Everything but a note pinned to a pillow, saying Welcome.
7
“I just loved to clean that cabin,” she said now to Mary. “There was this disinfectant stuff in the cupboard, and I’d pour that in my pail and slop it over the floor and get down with a brush and really scrub. I just love that cabin.”
“I can’t even stand to do dishes,” said Mary, whose mind was on other details in Andi’s story that she puzzled over.
“You wouldn’t mind if all you had to wash was a glass and a tin plate and cup.” Andi watched the fragile shadows on the ceiling cast there by the tree beyond the window. She yawned. “It must be nearly light. I’m going to sleep. Good night.”
“Night,” said Mary, who then turned on her side and watched the ghostly moonlight begin to give way to blue dawn. Way out there on the horizon, a band of liquid light spilled across the Sangre de Cristos. She was thinking about the man who’d given Andi a ride in his truck. Why had it taken him so long to pick her up?
Mary was pretty sure it bothered Andi, too.
8
“I think you should stay,” said Mary, the next morning.
“Stay? Here, you mean?”
Mary nodded. “Why not? Rosella sure likes you; you heard her at breakfast.”
Hadn’t she ever? This is a nice girl, you could maybe learn some manners was the way it had gone all through breakfast. She’d been that way ever since Angela had died. Rosella was worried that Mary, having no big sister to act as her role model, would go to rack and ruin.
Andi had reached down to scoop up a handful of earth, which she let trickle through her fingers. They were some distance from the house, sitting on a wide, flat boulder. “That’s nice of you, but I don’t—”
Mary interrupted. “What if he finds you again, and you’re alone?”
“He must’ve stopped looking by now. It’s been over four months.” The tone was less certain than the words.
“But you wouldn’t recognize him, right?”
“I’d know that car.”
“What makes you think he’d be driving it?”
Andi reached down again and picked up a verdigris-green stone. She turned it in her hand. She didn’t answer.
Mary said, “Look. I don’t want to make you jumpy, but this guy who picked you up—”
“What about him?” Andi turned to look at Mary.
Mary could see in her expression that her mind had nearly made the leap to Mary’s conclusions. “You said you’d been walking for some time when his truck came along. But even with allowing time it would take him to pay for the gas, why did it take him so long to catch up?”
“Maybe he got to talking to someone in the store.” Andi tried to shrug it off.
Mary agreed with her; yes, that was possible.
“But there is one thing—”
Mary was sure there must be, and that Andi was suspicious too. “Yes, what?”
“Remember the Indian?”
“Sure. He made some sort of sign, passing you, and it bothered you.”
“Yes. Only I don’t think it was what he did that bothered me. I think it was the way his car was headed.”
Mary frowned. “What do you mean?”
“In the gas station. You know the way you pull up to gas pumps; well, usually it’s the way your car’s headed, the direction you’ve been driving from.” Mary nodded; Andi went on. “The Indian’s was headed south, towards Albuquerque; he was coming from the north, away from here. But the man who picked me up, his truck was headed in the opposite direction, towards Santa Fe. Why did he go in the same direction as the Indian, then?”
“Because it was deliberate, the way he picked you up? Because that was the whole point?”
Her face paler, Andi nodded. “Still, if it was him, why didn’t he just hit me over the head and take me with him? And if he knows where I am—or was, up there in the cabin, why doesn’t he come get me?” Andi dropped her chin to her knees, pretended to be studying the green stone. She was straining to hold back tears. Because she was thinking of the times she’d been afraid that he had done just that. Daddy.
9
There was that time she’d come back to the cabin after she’d finally managed to extricate a rabbit from a snare. The rabbit had played dead when she’d found it. Set free, it had loped off at amazing speed. It was a snowshoe hare; its whiteness merged with the snow as it got farther away. Nature was brilliant.
Andi knew where the traps were. She had studied where they were, gone looking for them after she’d nearly got caught in one of the snares. It was a safe assumption that if there was one, there must be others, and over the next weeks and months she’d found dozens of the things.
At first, she’d put such a snare out of commission, but then realized, as she’d realized with the leghold traps, that they’d only bring another to replace it. Or change the site, and that would mean she wouldn’t know where it was. So she left it, unset. The trappers would think the animal had escaped, had gotten away.
She set off through the trees toward the cabin, wishing the hare hadn’t slipped through her hands, as it was leaving a trail of blood in its wake. She might have been able to fix it. Even as hurt as it was, how it could run!
She lumbered back to the cabin and removed her snowshoes on the porch. Once inside she would make herself a cup of tea. Tea, she had discovered, was soothing in a way that coffee never was.
In the act of getting in some more wood, she stopped. She whirled around as if she’d sensed someone behind her, but apparently what she’d sensed had been the aftermath of a presence in the room. Someone had been in the cabin but had left it undisturbed. The pinecones she had gathered still sat in the center of the table; her notebook lay in the same place on the bed. (The thought of anyone reading her notebook made her flush.) She thought the scent of tobacco hung in the air, cigarette or cigar smoke, but couldn’t be certain. She stood there holding the tin pot in which she was going to heat up water, staring at nothing. It was as if an imprint had been left on the air.
