by Paul Moomaw
We drive half a mile toward town and find a Chinese restaurant. Katherine wants to eat there. I have my doubts.
“It’s part of the atmosphere,” she says. “And it doesn’t say Chinese-American so it probably will be okay.
The food is better than I expect, or perhaps I am just hungry after not eating since breakfast. The spring rolls are on the rubbery side, but a dish of Sezchuan beef is well prepared, and spicy enough to hide any kitchen sins. Katherine orders a chicken stir fry. She says it is good, but she only pecks at it, and leaves half of it on her plate when we leave. She seems preoccupied, but when I ask her what she is thinking about she says, “Nothing.”
Back in the room I take out the map they sent me. Gordini’s hiding place is up the Thompson River Road, which enters the highway a mile east of the motel. Four or five miles up the river road there is a small campground. A Forest Service road goes off to the left just beyond that. The country is what they call checkerboard, with alternating blocks of federal and private land. A cabin lies two miles up the Forest Service road, on private land. Gordini is there. If things have gone as they should, and after St. Louis I have even less confidence that I did before, Gordini should be all alone, sitting in the cabin and watching for bears.
I go to my suitcase and pull out the big Ruger. Katherine watches me and then says, “Is that what you’re going to use?”
I nod, and she says, “Can I see it?”
I hand the revolver to her and she holds it awkwardly in her hands. She turns it around slowly in her fingers and then hands it back to me.
“Would you believe I’ve never touched a gun in my life? I guess I’m not a very good American.”
“I hope you’ll still be able to say that the day you die.”
“Why?”
“Guns aren’t anything special.”
“Funny thing for you to say.”
I shrug and put the revolver back into the suitcase.
“You understand that you’ll stay here tomorrow and wait for me.”
Katherine nods. “No problem. But you have to tell me everything afterwards.”
I do not reply and Katherine does not seem to need me to.
We undress and slide into the bed. I kiss her, but neither of us makes a move to do more. I go to sleep almost immediately. Sometime in the night I wake up chilled. I was right about the logs. A wind has kicked up outside, and a cold breeze flows across the bed. I pull the blanket further up around me and glance at Katherine. She lies on her back. She is still, but her eyes are open.
I wake up again at six and get out of bed. Katherine still lies on her back, but now her eyes are closed and her breathing has the rhythm of sleep. I dress quickly, tuck the revolver into my belt, out of sight under the wool-lined parka I am wearing. Katherine is still sleeping as I open the door, step outside, and close it quietly behind me; but when I start the car and begin to pull away I see her standing in the window of the cabin. She waves, and I wave back.
* * *
The Thompson River Road has no traffic on it, and I expected that. Almost no one lives along it. In the summer and in hunting season there are campers, but this is an empty time of year. The pavement follows the bends in the river, and I follow it, driving slowly. There is no hurry, and I want time to prepare myself and get my thoughts in focus. The morning is almost completely quiet. It is not the time of year when birds waste a lot of energy singing. The loudest sound is Katherine’s car. I had not noticed before, but her muffler is approaching the end of its useful life, and it doesn’t do that much muffling. It is not an unpleasant noise, more the deep rumble that a glasspack would give.
A magpie flies out of a tree and positions itself just in front of the car, flapping its wings just enough to keep itself moving. It paces me for a hundred yards or so and then swoops off to the left. I watch it as I drive and wonder what it is like to be a bird. When you do not eat much, people say you eat like a bird, and yet a bird’s whole life is one of looking for food and eating everything it can find. I have told myself at times that my choice of a living has made me as free as a bird. Watching the magpie makes me question the meaning of that for a moment. Then I push the thought away. I do not believe in introspection. It leads to doubt. I cannot afford doubt.
Just before the campground the pavement gives way to gravel. The crunching noise of the tires brings me back to the job at hand. I do not want to announce myself to Gordini. I pull into the empty campground, drop down to the river’s edge, and park where the car will be out of sight of anyone passing on the road. I get out of the car and lock it. Then I pull the Ruger out of my pants, open the loading gate and spin the cylinder. Sometimes even I cannot avoid clichés. I tuck the gun back into my belt and start to walk. It takes about ten minutes to reach the Forest Service road and I begin to follow it. The road has a gradual uphill pitch and soon I am feeling the effort of walking. It feels good. My legs have needed exercise for days.
