by David Dun
Aside from the fact that she hated his politics, Dan Young had always seemed to possess some quality that she found attractive. He was wide-shouldered and had the quiet confidence of someone who knew exactly what he was about. But he didn't quite swagger, although like all cowboy types he tortured animals, ate meat, did what his kind usually did. She wasn't quite sure what made him interesting.
Once at a county fair, before Dan's wife had died, Maria had been working a booth devoted to registering Democrat voters. She'd taken a break, gotten some hot tea, and moved to the back of the booth where she watched the people passing by. Not thirty feet away, Dan Young had been standing around with an odd mix of professionals and a few cowboys, but he looked more like the cowboys even if his jeans were a little new, his heavy blue work shirt laundered and starched.
Because he was Otran's lawyer and represented industry, she had been curious about him. But it struck her that unlike the other men in the group he had no roll of flab above the oversize belt buckle. Remarkable for a guy who had to sit in a chair hours on end. He was tall, she guessed 6'5" in boots, maybe 6'4" in his bare feet. Blond, obviously blue-eyed, he tended to half-smile under his bushy mustache and concentrate on whoever was talking, periodically shifting his weight from one foot to the other while he listened.
He had big hands and used them when he spoke. There was an earnestness about him that made people listen although he seemed to stay silent more than speak.
There was a dimple in his chin, and he had eyebrows that looked like they got regularly trimmed, and over the right brow was a faded scar. As she watched, the group of men had become more animated, one of them obviously trying to tease Dan.
Dan smiled at the fellow poking him in the shoulder, adjusted his hat, and walked away over to the far side of the arena where the bull riders were coming out of the chute.
"Hey, man, we were only kidding. Those big fuckers will kill you. Come on back here," one of the men called out.
In a few minutes Dan Young was riding a bull. Everybody had heard about Dan-he had grown up riding everything on four legs-but when he jumped off the bull, a woman and a boy came running toward the arena. By the way the woman approached Dan, Maria could tell it was family. He tried to put his arm around her, but she shrugged it off and squared off to him, holding the boy on her hip. It was obviously his wife, and Maria was guessing that she hadn't been consulted about the day's adventure.
Maria had watched as the woman cut loose a verbal barrage. But when she was in his face, he sobered. Without hearing a word, she suspected that the woman was reminding him that he had a son, a family, and responsibilities. A trip to the hospital was not what their little family needed. The look on his face, the honest appraisal of what he was being told, gave Maria some information.
Reluctantly she had admitted there was some good in this timber-industry mouthpiece. Maybe it wasn't much, but something. Then she had seen him at the demonstration, where they had argued. But as ugly as their verbal sparring became, spurred on by her bloodred anger and his I-fear-nothing determination, she still secretly liked him at the end. It was something she didn't understand about herself and didn't want to understand.
Getting involved further with him, even in casual conversation, would not be practical, she knew. Practical. According to her father, she wasn't at all practical, and she was still trying to figure out exactly what that meant.
Living in an Alaskan cabin wasn't practical, but it was good, it was uncluttered, it was simple, and it enabled her to form visions of herself and her life. She lived free of the noise of civilization. The hardness of the place, the relentless cold, the backbreaking work, the isolation, the energy that she had to expend on preparing a simple meal, all had enabled her to see things that couldn't be seen on a hillside mansion in southern California. The impractical sometimes bore fruit. She wasn't sure that she ever wanted to be practical.
For a good part of her life, she had been considered attractive. Perhaps before her teens people thought of her as an ungainly and skinny tomboy with braces. Later, she became beautiful, but still it was a beauty that was off the beaten path and depended to some extent on her smile and an inner something that beamed out of her countenance. Some said she was vivacious, others that she was a natural inspiration.
Maria's mouth was a little large, her lips full, and after the braces her teeth were sensational. If anything was ordinary about her, it was her brunette hair and a hairline that was not perfectly clean when she pulled it up atop her head. But she never did that, except on Saturday while she read.
There was her scar. She called it Amy's scar, in honor of the little girl she had been rescuing when injured. A full six inches long, it was an inch wide, right across an otherwise perfect belly. Everybody had something-well, almost everybody. If you were lucky, it was only flat feet. But Maria wore her scar with gratitude. She was thankful that she had been there to collect it. Two-piece bathing suits were out and she was a tad shy about the scar when it came to men.
Maria craved new ideas and new ways of thinking. She was like a walking investment bank for creative thought. Stubbornness was the other side of that equation, and she had not yet learned to tolerate ideas that challenged her fundamental beliefs. In truth, she had only a handful of fundamental beliefs: She should practice yoga; she should save old-growth forests; her mother was inherently wise and good, and to whatever extent she might fail, it was probably due to her father; she should be doing unto others what she would have them do unto her except when she lost her temper; anything worth doing was worth doing passionately; children were sacred trusts. And she believed fervently in love, but wasn't sure she'd ever find it.
Certainly, the man before her was puzzling and had aroused a heated curiosity about two basic issues: Did he want to save the planet-more specifically the trees? And did he look as good naked as he did clothed?