That had been the first time. Then there had been the other, more recent time, after she’d fallen asleep in the cave and waked to find the coyote gone. After that, she’d gone back to the cabin as usual. That time there was the apprehension that things had been moved, albeit fractionally. The books, the water glass holding a few stems of some hardy winter wildflower. It was as though the hand that had picked them up to read and to smell had tried to replace them exactly but hadn’t managed to.
It was right after this that Andi had started target practice.
• • •
She’d read or heard somewhere (and she wondered if this memory might be the precursor of other memories) that what it took to be a good shooter was focus. Focus and determination. Concentration. Andi thought she had these qualities, since there was nothing around to distract her, none of the things she imagined a girl her age usually had: girlfriends, movies, dates, TV, school. She had books, that was all, and not many of those. There were some mysteries (someone was a big Elmore Leonard fan) and a few other books on hunting and shooting, which didn’t surprise her. Focusing was not hard for her.
Then there was one book on guns—their description and operation. After her initial encounter with the Smith & Wesson, and despite her fear of it, she’d had it outside a few times, shooting it in the clearing to see how it felt. Awesome was how it felt, and frightening, but not as frightening as being alone and unprepared for whatever visitor might come. The first time the kick knocked her down. After that, she’d set up target after target of bull’s-eyes inked onto brown paper bags. (She’d talked an extra half dozen bags out of the lady in the store.) She pinned the target to a big tree, and each practice session she’d step a couple of feet farther back. Bullets sprayed, went wild, when she’d tried shooting six or seven times in a row. It shouldn’t be hard to hit your mark with a gun like this, but of course it needed a good eye and steady hand. She didn’t want to go to the Olympics with i
t; it was more that she wanted to feel the heft and weight of the gun, wanted to get used to it. And wanted to be able to pick it up quickly and shoot. The book was helpful.
She got better; she gained confidence. At night, she stowed the gun under her bed. During the day, she kept it in the bag with the yellow smiley face on it, wrapped in a dishcloth together with a couple of the paperback Elmore Leonard books. Why, she wondered, hadn’t fate seen right to fix her up with a Chili Palmer type?
10
“I don’t know why he was still looking for me; I don’t know how he could have found the cabin,” Andi said.
“You found it.”
“Yes, but I wasn’t looking for it.”
“If it was ‘Daddy,’ he knew you were lying about your so-called brothers; he knew you were alone. Could he even have followed you that night?”
Andi shook her head. “Why would he?” She raised her hands to the sides of her head, pulled her hair as if she meant to wrench her mind open. “If he wanted to grab me again, he could have done that when I got in the truck.”
“He likes to play games, it sounds like.”
They sat in silence, both looking off toward the mountains. Finally, Andi said, “There’s one way to keep him from looking for me.”
“What? How?” Given her expression right now, Mary was glad she was her friend, not her enemy.
“Looking for him.”
11
Mary stared at her.
“You could come with me,” said Andi.
“Come with you where? You don’t know his name and you don’t know he was the truck driver. All Mrs. Orr said was that he was handsome. You don’t know where he is. He could be anyplace!” Mary scooped up a handful of sandy earth, let it run through her fingers. She was sitting on her favorite rock, flat and smooth and (she liked to think) worn that way by her. She loved to lie backward on it, let the blood rush to her head.
“Idaho.”
“Oh, great! The whole state of Idaho. Just like that we both go to Idaho? He was probably lying to that bed-and-breakfast owner about everything. Why would he tell her where he was from?”
“Because he had to, maybe. That’s what the license plates said. The ones on the Camaro.”
“What about the truck? Were those Idaho plates?”
“No, New Mexico, but I bet it wasn’t his truck. He could’ve borrowed it from someone he knew in Santa Fe when his car wouldn’t go.”
“But . . . you’re making so many assumptions.” Mary fell back on the rock, as if she’d been shot. “Maybe the Camaro was stolen.” She sat up again, feeling a pleasant rush of blood to her head. “Have you thought about that?”
“It wouldn’t be very smart to steal someone away and then steal the car you’re taking her away in.”
“Okay, even if you—or the both of you—are from Idaho, you can’t go roaming all over the state.”
“Idaho Falls.”
“Just because he told that to this lady?”
“Who’d choose small towns like that if they were lying? If you were lying, you’d choose someplace more obvious and better known. And there were other places. . . . Cripple Creek. Is that in New Mexico?”
“Colorado. I think.” Mary gave an exasperated sigh. “It’s just so impractical. If you can’t even recognize Daddy—”
“You’re the one who brought up that he could be the man in the truck. If he is, I can certainly recognize him.”
“Well, you can’t recognize him if he isn’t there.”
“Don’t forget there’s another reason to go to Idaho and Colorado: It might be where I’m from, not him. If I am, somebody might recognize me.”
Mary could think of no argument against this. She said, “I still think you should go to the police.”
Andi shook her head. “It wouldn’t do any good. It’s been so long now—over four months—that even if they believed me, the trail’s too cold.”
