by Paul Moomaw
Chapter 48
A huge ponderosa pine, the only old growth tree left standing after loggers laid siege to these hills fifty years ago, rises a hundred feet away from my Yaak cabin’s front door. It tops out at more than a hundred feet, dwarfing Katherine, who stands in front of it, staring up. She wears powder blue jeans and a red and white striped flannel shirt, and bright sun makes her hair glow. I have always avoided cameras, whether in front of the lens or behind it. Now I suddenly wish a had one. The urge makes me smile, and I wonder if this is the way it really might be, moving to the Yaak, and letting the dark and shadowy, icy life I have lived begin to melt in mundane sunlight.
Katherine did not actually need much persuasion when I asked her to come here with me. When I returned from Colorado I called her from Sea-Tac to let her know I was coming, and then drove straight to her house.
“I’m flattered you didn’t go home and call me in the morning,” she said.
“I wanted to ask you something before I lost my nerve.”
She turned and led me into the house. “I didn’t think you were ever afraid,” she said over her shoulder.
“Everybody’s afraid of something.”
She went to a kitchen cupboard and pulled out a bottle of brandy and a juice glass, one with little oranges painted on the side.
“Here,” she said. “Liquid courage. It’s just a cheap domestic, but it’s the best I can do.”
I started to say no, but knew I wanted a drink. I took the bottle, poured a couple inches of brandy into the glass, took a swallow, and decided it was better than I deserved. I carried the glass to her Katherine’s sofa and sat down. Katherine remained on her feet, looking down at me.
“Speak,” she said.
“Can you get a few days off?” I asked.
“Do I want to?”
“I hope so. I want you to come to the Yaak with me, to my place there.”
Katherine scratched her head and sat down in a chair. “Sounds serious,” she said. “Why the sudden impulse?”
“Not sudden,” I said. “I’ve been wanting to take you there for a while. Will you come with me?”
She crossed her arms then and smiled wickedly. “Give me three good reasons why I should.”
I racked my brain and hoped my creative unconscious would offer me something brilliant, but it just sat inside like a stone.
“I don’t want your only memory of Montana to be Thompson Falls,” I finally said.
She sat and waited while I struggled.
“And I remember you said there was no me in my house. Maybe you’ll feel different about the cabin. I did a lot of the wood working and stuff myself. I even made a four-poster bed.” I stopped again, waiting to get a reaction.
“That’s two,” she said.
I took a deep breath, caught her eyes with mine and held them there, and said, “I just really want you to come.”
Katherine unwound from the chair, stepped across to the sofa, and settled onto my thighs.
“Why didn’t you say so to begin with,” she said.
And now she is here, standing under the ponderosa, after being suitably impressed by my hand-hewn four-poster bed, which instead of the saints has gargoyles on each post. All at once I cannot imagine her being, our being, any place else. I walk across the clearing and stand next to her, and she grabs my hand and squeezes it.
“How old do you think it is?” she says.
“Couple of hundred years, maybe.”
“And it’s the only one left.” She shivers and leans against me. “They say plants know when other plants around them are being murdered. I wonder how this one felt? I wonder if it still remembers? That would be pretty awful, to be the one left standing when everything that counts is gone.” She stares at me, and the fierceness of her gaze is palpable. “I think I would never stop hoping that someone would come and cut me down.”
Chapter 49
The next week I am on my way back to Colorado. This time I choose to drive from Seattle to Dillon. I am in no hurry and the route is a pleasant one, over Snoqualmie Pass to Ellensburg, south to Interstate Seventy, then east through Salt Lake City and on to Grand Junction, a middling sized town at the western edge of Colorado. The drive will give me time to think, time even to change my mind if I decide to, although I know I will not.