I have been walking for just over forty minutes and estimate that I am almost to the cabin when I hear the sound of a car approaching, its tires crunching in the gravel and rock of the road. I duck into the trees and crouch down, wondering who the hell is coming my way. According to the map, Gordini’s hideout is the only cabin on this road. I remind myself that what I have is a hand-drawn copy, probably by some city boy who never had to follow a map in his life.
The noise gets louder and in a few moments a dark gray Ford Taurus appears. The driver is alone in the car. As it passes I see a Budget Car Rental sticker on its rear bumper and all of my alarm bells go off. As soon as the car is safely out of sight I step back onto the gravel and start double timing after it. Almost immediately I come to a sharp bend in the road and then the beginning of a clearing. I duck back into the trees. The cabin is in the center of the clearing with the Taurus parked in front. The driver is just getting out of the car. He wears blue jeans so new they still have a crease, squeaky clean hiking boots with bright red laces, a red and yellow lumberjack wool coat and a deer-slayer hat. He looks like a picture from an Orvis catalog, and I wonder if he rented the outfit from the same place he got the car. He goes to the trunk and pops it open. As he does the cabin door swings wide and Gordini steps out.
“Grab some of this stuff,” the driver of the car says. Gordini walks over and the other man hands him two brown paper grocery bags. He pulls two more out of the trunk and follows Gordini back to the cabin. If it is food, they have enough to feed two people for a week. I watch as they disappear inside, and then move back down the road until I am completely clear of the cabin. I sit down with my back against a lodgepole pine. I do not even try to think at first. I let myself breathe and listen to the sounds of the forest. I allow my consciousness to flow into the woods completely, and after a while, I have no idea how long, my mind is calm and crystalline. Then I let myself return to the problem at hand. No, not a problem. Simply an interesting turn of events. They may want Gordini dead, but they want me, too. I have become a problem for them. Or maybe somebody really is that angry about the voice tape in St. Louis. It doesn’t matter.
What does is that they have ignored one of the prime rules: never underestimate your opponent, and I am chagrined to realize that despite our years of association they take me for a fool who will walk right up and let them blow me away.
At first the insult to my skills angers me. Then I stop and smile. A new feeling begins to squeeze out the irritation. I feel a touch of excitement. I have killed a lot of men, but except for the unfortunate incident with Donna’s boyfriend years ago, no one has ever fought back. Today I have a chance to engage in mortal combat. It will be kill or be killed, them or me. Of course, they do not know that, but nothing is perfect.
I stand up and walk deeper into the trees and then move toward the clearing. The woods are crowded with young trees and a dense understory of brush and bushes, the product of decades of fire suppression, and perfect for me. It will provide good cover while I reconnoiter. I stop about three feet from t
he edge of the clearing and look the cabin over. This is big bear country, and the cabin has been fortified against them. The sole window in the front has heavy wooden shutters that can be swung closed when the place is uninhabited. The front door looks solid, made with two by fours. Nails protrude from its planks, and a wooden flat, about four feet by three, lies in front of it. A forest of nails thrusts up from it as well. Bear claws and fangs are hard, but their feet are as soft as mine. I begin to circle around, staying under cover. There is no back door, but each of the other walls holds a window. All of the windows are equipped with wooden shutters. I am far enough away that I cannot see inside the cabin, although I think I detect the shadow of movement a couple of times. As I return to a spot across from the front door it opens again and the driver of the car steps out. He has removed his jacket to reveal a red and green flannel shirt that looks as new as the rest of his outfit. He also has a shoulder holster under his left arm, and I can see the butt of a semi-automatic pistol sticking out of it. From its size I guess it is a nine millimeter. The man stands for a few moments longer, looking at the trees. Then he yawns and rubs his hands together and goes back inside. When he pulls the door shut it closes with a solid thunk that I can hear from my position.
