NSummer

by Never Summer (retail) (epub)

  “Over here boss!”

  It was only when he got to the zipper that he understood what Rusty meant.

  THIRTY SEVEN

  Jacques St. Clair and Francis Delacour strode impatiently through the logging camp calling out names and peeking into trailer doors and windows. The place was strangely deserted. There was no one around, that is, apart from Dipstick’s mangy blue tick coon-hound whining and groveling at the boss’s feet.

  “Get out of here!” Jacques growled. “Out of my sight!” The dog slunk away, tail between its legs. “That shit-eating excuse for a dog would be better off put out of his misery.”

  Francis was concerned about the boss’s rising blood. “What’s this?” he said, staring at a large red bull’s eye painted on the side of Dipstick’s camper. He stared at it in disbelief, then noticed other scribblings. One entire side of the trailer was covered with graffiti. “Boss, look at this.”

  Jacques was three steps ahead of him, but turned back. “What now?” He stared at the graffiti. “What in the fucking hell?” The two men gave each other a quizzical look. Suddenly, they heard a voice. Someone calling.

  “Boss, you hear that?”

  “Yeah. Where’s it coming from?” Between them, Jacques and Francis could not be sure. No man in the woods, not the sharpest-eared hunter, not even Hawkeye, can accurately cipher the direction of a sound or a shot if it comes only once. Stock still they stood, their ears pricked, waiting for a second report. After a moment, it came.

  “There!” They had their fix. The men changed direction, Francis now in the lead. “This way.”

  The voice had come from the far side of camp, and that is where they found their quarry, Bobby Lighthorse. The man was standing outside his camper, barefoot and bare-chested. He was attempting to zip up his blue jeans, but was fumbling and having a time with it. Four eyes dropped and perfunctorily took in the lump in his britches, then, moved on.

  Jacques noticed the graffiti scrawled on his dozer. For a moment he stared at it, as if not believing his eyes. He turned to Bobby, fuming.

  “Bobby, what’s this? Who did it?” he said, motioning to the cat. “Eco-jerks?

  “No, boss.”

  “Who, then? And where’s my crew?”

  “Gone.”

  “I can see that. But ... where?”

  Francis was standing well back. He was worried. The boss was near the boiling point.

  Oh shit...

  Silence from Bobby.

  “This is a work day,” the boss said, “or have you forgotten?” Suddenly sensing that this stupid sparring was getting him nowhere, Jacques tried a different tack. “Son, let me put it this way. What are you doing here in camp, when you ought to be dropping trees?”

  “I was in the sack...”

  “In the sack? Are you sick? You got the runs?”

  “No, boss.”

  Smoke was almost visibly coming out of Jacques’ ears. To side step the enormous rage mounting within him, the boss glanced at his wristwatch and frowned. Now, the timbre of his voice changed. “It’s after ten-thirty,” he said through his teeth. He recalled the lump. “You got a woman in there?”

  No reply. Silence. The moment hung by a thread.

  Francis knew that when the boss got this way, things were far along, very far along, indeed. But although he knew an explosion was coming, still he hoped it might be averted. One had to admire the way Jacques wrestled with himself to corral his temper, the way he often did manage to contain it. The very fact that he expended such effort was admirable.

  “So what were you doing in bed?”

  After a silence that seemed too long, Bobby said, “You sure you want to know?”

  “HELL YES I WANT TO KNOW!” the boss shouted back. “T’ES COMPLETEMENT DINGUE?”

  Francis winced. He winced again when the kid yawned. It was one of those long drawn-out lazy yawns, the kind that cats make, slow and relaxed, deep and unfazed, self-indulgent and impertinent. Cats! The one animal the human race had domesticated without ever taming. The inscrutable bastards.

  That’s all she wrote…

  Francis took two steps back to avoid the shear zone. No point standing in the path of destruction.