I still am not sure why I am doing this. Call it stubbornness. I took on a job and it is not done until the last name on the list can be crossed off. I suppose it also gives me something to do while I put off deciding how to resolve the situation with Angwin. Suddenly I am hallucinating the list, and a hand is erasing Katherine’s name and replacing it with her brother’s. It makes me smile, but then I shake my head. It is undoubtedly the simplest solution, but it also means breaking my biggest rule—never doing a job in Seattle—and, even though I would enjoy killing Angwin, Katherine does not want that. I will keep her feelings in mind as long as I can.
Mostly, and more and more as the days pass, I think about quitting. Even if I had not suddenly gone from Mob weapon to Mob target I would be wondering if it is not time. I do not need the money and I am not sure I need the excitement any more. I once knew an aerialist, a woman who walked high wire for an itinerant circus that worked small towns and county fairs. She told me that the important trick to staying on the wire was never to pay attention to the platform at the other end. She said if you look at the platform at all, you start wanting to be there and that takes your focus off the wire and then you can fall. I wonder if the same does not apply to me. I have been walking my own high wire for years, exhilarated by the challenge, but now I have looked at the platform and the promise of its safety makes me realize that I have used up too much of myself. I am beginning to make small slips, and I am tired. My platform is the cabin in the Yaak Valley and once I let myself think about this at all a hunger for the peace and isolation it offers sneaks up on me at odd moments. Worse, Katherine is now standing on that platform, at least in my wishes. I realize that I have not let myself wish for anything since I was a very young boy; but I cannot deny that I wish for this, and a part of me feels like that child again.
Before I know it, and with my inner scold sneering at me for indulging in idle fantasies, I am making plans. The house itself will be easy to sell. The market in Seattle has been white hot for years and I will make an obscenely large profit. With that and what I have stashed away I will never want for money. I make a mental inventory of possessions. The furniture is easy. I will find a dealer in used stuff and let him take it for a reasonable price. I may keep my recliner because I am attached to it, but the other things would just be a hassle. I will probably take my kitchen toys, or at least some of them. Even in the woods of northwest Montana I will still want good coffee and crisp pannini.
Suddenly I remember the necklace, the one I brought back from Saint Petersburg. It has been tucked away for years, out of sight and out of mind. I have always thought that it should adorn a beautiful woman but I could never bring myself to sell it. Now there is a beautiful woman in my life, and I am beginning to let myself hope that she will be there from now on. I will give the necklace to her, if she wants it. I nod to myself and go back to my inventory. There is very little. A small U-Haul trailer will hold everything when I leave.
My musings have gotten me almost to Grand Junction. I have driven steadily without even stopping to eat, and I realize that I am famished. The airport, which is called Walker Field, is just north of the Interstate. I locate the long-term parking lot, park the car and go to the terminal. It is small but fairly busy, with ticket counters for Frontier, Sky West and three or four other smaller lines, and it offers a cafe. I know the food will be nondescript at best but I am hungry enough not to care. I eat a hamburger that is better than I expected and balance that plus with a cup of coffee that is execrable. Then I find the car rental counter. It stretches along one wall between the ticket counters and the terminal exit and offers a full rank of agencies, from Avis and Hertz down to the little
guys like Thrifty. I rent a mid-size Buick from Avis and go to find a motel for the night. I remember seeing a Holiday Inn close to where I turned off the Interstate onto Horizon Drive, which is the name of the road to the airport. I drive there and register for the night. The idea of a place that guarantees “no surprises” appeals to me more than usual this evening.
* * *
The next morning I am up early. The motel offers the usual continental breakfast—stale bagels, cream cheese, cereal, juice and bad coffee. I pass it by. I assume there must be something better in town and I want a good start to the day. The food itself is not so important as the routine, taking my time, being in charge. I drive into downtown Grand Junction and find just what I want, a place on Main Street called the Crystal Cafe and Bake Shop. I order an omelet, the kind with everything in it.
The food comes with whole wheat toast and decent coffee. The empty table next to mine has a Denver newspaper lying on it and I glance through that as I eat. When I am finished with the omelet I ask for another cup of coffee and then do the crossword puzzle. Nobody tries to rush me as I work through the clues.