As he watched the waitress return with their check, there seemed a sadness about him. It was a peculiar contrast to the square-jawed maleness that he exuded.
He caught her noticing him. "You wanna have coffee sometime?"
"No," she said. "Not exactly. I mean maybe if we weren't so, well, opposite. We're just about as opposite as two people can be."
He nodded and she could see the sincerity in his eyes. She pondered that one. Something about this man reminded her of her father-the way he used to lavish attention upon her before their great falling-out and her migration, as she called it, to Alaska. Old feelings stirred inside as she reminded herself: This isn't my father. And it isn't my boyfriend.
As the crowning complication to her life, Maria was still her father's daughter and hadn't yet decided how she would finally deal with business and materialism. Nor had she decided how to deal with her predictable, maybe even boring boyfriend.
"Hey," Dan said. "I gotta go. But I did enjoy your company." He nodded at the door as she reached for the briefcase. "Maybe you should go first."
Dan followed her out of the pub, concerned about her decision to go alone to the bank, even though it was only a couple of blocks. The easy way she had with him, her passion for everything, the trees, life, her work-it was attractive. Watching her move briskly down the sidewalk, he found himself wishing there were a way to prolong then-contact. But reason prevailed, and he walked to the right and she to the left, he fighting the impulse to follow. It was a slow morning, the shops just preparing for the onslaught of afternoon foot-traffic-traffic that might not come on this noticeably quiet Saturday.
Maybe because he was uneasy about the money, or because he had more to say, or because of that damnable intrigue, he turned to watch her one last time. As he did so, a figure in a long brown leather coat and cowboy hat came at her rapidly from behind.
He didn't actually reason out that it was too warm for a long coat; it was more that everything about the situation appeared wrong.
Then it hit him.
The briefcase.
"Wait," he shouted. And ran.
/> 2
Maria jumped as if stabbed. He imagined her eyes widening with the realization of the coming assault. From under the leather trench coat a policeman's side-handled baton appeared. Her attacker, his face hidden under the brim of his hat and a nylon stocking, swung the weapon. Maria was quick, though, and she deflected the baton with the briefcase. The assailant moved in. A swift jab of the baton caught Maria hard in the ribs. As she staggered, the assailant snatched the case and ran.
Dan sprinted, reckless from adrenaline, but he was too late. A black Chevy with a shine on the chrome came to a squealing stop, the assailant leaped through the open rear door. Inside, the thief's head turned, partially revealing through the nylon stocking the finer details of his profile- the nose and a slender face and jaw. In that moment, as Dan's fingers missed the closing door by inches, he realized that the assailant was a woman.
Tires squealed, and the Chevy raced away.
Dan took Maria's arm, looking her over to make sure she was all right.
A couple stood befuddled across the street, a shopkeeper shook a small carpet in front of his store.
"Follow her," Dan screamed. "Where?"
Somehow she understood that he was asking about her car. She pointed even as he moved toward the Ford Taurus.
''Keys," he said, watching the black sedan turn the corner.
He opened the passenger side and slid across to the driver's seat. "Stay here."
"I'm coming." She slid in as he hit the accelerator.
The car's momentum slammed the door. He squealed around the corner. No black sedan. Maria fastened her seat belt as he accelerated through a red light.
"Take it easy," she shouted.
"Not while they've got the money."
They were on Fifth, the main street through town, going north.
"There." Maria pointed at the black car's tail end, which was disappearing around another corner far ahead. The car had turned off onto an old two-lane highway that eventually headed into the mountains. Dan swerved into the oncoming lane, passing a young woman whose mouth went wide in shock.
"Let's call the cops. For once they could do some good."
"We can't do that," he said. They went around a curve; the rear tires broke loose and started to slide.
"Will you be careful!" she screamed as the car fishtailed from an overcorrection. "Why can't we call the cops?"
Before he answered, she saw some kids crossing the road, and he slammed on the brakes, then swerved into the parking lane, barely missing them.
"Stop this right now," Maria shouted. "We can't kill people because we want the money."
"We aren't killing anybody," he said through clenched teeth. "And we can't call the police because this is not supposed to be public."
The car lurched around another curve, almost leaving the road. His foot remained on the accelerator. Here the road was fairly straight, slightly diminishing her tension. Strip malls and an odd assortment of fast-food places flashed by. Doris and Jerry's steakhouse and a liquor store all fronted against subdivisions.
It appeared they were gaining. The muscle in his jaw bulged, but he looked otherwise unfazed. Except for the speed they could have been on a Saturday outing.
"I insist we call the cops," she said.
"Remember we made a deal. This is all attorney-client privilege."
"That was before someone stole the money, for God's sake."
They flew by a small school and entered the first grove of trees, then dropped to flatland pastures. Towns ended abruptly in these sparsely settled regions. Maria knew this road well. Along this area the coast rivers and streams had deposited silt for millennia, making a narrow band of grassy bogs. Behind this lush green ribbon were towering foothills, redwood country that butted up against the mixed conifer forests of the coastal range of northern California. The two-lane road on which they drove meandered along the coastal lowlands at the toe of the hills. Mountain roads spurred off it. One in particular led to a maze of graveled ranch and logging roads that cut deeply into the mountains to the east. This was the route to the backside of the Highlands Forest.
