a river trip with his best friend. Not just any river, but one of the most remote on the continent, a big stream that flowed out of a string of lakes far from any outpost and ran over two hundred miles into Hudson Bay. It began as a late-summer idyll, a paddler’s dream: fishing, blueberry picking, camping on islands with moose that had never seen a man. They had no satellite phone, had left their watches, and planned to call the flight out from the Cree village of Wapahk when they got to the bay. On their own time. But the season had other ideas. It sent them early frost, and fire, and strangers whose intentions were not at all kind; and turned their sojourn into a fierce struggle for survival, and into the kind of tragedy that the rest of a long life might not heal or prayer redeem.

  If he lived that long. If he learned to pray.

  After Wynn’s death Jack found his solace in fishing and reading, as he had when his mother died. In work, too, alongside his father and Uncle Lloyd. And so here on this river, he might have found a haven in fishing and work together, but he didn’t.

  He scooted into the trees and found his way back along the beaten trace through ferns, back down the faint game trails and over rockfall, kicking loose stones as he went. He tumbled out into the stand of ponderosas and changed back into waders and boots and picked up his rod again and stepped out into the river. He casted ahead as he waded back downstream. He fished as a man fished who was not that interested in catching anything, but was late for a date and heading home and dropping his flies in as he went. In case anyone was watching. Who would be watching? His boss and his colleague Cody were busy doing other things. Other what? Hell if he knew. He wouldn’t care, either, except that he was beginning to feel that he needed to.

  He caught two fish, despite himself. His date, or appointment, was waiting for him in one of the chairs on the lodge porch. She set a cup of tea on a side table. The rain had stopped and her own light Gore-Tex jacket was hanging over the chair. Her strung rod was in the rack just off the porch.

  “Can I put your rain jacket in my pack?” he said. “Looks like it stopped, but it’d be good to bring.”

  “Okay.” She rocked forward and stood. “You still look funny.”

  “Funny?”

  “Disturbed. A little.”

  “I went fishing,” he said lamely.

  “Oh?” She raised an eyebrow. “Should I be jealous?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Didn’t catch anything?”

  “A couple.”

  “Do you want to go again?”


  The question stung. That a client might ask that of her guide. It hurt his professional pride. But then he wasn’t acting at all like a pro these days.

  Engender enthusiasm. His first fishing boss, Jeff Streeter, was a legendary guide up in Saratoga, Wyoming, and he had said that to him on his first day. Jack was only sixteen then. Jeff had said, “You’ve got good technique, Jack. Really good. And a handle on a lot of deep fishing knowledge. Kind of amazing for someone your age. It’s great. Pass on as much of that as your client wants to absorb. But that’s not your main job. Your main job is to engender enthusiasm.”

  Jack, who had been shy of the world since his mother had tried to hold the scrabbling mare to the steep hillside, and failed, and slipped with the horse into air, into a flooded gorge—he didn’t know if that was a job he could accomplish. Enthusiasm was not an emotion or state of being he could much relate to. He wasn’t against it, he just approached the few joys in his life in a different, maybe quieter, way. Or maybe he never approached joy at all. If he ever felt anything like it, it was because the elation snuck up on him, as it had in the river here on his first afternoon. Which he guessed was two days ago but seemed much longer.

  Did he want to go fishing again? “Of course,” he said. “I actually enjoy watching you fish. Can’t say that about many.”

  She smiled, maybe relieved. “Well, let’s go, pardner.” She handed him her jacket, pulled her rod off the rack, and went straight for the railroad-tie steps that led down to the river trail.

  * * *

  •

  She led him this afternoon. He thought she was going to turn left at the river and go downstream to start at Ellery’s fence, but she didn’t. She turned up, and didn’t unhook her line until she was at the fast water and big boulders below his cabin. She said she thought she might try nymphing a stone fly and a prince, what did he think?

  “Awesome. Awesome idea.”

  She did a double take. That wasn’t a word that came out of his mouth. Was he trying to be enthusiastic? He wondered himself. He definitely did not feel centered at the moment. Jeez, he thought, relax. But he couldn’t stop seeing the trucks turning into Kreutzer’s drive, and the van between them.

  She waded to her hips behind the largest boulder, and threw a short cast into fast water. And she held her rod high and almost horizontal just like a conductor with wand about to launch a movement. Then she followed the line as it was swirled downstream, and kept it tight and nearly vertical. She was nymphing almost like a European, and Jack was surprised and truly enjoyed watching. She hummed. Jack noticed that even when she murmured a melody, sounding barely above the burbles of the water, it thrummed through her whole body like a cello. Wynn had always said that Jack hummed unconsciously all the time—when he paddled, when he sliced cheese, when he scanned with binocs—and he had never known. He wondered if she did.

  Her indicator was an orange plastic bubble not much bigger than a garbanzo bean, and when it hitched, hesitated ever so slightly, she raised her right hand—not jerked, but lifted it with firm intent—and set the hook and had one on. Wow, good. Jack thrilled and he didn’t say a word as she brought in a nice brown, but he unshucked the long-handled net and waded in.

  She moved up and caught another from a pocket just upstream. She cradled her rod in her left arm and bent to unhook it, and this one, a heavy rainbow, squirmed and swam off without ceremony. She stood and Jack withdrew the net and they were shoulder to shoulder. Fishing was work and he could smell the heat coming off her neck, and a spicier scent, lavender maybe, probably from the massage. She looked up at him and let a strand of hair settle across her cheek. They were nearly opposite where he had crossed the river earlier. He didn’t glance at the ponderosas or let himself think again about the vehicles, the opaque house. Her mouth opened, her eyes flickered, and she closed it.