Dillon is about a hundred and eighty miles away, most of them freeway. I get there in a little under three hours and stop again at the place where I had beer before. I do not expect to see Washburn there, and I am right, but it is a pausing place where I can collect myself one last time over a grilled cheese sandwich. The sky has clouded over and a light rain has started to fall, streaking the windows next to my table and turning the lake silver gray. The sandwich is not very good but it gives my teeth something to chew on while my mind chews on an approach to Washburn. I decide on a frontal assault. His house is isolated. Even though the building is very visible from town, the driveway and front door are not. I will go there straight off. If he is not at home I will wait until he arrives. If he is at home I will kill him right away.
He is at home. As I pull up I see one garage door open with a car inside. I park and open the glove compartment where I have my trusty little Ruger 22. Probably I could fire a cannon and no one would notice, but the Ruger makes so little noise I will not have to worry at all. I am wearing a nylon parka with deep zippered pockets. I tuck the pistol into the right hand pocket and get out of the car. I go to the front door and it opens before I can knock. Washburn looks out at me while a small dog somewhere behind him begins yapping.
“Quiet, Timmy,” Washburn says as the dog comes around beside him. It is a Dachshund. It has huge black and white spots and its rear legs, which are twisted and withered, are strapped to a little cart.
“He hardly ever bites,” Washburn says.
“I was going to call but I decided to take a chance on your being here.”
“I haven’t decided about the book thing,” he says.
“Let me tell you what I’ve got so far. Maybe that will help you decide.”
“Probably not, but okay.” Washburn bends over and picks up the dog. He hoists it over his shoulder and walks into the house while the dog glares balefully at me. I follow him into a large space, the kind they call a great room, and he motions toward a chair.
“Have a seat,” he says. He settles into a love seat of cream colored leather and places the dog next to him.
“Tell me about the dog.”
“Does he go into the book?”
“Could be.”
Washburn grins. “That might help me say yes.” He scratches the Dachshund’s ears. “I got Timmy at the humane society. It was just after my family got wiped out. I was lonely but I didn’t want to deal with people. I don’t really care that much for people to tell the truth. I suppose that’s odd, considering how good I was at conning them.” He looks at me intently. “I don’t think you like people very much either.”
I must have flinched because he smiles and nods. “Got you,” he says. “I may not like people much, but I’m damned good at reading them.”
I do not answer, but I think, We’ll see how good you are at reading what I’m going to do.
Washburn looks back down at the dog. “A couple of teenagers brought Timmy in while I was there. They said he had been hit by a car. He was half dead then. I asked the people there what they would do and they said not much. They said the kindest thing would be to put him down quickly. So I took him.” Washburn rubs his hand over the dog’s back and tugs his tail and the animal growls contentedly. “Little shit cost me a fortune, but he made it, and he does fine now. I even take him for walks with that little contraption. That’s why I like animals better than people. Critters accept life as it comes. They don’t whine.” He pats the dog one more time and then turns to me.
“Now,” he says. “Why are you really here?”
I feel myself tensing, but I manage to say, “I told you.”
“Bullshit. I told you. I can read people. Writers are wide open. They go around like little sponges wanting to soak everything up. They look around at everything. You hardly even looked at the dog. You’re closed off. It’s like the shrinks say about a pane of glass. We sit right here in the same room talking but it’s like you’re on the other side of a window. I see you and I hear you, but I get no vibes.”
Okay, I think. It’s time. I pull the Ruger out. Washburn’s eyes widen a little but otherwise he does not react.
“I guess this was likely to happen sooner or later. Are you one of the people I screwed?”
I shake my head.
“Then why you? Like the actors say, what’s your motivation?”
I shake my head at his attitude. I begin to understand that the secret of Washburn’s success, and probably of his failure as well, is that he cannot take anything seriously, not even his death.