  “DON’T BACK TALK ME, BOY!” the boss screamed, losing it now. Jacques ripped off his hat and flung it on the ground. “YOU SMART ALEC KID! I’LL TEACH YOU SOME RESPECT! WHADDYA THINK THIS IS, A BOY SCOUT CAMP? I GOT A SCHEDULE AND DEADLINES TO MEET HERE! THERE’S WORK TO BE DONE...W-O-R-K! OR DON’T YOU KNOW THE MEANING OF THE WORD? I THOUGHT I HAD ME A CREW OF LOGGERS UP HERE BUT GOD DAMMIT, I GUESS I WAS WRONG. WHAT I GOT IS A BUNCH OF JERK OFFS. LIGHTHORSE, I GOT A MIND TO FIRE YOUR WORTHLESS ASS! WHADDYA SAY TO THAT, BOY? HUH? BY GOD, I THINK I’LL DO IT! GOT NO TIME FOR LAGGARDS AND WUSSIES!” Jacques pointed his finger like a pistol. “FOUS-MOI LE CAMP! AND I WANT YOUR LAZY ASS GONE BY SUN UP, TOMORROW MORNING! GOT THAT? SO YOU MIGHT AS WELL START PACKING YOUR GEAR!”

  And that was that. The boss turned and stormed off, a slipstream of superheated ions sparking the air behind him.

  As the boss went by Francis reached out a hand and opened his mouth to do or say something helpful. Thinking better of it, he stepped aside and made room for the passing tornado. For another moment Francis stood flat-footed scratching his head, staring at yellow and brown aspen leaves on the ground at his feet, wondering why (“For heaven’s sake...”) they reminded him of his wife. On any number of occasions, he had seen Jacques lose his temper in just this way. Yes, and on a few of those occasions he had seen the boss angrily throw his hat on the ground. However, he had never until this day seen the boss too angry to retrieve it. Francis stepped forward and did his duty. Leaning down, he picked up the hat and dusted it off. Now, staring at Bobby, Francis opened his mouth again to say something helpful, anything to ease the tension; but the moment was past redemption. With a shrug, he turned and followed the chief back to the pickup.

  By the time Jacques reached the truck he was already having second thoughts and misgivings about losing his temper. He didn’t have to think to know he’d made a mistake blowing up at Bobby like that. From long experience Jacques knew that crews do get out of line. On occasion. After all, boys will be boys, but once in a while, a boss had to take decisive action to put things right. Jacques did not enjoy being the heavy in these occasional extreme situations. If the truth were told, he was the peaceable sort. He disliked confrontation, finding it distasteful. But damned if he would back down from trouble either. Usually the problem centered on one bad apple spoiling the barrel. Making an example of one man usually was enough to turn the herd back on course. Excise the bad egg and you generally had the problem whipped at the root. Nine times out of ten.

  What had Jacques stumped now, though, was not simply the fact that he had failed to learn the whereabouts of his crew. He still had no clue what the problem was, let alone which bad seed was behind it. Nor did he know who had defaced his cat and half the campers with Day-Glo paint, or why.

  His gut told him that Bobby was not the lone culprit. For which reason singling out the boy and firing him had not only been foolish, it was just plain dumb, about as pointless as stepping out into a pitch dark night and taking an aimless potshot with his thirty-thirty.

  Hells-bells, what’s a man supposed to do? Just sit there and take it?

  Such were his disordered thoughts as Francis slid into the cab beside him, plopped the cap on the seat, then waited in silence for the boss to speak. It was always best to let Jacques get whatever was eating him off his chest, in his own time.

  Thank heaven for loyal, soft-spoken, and long-suffering men like Francis Delacour. The chief turned to his foreman without consciously noticing the hat, regret and frustration written all over his face.

  “Would somebody be so kind as to tell me what in the Sam Hill is going on, around here? Is something happening, or am I going out of my gourd?”

  “You got me, boss.”

  “I don’t know about you,” said Jacques, “but u
ntil this morning, I thought I’d seen everything.”

  “We got ourselves a situation, alright,” Francis said. “But what ... I dunno. I’m in the dark as deep as you.”

  Jacques started the truck and headed for the barn. However, before he had gone a quarter mile he met Jimmy Thurston and company coming up the access road toward the camp. Apparently the boys were returning from Granby, or wherever...

  “OK. Good,” Jacques said. “Now we’ll get some answers.” The boss braked and stopped the truck in the middle of the road, as if concerned that Jimmy might fail to see him and drive on by. To make extra certain, Jacques leaned out and waved down the Wagoneer.

  What he saw was anything but delightful.

  Jimmy was at the wheel, alright. The boss also recognized the familiar mugs of four other loggers: Charlie McCoy, Dipshit Dugan (or was it Dipstick?), plus Red Callahan and Tom Lacey. Two of the men had Day-Glo on their faces...

  What in the hell...?