I step farther back into the trees and then start walking away from the cabin as I think about what to do next. I can have no doubt that I was not sent here to kill Gordini. I am supposed to die here. The goon in the designer outdoorsman outfit probably plans to kill Gordini as well, but I am the primary target. I feel a momentary renewal of irritation, not because they want me dead, which I have always known was an eventual possibility, but because they show so little regard for my skill. I push the feeling away. That is their problem. Mine is to decide how to handle the situation.
Sneaking up on the cabin, busting in, and shooting Gordini and the goon is out of the question. The clearing is too large, and so are the cabin windows. I would be in the open for at least half a minute. I would not be able to see them, but if they were looking out they would see me. The door presents the other obstacle to a frontal assault. It is heavy, not something I could just bust through. As long as they are inside, they have the advantage. I do not even know if there is another weapon besides the pistol I saw. I need them, or at least one of them, to be outside. Then I will have the advantage. As I pick up my pace and start heading back towards the Thompson River Road and Katherine’s car I have the beginning of a plan.
I get back to the car, slide behind the driver’s seat, and start the engine. I nod at the growl of the muffler. That will serve a purpose. I reach the Forest Service road and drive up it slowly, letting my mind clear. I have read that the Samurai warriors of old were deadly not only because of their fighting skills but because of their mental clarity. They studied Zen and spent much time meditating, and when they faced an enemy they fought with total calm. No fear, no anger, just a quiet determination to kill. That is my goal now, to have the mind of a warrior.
I speed up so that the noise of the tires on the gravel is loud enough to be heard for a long way. I click the radio on and turn it up loud, and roll all the windows down. Then I keep driving until I can see the bend in the road that comes just before the clearing. I pull the car off the road and stop. I shift into neutral and set the parking brake, then open the door and get out with the engine still running and their radio blaring. I want Gordini and the goon to hear the noise and wonder what the hell is going on. I step away from the car and head through the trees and underbrush toward the cabin. Right at the edge of the clearing, about sixty feet from the building, there is a large ponderosa with a mass of thimble berry bushes around it. When I am twenty feet from it I drop to my hands and knees and crawl the rest of the way. I push my way into the bushes, pull out the Ruger, and settle down on my stomach and elbows. My position gives me a clear view of the front of the cabin. The barrel of the Ruger is more than seven inches long. Properly braced it will serve me as well as a rifle would. I take a deep breath, snuggle deeper into the undergrowth, and wait. The burbling of Katherine’s muffler is even louder than I hoped and someone is singing a country song on the radio.
I check my watch. It says nine-thirty. I return my gaze to the cabin and let my mind go blank. This is something I know how to do. It is one of the skills that hunting animals teaches you, to wait and watch and not notice the passing of time. Still, I am surprised when I look at my watch again and fifteen minutes have passed. I am sure that Gordini and the other man heard the car’s approach, and now they must be able to hear the engine running. I have been counting on their curiosity to bring them outside eventually to see what the story is. If I am wrong, I will have to go to plan B, and right now there is no plan B.
Five more minutes pass and then I see movement behind the window. Another minute and the door flies open. The goon darts out and runs in a crouch to the side of the Taurus, his gun in his hand. I wait. Sooner or later he will have to expose himself. He will come around and investigate the noise, or he will go back inside. Either way, I will be ready for him.
“You see anything?” That is Gordini from inside the cabin, and after a couple of seconds his head appears at the door, but he has the rest of his body tucked away.
“Nothing,” the other man says.
“You should go look,” Gordini says.
“You should go fuck yourself,” the goon says.
“Some tough guy. I’d go myself if I had a gun.”
I allow myself a small wave of elation. I only have to deal with the goon. I can take my time with Gordini. Maybe I will have a little talk with him before I kill him.
Suddenly the goon straightens up and sprints in my direction. I start to get a bead on him but then he swerves and darts into the trees. I pull myself up onto my knees, edge around so that the ponderosa is between us, and wait. At first I cannot see him, and I assume he has gone to ground in the undergrowth.