“Some of the people you cheated put their pennies together. They had a list of villains and you were on the list.”
Washburn laughs. He seems genuinely amused. “I guess I fucked up. I should have taken them for everything they had. Then they’d be too broke to pay you.”
I do not bother to tell him that I probably will not be paid for his death.
“Do you want to turn around?” I ask.
He looks at me with a question in his eyes for a moment, then understands. He shakes his head.
“I have always made a point of looking right at whatever is coming at me.” He looks down at Timmy and strokes him gently all over and the dog rolls its eyes in pleasure. “Sorry, little guy. I guess you got to cheat your fate for a while, though.” He returns his gaze to me. “Do you believe in an afterlife?”
“No.”
“Neither do I. But I can always hope I’m wrong. Maybe my wife and kids are waiting for me.” He strokes the dog once more and then straightens his back slightly. His eyes are wet.
“Okay,” he says.
I shoot him from where I sit. The tiny bullet hits him in the middle of his chest and he gasps and shudders. He slumps against the back of the love seat and his eyes close as I rise and step closer. His hand manages to stay on Timmy, rubbing the dog in jerky little motions. I press the barrel of the Ruger against his heart and fire again, and he twitches once and dies. As I straighten up Timmy begins to howl and I am briefly tempted to take him back to Seattle with me, but I know it would not work; and I do not think Timmy would want to come. He seems to be a one-man dog.
I put the gun back into my pocket and look around. I explore briefly and find the kitchen, and see that there are food and water bowls on the floor for the dog. I fill the water bowl and then rummage through cupboards until I find a sack of dog food. I fill the food bowl and start to put the sack away, then stop and pull two big cereal bowls from a shelf. I put them next to the other bowls and fill one with food and the other with water. I hope someone will make a home for him.
I go outside, close the front door behind me, and go to my car. I start the engine and then sit for a while looking up at the house with a sense of something unfinished. After a while I turn the engine off and get back out of the car. I go into the house and up the stairs to the room with the
balcony and the flagpole. The room has French doors onto the balcony and I stand looking through the rain-spattered glass for a moment. Then I go out to the flag. I untie the line and lower the flag until it is at half staff. Then I tie the line down again and go back downstairs and to my car. I take another look at house and the flag. Now it feels finished. I nod and drive away.
Chapter 50
I have passed the last few days in a state of suspension. I returned to Seattle to find a message from Katherine that she would be in the eastern Washington town of Yakima for a week taking depositions. I was a relieved because I still need time to think about the unsettled areas in my life. She and her brother are a part of that. I have managed to avoid thinking at all of Edward Angwin for the last several days, but he still buzzes around the fringes of my mind like a pesky horse fly. I know I will have to do something about him before long, but not right now. One thing at a time. I had a minor urge to see Skeeter when I returned, partly from habit. Visiting her after a business trip has been one my rituals for years. It occurs to me that I also want to brag that I did not need the Viagra after all. A childish thought, but no one can be grown up all the time. I called her right after I listened to Katherine’s message, but she told me not that night, or the next. She said she was tied up with other things, but that she could see me Wednesday. Her voice sounded strained and I asked her if she was all right. She replied that she was tired. I was surprised. I have never known her to be tired. In fact her constant high energy is one of things that makes her a pleasure to be with.
I decided two strikes and you are out, and went to bed. The next day I went to the Post Office and found a new toy waiting for me, and all thoughts of anything else flitted away. My new bamboo fly rod had arrived. I bought it from a rod maker named John Niemeri, who sells these wooden sticks for outrageous prices to people all over the world. My new toy is called a Slowhand Special, an eight-foot rod that casts a five-weight line. I took it home and dreamed over it most of Tuesday, indulging in fantasies of huge trout lunging at my flies on the Yaak and Kootenai Rivers. Today I took it to the green space at Rodgers Park, a short walk from my place, and spent the midmorning casting over the grass.