  Not only were they drinking beer at ten in the morning, on a workday, it was evident they had already put away a few. Incredibly, the men were flaunting it, as if they were on holiday. To say that Jacques was displeased by all of this would be like saying Poseidon was slightly peeved with Odysseus. He was seething; but he would sooner freeze in hell than lose his cool three times the same morning.

  “Hey boss, how’s it going?” Dugan said for openers. The guy was smiling in that infuriating way of his. Thurston and Red and the others were the same, grinning like there was nothing out of the usual. Jacques started to ask about the Day-Glo but thought better of it. Best not go there. The noxious whiff of mutiny was in the air. Jacques could smell that vibe anywhere. It was unmistakable.

  “Small world it seems,” the boss said. The smile on his face was thin as a wire. He held his tongue on a tight leash.

  “It sure is, chief,” Thurston said. “We thought maybe it was you back there we passed, above the Kawuneechee.”

  “None other, Jimmy.”

  “Yeah, we thought it was.”

  What was puzzling the boss about this menagerie of faces, were the grins that kept coming. “Party time, boys?”

  Thurston stared at the boss. Something about Jacques was different, this morning. All of a sudden Jimmy knew what it was. The chief was not wearing his hat, the one with the CAT logo. Strange. Jimmy could not recall ever seeing the boss bareheaded. For a moment he studied Jacques’ black hair, flecked with gray, noting the way the boss parted it on the right side, instead of the left. The dark hole in the middle of the boss’s face seemed larger and more conspicuous than he had ever seen it. “Would you like a cool one, chief?” Jimmy said good-naturedly. “We got plenty.” Thurston turned to the men in back. “Hey Dugan, pass the chief a Bud. One of them cold ones.”

  “No thank you, Jimmy,” Jacques said curtly. “I’m afraid you misunderstood me. What I meant to say was, isn’t it a little early in the day to be drinking?” His tone was a smidgeon on the sharp side, and brought no response from the Wagoneer, only silence, that is, until someone in the back sniggered, a spark that set off the whole caboodle.

  The hysterical whoop was like a rude fist in Jacques’ face.

  That woolly headed Dipshit!

  “Did I say something humorous?” Jacques sallied back, his tone as unyielding as granite. “I’d really appreciate it if one of you boys would enlighten me.” This was followed by another silence, more strained than before. It was anything but a repose.

  “Sorry, boss, we didn’t mean nothing by it,” Jimmy finally said.

  Jimmy thrust his head out the window.

  “Boss, it’s just that we’re feeling pretty good.”

  “I can see that,” Jacques said. “Well, boys, I don’t mean to cut into your fun, but...ah, if I might be so bold as to ask, why are you gents not working, this morning? Or have you forgotten that today is a work day?”

  There was a long pause.

  Tom studied the strange expression on Jacques’ face. Another mask. Was life a charade? The dark toothy hole that dominated the middle of Jacques’ face seemed like some great yaw in the earth. A wild thought. Was it about to swallow the boss? Tom shuddered.

  “It’s a long story, chief...”

  “Fire away, Jimmy. I’m not going anywhere. In fact, I’ve got all day.” Jacques turned the key and pulled the plug. His truck motor coughed and died.

  A moment later Thurston did the same. Silence embraced the two trucks, parked side-by-side in the middle of the road, facing in opposite directions. But it was not a pleasant silence. It was pregnant, urgent, insistent. The boss was waiting impatiently and he wanted his answer. Thurston knew he was at the plate. He squirmed and cleared his throat.

  “Well, you see, boss, hhhmmmmggrph, it all started yesterday when...uh...we....”

  Jacques sensed another raft of bullshit headed in his direction. He could feel the merciless ire rising, the old hot blood. Bile was moving under pressure of millions of tons p.s.i., bilious gall, by-passing all non-essential organs, rising up, up, up, up, this time, all the way into his throat. Jacques nearly choked, but somehow he managed to contain the emotion.

  “Mu-mushrooms, boss,” Thurston stammered.

  “MUSHROOMS!” Jacques exploded. “WHAT IN THE PISSANT SOUR PRICK AND DIP SHIT FUZZY DAMN ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?”

  “In the woods, boss,” Jimmy said. No more hesitation. “Mushrooms.”

