by Breakup(lit)
Inside, Bernie was surveying the shambles of his bar. He closed
205 his eyes and shook his head. "Breakup," he said with loathing.
Resentfully, he cracked the seal on a new bottle of Jose Cuervo Gold.
The withered, slightly yellow middle finger floated down through the
amber liquid to rest gently on the bottom.
Mutt left a handful of hair in Bobby's fist and bounded over to Kate,
placing her paws on Kate's chest. Kate would have fallen right over if
Paul, bringing up a close rear, hadn't slapped both hands on her
shoulders. A rough tongue slurped the side of Kate's face, once, a
second time, followed by an inquiring yip.
"I'm okay, girl," Kate said, not at all sure that was the case. "I'm all
right. Settle down now."
Jim reholstered his pistol, which he had never fired. His eyes narrowed
on Kate. "Is that blood?"
"I caught one in the arm," she muttered, sitting down heavily. "It just
creased me. You got something I can tie it up with, Bernie?"
"Sure," Bernie said, long-suffering. "I got nothing better to do with my
linen inventory." He produced a clean square of worn cotton sheeting,
and the four Grosdidiers jumped forward as one.
"Hold it!" Kate barked. They halted, identical expressions of
disappointment on their faces. Kate handed the cloth to Bobby and sat
down so he could reach her.
Behind them furniture shifted as tables and chairs were righted. The
back door opened and the quilting bee filed back inside in effortless
dignity. Auntie Joy and Auntie Vi saw the blood on Kate's arm and
hurried over to exclaim and offer Bobby advice. Bernie handed out broom
and dustpan, and someone dropped change into the jukebox. The first song
to play was, appropriately enough, Jimmy Buffett's "Boat Drinks," which
made everyone laugh, a little shakily, and feel better.
"Doesn't look too bad," Bobby said, tearing the cloth into two strips.
"Bullet or glass?"
He scrutinized the wound. "If you made me pick, I'd choose
206 glass." He looked at her and smiled, without much more humor than
Mutt showed baring her teeth. "Another battle scar for you, Shugak."
"Yeah," she said, closing her eyes for a moment, "now I can strip my
sleeves and show my scars with the best of you."
"Whatever." He folded one of the strips into a pad and used the other to
tie the pad to her arm, his hands deft and gentle. It smarted, and Kate
winced. When he was done she said to Bernie, "You got some aspirin?"
He produced an economy-size bottle of Bayer. At her look, he said,
"After the last two days, you don't think I need this much aspirin to
run this place?" Kate took four and washed them down with warm Seven-Up.
"That's twice, Kate," Bobby said, his outward calm belied by the rage
simmering beneath. "That's twice those bitches have taken their best
shot at Dinah." They hadn't been shooting only at Dinah, but under the
circumstances Kate respected his tunnel vision and didn't comment.
"They've managed to clip you both times."
"Not to mention what they've done to my bar," Bernie growled.
"Not to mention," Bobby agreed. "Maybe it's time for a little executive
action, you know?"
"Kate?" Jim said, studiously polite.
"Yes, Jim?"
He had replaced his hat, adjusting it so the brim formed a level line
just above his eyes, which were steady and very, very cold. The bullet
hole through the crown, above and just a little off center of the gold
braid tie, lent a certain emphasis to his calm, precisely spaced words.
"Would you drive me out to the Kreugers' and the Jeppsens' homesteads,
please? I'm afraid I don't know exactly where they are."
"What are you going to do, once you're there?"
"Gee, I don't know," Jim said, descending momentarily into mild sarcasm.
"Arrest them?"
"What for?"
"I'll think of something," he said, very dry.
207 Bobby's roar was back, with interest. "Yeah, attempted murder kind
of leaps to mind!"
The wound on Kate's arm throbbed painfully. She looked past the trooper
to see Mark Stewart standing very close to Jackie Webber. His chin was
up, his shoulders back, the rangy, youthful body held gracefully erect.
His clothes fit well, his face was clean-shaven, his smile swift and
charming. He was a looker, and he knew it. He was accustomed to the
adulation of the female of the species, and expected it.
His eyes met hers with easy, unworried self-possession.
He smiled.
Something inside her clicked into place.
Something else snapped in two.