  “I like fishing,” she said suddenly. “A lot. But what the fuck is going on around here?”

  * * *

  •

  “Wanna sit?” he said.

  “Sure.”

  He gestured at the near bank and they waded over. They sat on a rounded boulder. He reached down and slid a bottle of Gatorade from a side pocket of the pack.

  “Thanks,” she said, and unscrewed the top, drank, handed it back.

  “Did you ever talk to Mr. Den?” Jack said.

  “The owner? Yes. My manager arranged for me to talk to him. Den wanted to assure me.”

  “Assure you?”

  “Yes. That they had many celebrity guests, and very well-to-do people, and that they took security very seriously.”

  “Rich as shit,” Jack murmured.

  “Hunh?”

  “The silver-button guy and his young wife, Will and Neave. They are very well-to-do. Very.”

  “I thought so, too. ‘Rich as shit’ seems right.”

  “So are the fleecy couple,” Jack said. “Just a hunch.” She nodded. “So what did Mr. Den say?”

  “He said that they have their own highly trained security team and that I would never have to think about it. They had never had a problem, not once.”

  “I haven’t seen any security team,” Jack said.

  “Me neither.”

  “Did he have an accent?”

  “Oh yeah. Posh. Harrow or Eton. Oxford, probably. I could tell you what county in North Carolina, but I’m not too good with the Brits.”

  “He watches us from the bridge,” Jack said.

  “What?”

  “He sits up in his town house in Chelsea and watches us fish. Cody told me. And now he’s here. Probably in front of a screen.”

  “No kidding. I noticed the camera. I thought it was so that the lodge could make sure no locals busted their private water.”

  “That, too.”

  “What else?” she said.

  “What else what?”

  She took the Gatorade from his hand and elbowed him in the ribs. Not softly. “Spill it. You got a canary’s tail sticking out of your mouth. Have had almost since I met you. You don’t know whether to cough it up or run.”

  He turned for the pack. “Want chocolate or lodge-cured prosciutto? Shay gave me some of both.” She elbowed him again, harder.

  “Ow.”

  “Don’t mess with me. I’m old enough to be at least your older sister.”

  “That’s a freaky North Carolina way of putting it.” He handed her a bar of Lindt dark chocolate with sea salt.

  “Don’t make easy cracks, either,” she said. “I’m serious. What else?”

  The breeze was up and the scud had lightened and the sun was white and swam in it. When he looked at her he had to squint.

  “Don’t you wish we could just fish?” he said. “Always fish on? And not deal with…” He trailed off.

  “No,” she said. “No, I like to work. And I like to know what the fuck the oddballs and mystics and creeps are doing all around me. You wanna go to dinner?” she said.

  “Dinner?”

  “You, me, your truck, Crested Butte.”

  “Definitely. Yes.” He didn’t have to think for a second.

  “Well, let’s go. Happy hour probably ends at six.”

  * * *

  •

  She met him at his truck in the lot inside the gate. “How’d you know it was mine?” he said.

  She was dressed in tight jeans and engraved cowboy boots and a short blue wool jacket, almost felt, with a wild rose embroidered up one sleeve. He thought she looked understated and gorgeous. “Doh,” she said. “Rod rack and a Colorado Cattlemen’s Association sticker on the rear window.”

  “Hold on, I’ll tell them in the office we won’t be here for dinner.”

  “Already did. Between here and my cabin, I got intercepted three times. Young people I’ve never seen kept asking if I neede
d any help. Two of them actually stammered when I told them we were going to town.”

  “Huh.”

  “Off the reservation,” she said. “I swear, I’m starting to feel claustrophobic.”

  Jack didn’t say anything. He unlocked the truck and held the passenger door. Before she got in he reached past her and picked up a discarded chew tin, an empty can of Southern Style Sweet Tea, and two spent tippet rolls. He didn’t see any trash can nearby so he tossed them onto the Xtra cab seat in back. “Sorry.”

  “You should see mine.” She thanked him and got in and he started up, backed out, pulled up to the keypad on its post at the gate, and punched in the numbers on the tag Kurt had given him. He realized he was holding his breath for the two seconds it took for the chains and cogs to respond.

  * * *

  •

  They drove down the canyon. The overcast was breaking up and the shadows of the pines slid up the windshield and sometimes they came around a curve and the low sun was in their eyes and they winced until they were back in shadow. The air was cool and poured in the open windows. It smelled of woods after rain. In a few miles the valley widened and they could see the river flurrying through the bends, and hayfields and ranch houses set back under cottonwoods. Jack was surprised: he suddenly relaxed. He had not realized that his chest and shoulders had been tight maybe ever since Kurt had showed him his bunk. He relaxed and something opened inside him and he glanced at Alison K, who was singing out the window. He could barely hear her in the buffeting of the wind rushing past but it made him…something. Happy, maybe. Maybe.

  They drove. At Kit’s Cabin Cutoff, they crossed the river on the steel bridge and took the dirt road that climbed away from the stream through mostly open country, sage and grass with islands of black timber and aspen. The sun had broken through and it was nice to get a wide view again. A big redtail soared and circled high ahead of them. In the rearview, Jack saw a Sprinter camper van and a black Jeep Cherokee also crossing the bridge.

 

‹ Prev