  The word fell into the synaptic void behind Jacques’ forehead, sank into the swirling vortex, and vanished. Came an eddy, a cleft pause, a moment of imperturbable silence, a dead space of non-reaction. Disbelief, maybe? Denial? No, the pause was only a punctuation, the space between thoughts, the sound of the Nada, empty perhaps, but infinitely fertile. Make no mistake, the word had found its mark. Mushrooms. Somewhere inside Jacques St. Clair’s cortex sawdust was flying, yes, sawdust and wood chips and contractual fine print and dreams and plans, a life, all scattering and unraveling, insubstantial as the wind, unreal as a fanciful daydream, all slipping away like sand through his fingers, everything drifting, decaying into nothingness.

  Stung to the quick, the boss knew he was beat. Hating defeat, all he could think to do was reach for the key. Fourth down. Can’t make it. Time to punt. Jacques turned the switch. The ignition coughed. The engine turned over and lived again.

  Borrowed time.

  “I see...uhhh...OK, boys...I’ll...uh...get back to you in a little bit,” Jacques said with a wan smile. All color and expression had drained from his face. Sucking in his chest, the boss gently nudged the gas. Slowly the truck began to move and pull out, leaving Jimmy and the others behind, waiting in the middle of the road.

  Jimmy was incredulous, his mouth open. The others, Dipstick, Charlie, Red, and Tom likewise. No snickering, now, only stares of surprise and disbelief as the chief pulled away. Looks of incomprehension.

  Jacques’ shoulders were hunched forward, as if burdened, his eyes fixed on the road. He allowed not a glance to the side, not even a peep in the rear view. Gently he eased his foot into it, feeding gas to the engine.

  SLOWLY. Easy does it. Keep the foot light on the pedal, not too much gas, no more than a touch. That’s it. Steady as she goes, light as a feather.

  Finally, he took a deep breath. The truck was putting distance between, safe distance, uniformly accelerating so as to spin no gravel, leave no tracks, stir up no cloud of telltale dust. Nothing to draw attention to Jacques St. Clair’s tail-door flapping open in the breeze.

  Cardinal boss rule numero uno: never let the men see you sweat.

  BOOK THREE

  THIRTY EIGHT

  A major storm system blew in from the Pacific bringing unsettled weather and unseasonal cold. The front piled up ominously against the Rockies, enveloping the high country in a sheath of clouds.

  A sharp blustery wind was blowing as Tom drove into Granby. He meant to stop by the house where the activist meeting had occurred for an update about Bowen Gulch, but as he cruised by the
Forest Service district office on Main Street he noticed a demonstration in progress. A large crowd had occupied the parking lot, and was milling around.

  Damn!

  A line of protesters also stood along the highway. They were waving signs about Bowen Gulch.

  He parked his rig and crossed the street. A woman handed him a flier as he approached the demo. As he edged his way through the crowd which he guessed at maybe two hundred people, he noticed that a second smaller group had gathered around a vehicle in the lot. The center of curious attention was the flatbed with the huge spruce log that had been trucked around the state.

  He recognized some of the faces. A small boy struggled with a sign that was a lot bigger than he was. The sign read: SAVE BOWEN GULCH FOR MY CHILDREN’S CHILDREN.

  The math professor was up in front with a bullhorn, apparently done speaking. Pinecone was nowhere to be seen.

  Suddenly, two men in Forest Service green came out the front door of the district office and hurried down the walkway toward the highway, actually toward the road sign, under which someone had affixed a banner. The official sign read:

  Arapaho National Forest

  Sulfur Ranger District

  Beneath was a white sheet with bold red letters:

  A SUBSIDIARY OF WESTERN-PACIFIC

  The visibly unhappy staffers proceeded to rip the banner down. As they did, Dr. Newsome lifted the bullhorn. “Our Forest Service friends, over here,” he said, pointing with his other arm, “Obviously do not appreciate our little wake up call. They think we defaced their sign; but, folks, the truth is, we corrected it.” Cheers from the crowd. Now, he addressed the staffers directly. “You men, have you ever heard of John B. Sewell?” Newsome paused, waiting. When there was no response, he continued. “It seems our friends are not aware that in 1981 Mr. Sewell, lead attorney for Western-Pacific, was named Assistant Secretary of Agriculture, which placed him administratively over the Forest Service.” He paused. “So, you see, we have not defaced anything, our sign is factually correct. The timber industry is not only in bed with the government, hell, they are the government!”