Then I see a shadow rising. He is standing up behind a tree. He probably thinks he is safe, but the tree is a lodgepole and only covers a part of his body. I could shoot now, but I will wait. I want to see what he does next.
He drops back into a crouch and out of my view again, but then he starts to move, and when he moves he makes noise. He is a city boy. I could feel sorry for him if I wanted to. He is moving in the direction of Katherine’s car. We are both on the same side of the forest road so I shadow him as he goes. He gets within sight of the car and stops. I wait. Then he rises slowly to a crouch and moves forward. He is focused completely on the car and he has no idea that I am right behind him. I follow him as he moves. When he reaches the car he swings around, looking up and down the road, his pistol held out in both hands like a bad cop movie. I brace myself against a tree and aim the long barrel of the Ruger at his back, cocked and ready. Finally he turns all the way around and sees me. He has just enough time to say, “Shit,” before I shoot him in the chest. The heavy slug knocks him back and he slams against the front fender of the car and then to the ground. He is still holding the pistol but his hands are in spasms. I spring toward him and put a bullet into his head. Then I take his gun and throw it as far into the woods as I can. I have no use for it. Maybe one day a lucky hunter will stumble across it and take it home.
I grab the goon under his shoulders and pull him up, then drape him across the hood of Katherine’s car. I get into the car, shift into gear, and drive slowly to the cabin. There is no sign of activity there. Gordini has to have heard the shots and I wonder what is going through his mind. I stop the car and get out. Still nothing.
“Gordini,” I call. “You need to come outside.” I wait by the side of the car and eventually the cabin door opens. Gordini steps out.
“Hey, this wasn’t my idea,” he says.
“No hard feelings.” I see a small shadow of hope cross his face. He stares at the body on the car.
“He dead?” he asks, and I nod.
“That’s good. The son of a bitch probably was gonna kill me after he finished
with you. I didn’t have anything to do with this shit. You believe me?”
“I believe you.”
“You can let me go. You’ll never see me again, and neither will those other bastards. I’ll just disappear. I don’t owe them a fucking thing.”
“Right now I need to to help me with this,” I say and nod at the body.
“Sure. Anything you want.”
I look around and the big ponderosa catches my eye again. It is the only sizable tree near the cabin. Everything else is lodgepole and fir.
“Carry the body over there.” I point at the tree.
“I’ll get my clothes all bloody,” he says, and I have to stifle a laugh.
“You can always change clothes.”
“Yeah, I guess so,” he says. He steps over to the body with obvious reluctance and grabs it. His knees buckle a little and he grunts as he hoists the body over a shoulder.
“Heavy fucker,” he says.
I wave the Ruger toward the tree and he starts walking, making heavy weather of it. I follow close behind and when he reaches the ponderosa I say, “Prop him up against it.”
Gordini lets the corpse slide from his shoulder and grabs it under the armpits. He muscles it around and positions it so it is sitting up against the tree. The head drops forward, but the heavy shrubbery keeps the body more or less erect. Gordini straightens up, takes a deep breath, and turns to me.
“Now what?” he asks.
“Now this.” I shoot him in the head. His body snaps erect from the impact of the bullet and then goes down like a chain-sawed tree. I stuff the Ruger into my belt and step over to him. I am sure that he was dead before he hit the ground. I drag him the last few inches to the tree trunk and place him next to the goon. Then I walk back across the clearing to the cabin and go inside. There is nothing much there. The grocery bags are on the floor. I look inside. They contain mostly canned goods, but there is a pound of bacon in one of them. A soft sided suitcase lies in one corner and some dirty dishes lie on the wood cook stove. Otherwise the place is empty. I pull the bacon out of the sack and go back outside. I carry it to the bodies and toss it on the ground between them. This is a time when the bears are active, moving around in a feeding frenzy trying to put on as much fat as possible before they go into their winter dens. Bears do not see well but they have a very keen sense of smell. Within a day the combined aroma of bacon and dead human flesh will bring one of them to this tree. When it leaves it will be that much better prepared to survive the long winter sleep. It occurs to me that this may be the first useful thing either Gordini or the goon has ever done.