It was the last straw. It was the final nail, it was too much on the
plate, it was too many irons in the fire. It was jet engines falling out
of the sky, it was bear charges, it was plane crashes, it was bodies
revealed by melting snow, it was wives shooting at their husbands and
too-heavy duties assumed too soon and it was murder most foul and it was
overload, it was too much, it was breakup, that was all, the breakup of
winter, the breakdown of marriage, of the social fabric, not to mention
the very fabric of modern technology itself, and there was no shelter
from the fallout.
Kate felt disoriented, frayed at the edges, and in self-defense she
withdrew, took a step back, out of herself. It changed her perspective,
as if she were perched on her own shoulder.
"At the very least, aggravated assault," Jim added. "With intent. So
let's go."
Kate's second self whispered in her own ear. "I've got a better idea,"
she said.
Bobby was inspecting Dinah for wounds over her exasperated protests when
the tone of Kate's voice got through to him. His head snapped around.
"Kate?"
The second self whispered again. Kate got to her feet and smiled across
the room at Mark Stewart. "Mr. Stewart? Would you like to come with me?"
She sounded like Mae inviting Cary to come up and see her
208 sometime, like Circe convincing Odysseus to stay an extra year on
Aeaea, like Eve encouraging Adam to take just one bite.
Dan sighed.
Bernie shivered.
Jim Chopin, not a fanciful man, felt the hair rise on the back of his neck.
"Jesus, Kate," Bobby muttered.
"Down, boys," Dinah said, and wondered if Kate was aware of the power
she had, when she bothered to use it.
Jackie Webber gave Kate a dirty look.
As the events of the past forty-eight hours-of the past year- had
demonstrated, Mark Stewart was not a stupid man. Careful, methodical, a
planner, he was a man who did nothing on impulse, a man with no nerves
to speak of and no conscience to bother him after the fact. He had to
know what Kate suspected, why the trooper had asked him to return to the
mine, that they had learned at least some of the truth and guessed at
the rest. But they had no proof, and as long as he continued to say as
little as possible, they never would have. It would be foolish to go
anywhere but back to Anchorage by the first available transport, and
sheer madness to accompany this woman anywhere else.
But he was still a
man who saw himself reflected in every woman he met,
and the challenge in Kate's invitation made his hunting instincts sit up
and howl.
As she had been certain they would. "I think you might enjoy it," she
added, and smiled, a lush, lavish smile that promised him everything.
"Kate," Bobby repeated, this time a wealth of warning in the single word.
Her second self stopped her ears. "Stay," she said to Mutt, and
sauntered to the door. She turned to look over her shoulder at Stewart,
and smiled again. "You coming?"
No fool, Mark Stewart wasn't a coward, either.
And she was only a woman, after all.
He picked up her gauntlet and followed her into the night.
209
The road wasn't much more than a tractor trail, full of deep ruts,
yawning potholes, treacherous glaciation and the occasional malevolent
washout. It didn't help that it was now full dark before moonrise, but
by that time Kate's second self had firm hold of the scruff of her neck
and was whipping her unrelentingly onward. Lights flashed in the
rearview mirror, showing one vehicle faint but pursuing. Branches
scraped against metal. Tires cracked through thin layers of ice to
splash into puddles beneath. The cab of the truck rocked back and forth.
In the passenger seat Mark Stewart rode silently, one hand braced
against the dash. A thread of tension, taut and humming, quivered
between the two of them, but he didn't speak. Neither did she. The
challenge had been made and accepted, and they were both infected with a
kind of reckless madness.
210 Twenty minutes later the convoy pulled up in front of a snug little
cabin next to a two-story barnlike structure at the base of a hill.
Halfway up the hill was the timbered entrance to a mine; from the
entrance ran a wooden sluice that was falling apart, one twelve-foot
plank at a time. The sluice ended in a creek, next to where an old steam
engine stood, shedding flakes of rust into the water.
Bobby's truck pulled up next to her, and people literally poured out of
both doors. Kate walked past them as if they weren't there, marching up
to the large building like she owned it and tugging at the doors. They
gave but wouldn't open all the way. Her second self noticed the Yale
padlock hanging from the hasp, and whispered to her that the key was
probably in the cabin.