They passed a pickup as though it were standing still. Its blaring horn was lost in the wind.
"Slow down-" Then the car rounded a gentle turn, hit some loose gravel, and began a slide. She saw the white guardrail approaching. "Jesus." She stiffened her legs and tensed every muscle, anticipating the crash. By some quirk of spinning tires and centrifugal force, the car came completely around, missing the white steel railing by inches. "You're gonna kill us," she said as the car straightened out after the 360.
''Who gave you this money?'' she asked as they fishtailed past a slow-moving van. She didn't really expect an answer. "The thief knew exactly what he was doing." Realizing that she was half-yelling, she told herself to talk calmly. Maybe it would help slow him down. "That guy knows you're back here."
"That was no guy. And if they were thinking about us, they wouldn't be doing this. They'd be weaving around town."
''Not necessarily-there are cops back there. In the mountains there are no police. Maybe they want us to follow."
She studied him, wondering if he'd thought of that. His hands were clenched around the wheel, his expression all grim determination.
"You lost the mustache so I wouldn't recognize you?"
"At least for a few minutes."
"What exactly is going on here?"
"I was giving you money for a worthy cause. Somebody stole it. That's it."
Now they were maintaining an even distance of a few hundred yards behind the black sedan and traveling at about eighty miles per hour.
"You're not being straight with me. Tell me who you work for and what they really want. Then maybe I can figure this out."
"I can't, all right?"
"Fine," she said.
But of course it wasn't fine.
Ahead, the black car had disappeared from sight. For a few moments neither said anything as Dan increased then-speed around the tree-lined curves, squealing the tires and keeping her knuckles white.
"They're up there. As soon as we get around this bend, we should see them." She was hoping that would slow him down.
As they rounded the hill, she saw the black sedan take a smoking-tire right up into the mountains. The road followed the Wintoon River Canyon to thousands of square miles of rugged wilderness owned primarily by the government, some by ranchers, some by timber companies, and some by the Hoopa, Yurok, and Tilok tribes.
They drove in near silence up the canyon, the country getting steeper as they went. They passed the first major ridges near the coast and a gorge where hundreds of feet below them there was a series of waterfalls.
"I figure the best way to identify these people is to see where they're going," he said. "Fortunately, you started with almost a full tank."
"It's a rental car. My Cherokee's in the shop."
"There are no gas stations until you get to Johnson City. On these back roads that's over one hundred twenty miles."
"Maybe they live up there."
He didn't reply or say what he thought, but he was obviously planning something.
"So what do we do if we follow them to a house?"
"I stay and watch the place while you tell the clients where the money is."
Ahead she saw the dark sedan pull to the shoulder. They had entered an isolated stretch of road high on the mountainside. The last mailbox was about two miles behind them.
Dan slowed to normal highway speed. They both peered forward. Barely two cars wide, the asphalt was old and intermittently striped down the center. Narrow gravel shoulders dropped off steeply into a stand of young-growth redwood maybe twenty feet high.
"Oh God," he breathed. "They're-"
Maria saw two figures crouched near the back of the sedan when an explosive sound startled her. The bullet hit their right front tire. The car shuddered; another thundering report rang out. The car veered, and Dan's mouth remained unwavering in a determin
ed line, his elbows locked. The outside tire hit the gravel shoulder; rocks shot into the wheel well, creating a clamorous racket. Then over the bank they went, horrible jolts as the car pitched and yawed as if riding a sea of concrete waves.
Instinctively, Maria planted her feet firmly to the floor so that the car's violent shuddering rippled through her body. Flung forward and back despite the bracing posture, her body felt bisected as the seat belt bit into her chest. Small trees disappeared under the front end, but others rose to replace them. Then everything rolled to the right, and she was hurled against the door. One crash was like an explosion as they were knocked around; the car was plunging forward; then a crash was followed by a jolt that felt like it ripped out her ribs. Then silence.
Maria hung from her seat belt and knew they were on their nose. Dust swirled in the partly crushed car, blinding and choking her. Dan's hand on hers pulled her, but she was held in place by her seat belt. Stinging eyes sent tears down her face. Her body felt heavy and began to ache, just now awakening to the bruising.
Above her head was a large tree trunk or branch. Glancing down, she saw a breathtaking abyss whose bottom was a ribbon of deep blue-the river.
"Oh my God," she whispered. They hung in space at least 200 feet above the river rocks.
An oak branch had speared the windshield and come out the back end as though a giant rapier had run the car through.
The spread of torn and buckled roof from which they hung stretched like a spring, giving bounce to the car as it dangled in the wind.
"Don't move," he said in a low voice, as if even a small noise might break the ribbon of sheet metal. An eerie mountain wind blew through the twisted openings in the car and made a sound like sighing. The tree was rooted in a tiny shelf on a nearly vertical cliff. The main trunk grew out away from the cliff for a distance of twenty feet or so before curving up to rise nearly parallel to the steep rock face. If the car had slid another three feet down the branch, the front end would have hit the main trunk.