Again, they were both silent. Finally, Mary said, “I have a friend who’s really smart at solving things. He’s a scientist. He works on Complexity.”
“On what?”
“Complexity. It’s a—sort of theory. Like Chaos. . . .” Mary let that trail off, having little understanding of either one. “Come on.” Mary rose, dusted the rear of her jeans.
“To where?” Andi got up.
“To town. He works at a place called the Santa Fe Institute. They’re all scientists. What they do is all day they sit around and think. It’s really relaxing work.”
12
The Santa Fe Institute sat within the confines of a low adobe wall along the road that led up to the ski basin. The view was wonderful, but Mary didn’t think her friend took time to look at it much.
Nils Anders’s office was a sparsely furnished room down the main corridor. What the room itself lacked by way of warmth and comfort, Nils Anders supplied. He got chairs for both of them and asked them if they wanted Cokes or anything. They said no.
It always amazed Mary Dark Hope that Dr. Anders could find the time to talk to somebody her age. But he did. He even seemed to enjoy it. “I’m giving you a problem,” she went on, “and want you to work it out and give me a conclusion. If you can. If you have time, of course,” Mary added quickly.
“Ye of little faith. Shoot.” Dr. Anders formed a mock gun with his thumb and forefinger.
Mary cleared her throat. Andi said nothing. She kept her eyes on Dr. Anders’s desk. “Let’s say you were kidnapped—”
His eyebrows shot up. “That’s certainly a tough premise.”
“Look, let me just tell it, okay? Without interrupting.”
Nils nodded. “Sorry.”
“You were kidnapped. Four months ago. Then you wake up in a bed-and-breakfast place—”
Nils raised his hand, palm out, halting her. “Excuse me, but aren’t there a few details missing between kidnapped and wake up?”
“No, there aren’t. Because you’ve got amnesia.”
“On top of being kidnapped? God.”
“Please stop interrupting.” Exasperated or not, Mary had to hand it to Dr. Anders. Not once had he so much as glanced at Andi. She was sitting across from him, perfectly still and steady as a moon in a cloudless sky. “So in this B-and-B, the man—we call him ‘Daddy’ because that’s who he told the owner he was”—Nils opened his mouth, quickly shut it again when he saw Mary’s look—“gives the impression to the owner that this—ah, person, this girl is his daughter. He claims they’re from Idaho Falls.”
Nils Anders had stopped smiling. He looked serious and tense.
“When she wakes up, she’s alone in the room. She wouldn’t even have known there was another person if some of his stuff, like his jacket, hadn’t been tossed over a chair. The owner tells her ‘Daddy’ has gone into town, and that he’ll be back. So she figures she’d better cut while she can. Oh, and his car’s a Camaro.” Mary was more and more aware that what she was saying seemed much more like an account of something that had actually happened, rather than a hypothetical case. She stopped talking.
“Is that all?” When Mary nodded, he asked, “And did she get out?” Again, Mary nodded. “Went to the police?” he asked.
“No.”
“Why not?”
Mary shrugged and looked at Andi, who looked away, out of the window. “She didn’t want to have to answer a lot of questions. And she didn’t know what had actually happened—she’s got amnesia, remember.”
Anders thought for a moment. “So how did she know he wasn’t?” He frowned.
“Wasn’t?”
“Her dad. ‘Daddy.’ How does she know he’s not her real father?”
Andi’s eyes came quickly around to stare at him. Mary was astonished. “Her real father?”
“Why not?”
“No,” said Andi sharply.
Without missing a beat, Nils asked, “Why?” His look at her was curious and careful, as if he were inspecting one of his own theorems.
“He just wasn’t
. Isn’t.”
Nils was rocking his chair back onto two of its fragile legs. “But this fellow managed to convince the owner he was. Wouldn’t you have been suspicious if a man came into your guesthouse with a pretty young girl—a sleeping girl—and claimed to be her father and asked for a double room?”
Andi looked away. Mary nodded. “I sure would.”
“Then this fellow must have serious charm. He must be extremely plausible.” He looked again at Andi. “Why didn’t you go to the police?”
Andi shrugged. “I didn’t want to answer questions.”
“Even if you thought he’d be looking for you? And you were in danger?”
“I went where I thought he’d never find me.”
“And now you think he has.”
She didn’t answer.
“Andi, I can understand why you don’t want to answer a lot of questions. But how are you going to find your way home if you don’t know where it is?”
Mary glanced at Anders. He could so easily have said, What about your parents? Don’t you think they’re worried sick? One reason she trusted him was that he didn’t take every opportunity to hand you a ticket on the Guilt-trip Train.
“But I think I do know.”
“Oh. Then you do remember something—”
She was shaking her head. “No, it’s not that I remember. I just don’t see why he’d choose a place as small as some town in Idaho—or Colorado—to lie about.”
Nils Anders folded his arms and seemed to be staring at nothing. That meant (Mary knew) he was thinking. “I don’t remember reading anything about such a case in the papers. Wait a minute.” He pulled the telephone toward him, punched in a number. He didn’t have to wait long. He asked the person who answered for a Sergeant Oñate.
Biting the Moon Page 6