The cabin door was unlocked, the cabin itself unoccupied, Mac Devlin
probably away on a mission to strip-mine an especially scenic part of
the Park. Inside, a key rack hung from the wall next to the door. She
sorted through them until she found a Yale key and brought it back to
the barnlike structure. The key slid smoothly into the padlock and
turned without a hitch. The padlock snapped open, and she folded the
double doors back one at a time.
Her second self began to hum the "Hallelujah Chorus."
It was a D-6 Caterpillar tractor. The body was a bright and gleaming
yellow, the ten-foot blade a ton of shining silver steel. Two, almost
three years before, Mac Devlin had been enjoined from excavating mining
claims on Park lands, grandfathered or otherwise, and since then this
gleaming monster had not been used for its original purpose. Mac never
failed in the hope that one day restrictions would ease, or in cursing
the memory of Park Ranger Mark Miller, whose murder had been, in Mac's
view, timely, if not downright providential. In the meantime, the Cat
paid for its keep by building access roads and digging foundations for
construction.
The perfect weapon, and in excellent repair. Kate checked the gas tank.
Full. Her opinion of Mac Devlin rose. She went back to
211 the cabin, traded the garage key for the ignition key and clambered
up into the Cat's roomy seat.
Mark Stewart stood next to the right tread. She held out an imperious
hand. "Well, Mr. Stewart?"
A smile spread slowly across his face, a smile that, again, physically
jarred her with its appeal. It was almost enough to kick her second self
out of the driver's seat, but not quite. "It's Mark," he said, and took
her hand, following her up.
Lined up outside the barn, waiting for what they hoped might be a little
less than Armageddon, Bobby, Dinah, Dan, Bernie and Chopper Jim watched
Kate and Stewart settle into the cab of the Cat.
"I want to make one thing perfectly clear," the trooper said. "Which
is?" Bobby said. "I am not here."
"Shit, Jim," Dan said, "none of us are."
The key in the master switch turned easily and just in time Kate
remembered to preheat for thirty seconds. The engine turned over on the
first try and a cloud of black smoke issued from the exhaust. A great
throaty bawl rattled the rafters in the roof and the teeth in Kate's
head. Her heart thumped in her breast, and there was such a rush of
blood to all the extremities of her body that she felt even more
light-headed than she had before. All she could feel was the shuddering,
rumbling beast beneath her, straining at the leash. The sense of power
that comes with sitting up on a Caterpillar tractor is absolute. At the
controls of 31,000 pounds of metal with the power of 140 horses behind
it, you become unstoppable, invincible, omnipotent. In a day you can
alter the course of a river, in a week you can demolish an entire
forest, in a month you can move a mountain. You can reshape your entire
physical world with the shift of a lever, the roll of a track, the bite
of a bright, sharp blade. It is the ultimate toy in the biggest sandbox
of them all.
With a D-6 Caterpillar tractor and enough gas, you might even be able to
demolish a blood feud by building a road to nowhere
212 and back again. In the driver's seat of this growling yellow
monster, neither Kate nor her second self had any doubts. She reached
for the master clutch. There wasn't one.
Kate had driven a Cat only once before in her life, the summer she was
sixteen, when Abel had apprenticed her and his third oldest son to a
miner outside Nizina for casual labor. The miner had been in the process
of shoving the bottom of a creek down the maw of a sluice box with a
D-5. At first he wasn't going to let Kate drive it, but he needed Seth
to cut supports for the tunnel he was digging into the hill above the
creek, so, mumbling and cursing and spitting a lot of tobacco juice, he
put Kate up on the D-5. She learned to drive it and drive it well,
because the old miner had a habit of shoving her off the seat and taking
over himself whenever he was displeased with her performance. It
wouldn't have been so bad if they hadn't usually been in the middle of
the creek at the time, but then she wouldn't have learned so well or so
quickly if they'd been on dry ground, either. Kate really did hate
getting her feet wet.
Cat skinning was not a skill forgotten in a moment, or even in years,
but an old D-5 was not a new D-6, and it took some time to figure out
the controls, long enough for some of her audience to become restive.
"Kate," Bobby said, raising his voice over the sound o
f the engine,
"maybe this isn't such a good idea."
"Yeah, Kate," Dan said, "maybe we ought to-"
Jim said nothing, because he wasn't there.
Dinah said nothing, because she knew it wouldn't do any good.
, Bernie said nothing, because he was beginning to have an idea