by TJ Klune
Nate didn’t know if that was an insult or not. “No. Not a writer. Well. Not books, anyway.”
“There’s other kinds?”
“Yeah. I was—I am a journalist.”
“A reporter?”
Nate bristled a little at that. Old pride coming through. “A journalist.”
“For the news? You on camera? That sounds fancy.”
“Print.”
“Oh! Good on ya. I don’t read the paper. Don’t read much at all, if I’m being honest. Never had the patience for it. That’s what the TV’s for. Besides, too much bad in the world, ya know? I want to hear the good stories. Last summer, they had a squirrel up here that could water-ski, if you could believe that! Those are the types of stories I like to hear. Darnedest thing, too. Little son of a bitch behind a remote-controlled boat. The strangest thing. Too many bad things in the world already. Just watch squirrels on skis.”
“I wouldn’t—I don’t know anything about that.”
“Don’t do waterskiing squirrels?”
“No. I was… in DC. More… political. There were squirrels, but they didn’t ski.”
Randy pulled a face. “Don’t know how you can stand that. All those bigwigs in Washington. What the hell do they know about the working man? I don’t trust a word out of ol’ Slick Willie’s mouth. Now Reagan. You want to talk about a good man? You talk about Ronald Reagan. He knew how to take care of business, yes, sir.”
There was a man with a gun above him holding the weirdest child Nate had ever seen while another man grunted into a hole in the ground at Nate’s feet discussing politics and belief in God.
He should have stayed in Washington.
At least he was used to that kind of crazy.
“And… there it is,” Randy said. He sat back up, eyeing the meter, watching it start to tick slowly. “Looks like we’re up and running. I checked out the plans filed with the county. Looks like pipes were replaced here in ’87, so you should be good to go. Any issues, I got a friend that can help you out cheap. You just let me know. Sometimes these houses settle. Pipes shift. They can break, especially with the winter having passed. Pipes could have frozen.”
Nate frowned. “I thought the winter was mild up here this year?”
Randy laughed. “Oh yeah. You nailed that one on the head. Don’t know where my mind is sometimes.” He pushed himself to his feet and went to a spigot on the side of the house. Nate’s mom had had it installed for her flower beds. He turned it on. It spat and gurgled for a moment before clear water came out.
Randy turned it off and grinned at him. “There ya—”
A loud thump came from the house, followed by a crash.
Randy turned to look back at the window. “Someone with you in there?”
“Uh. No. Just—probably the pipes.”
Randy nodded slowly. “The pipes. Right. Don’t know that I ever heard pipes like that before. But there’s a first time for everything.”
“Or it could be my dog,” Nate said quickly. “He’s—big. And mean. And always getting into things. Probably just found what was left over from breakfast.”
Randy grinned at him. “I love dogs. What’s his name?”
“Fido,” he blurted before wincing. “Uh. Yeah. Fido.”
“What kind is he?”
“Oh, you know. He’s just a mangy mutt. All kinds, I guess.”
“Mean, you say?”
“The meanest. Doesn’t like strangers. Tends to bark at them for no reason at all, even when he’s the one in the wrong.”
Randy began to put his tools away. “Funny. Didn’t hear him bark when I knocked on the door.”
“He was… hiding.”
Randy arched an eyebrow. “Mean dog that hides? How strange.”
“You have no idea,” Nate said truthfully.
Randy had him sign an invoice before shaking his hand and telling him to enjoy his day. “You let me know about those pipes!” he called as started to climb into his truck. “Remember, I got a guy. Will help you out real cheap. He owes me a favor or two.”
Nate waved in acknowledgment. He figured the pipes were the least of his problems.
Randy tipped his head and then started his truck. He backed out slowly before heading down the dirt road.
Nate breathed a sigh of relief.
He turned to head back into the house, only to see Alex standing on the porch, glowering down at him. Art stood in front of him, sunglasses sitting on the top of her head.
“You called Alex a mean dog,” she said. “Even though you said Fido, you meant Alex. I know what subtlety is, even if Alex says I don’t.”
Nate looked toward the sky, begging silently for strength. It was hypocritical, but he knew no other way. “It was the first thing I could think of, since apparently neither of you understand how to be quiet.”
“I knocked over a lamp on accident,” Art said. “It broke. I am supposed to feel bad because it didn’t belong to me, but I thought it was ugly and was going to break it yesterday but I forgot. So I accidentally did it today.”
Nate just went with it. He had to. “Of course you did.”
Alex stepped around her and down the stairs. His large feet were bare, little wisps of black hair on his big toes. Nate didn’t know why he noticed that. It shouldn’t have mattered.
He also carried his gun.
He didn’t come for Nate.
Instead, he went around the side of the house.
“He’s gotta check,” Art said.
“For what?”
“In case Macho Man Randy Savage was a spy.”
He opened his mouth to say something, but for the life of him, he didn’t know how to parse that sentence, so instead he shook his head and followed Alex.
He was on his knees in front of the water meter, gun on the grass at his side. He reached up and felt along the meter, hands going over the plastic covering and reaching around the back like he was looking for something.
When he didn’t find anything, he moved the grate covering the valve and bent down, reaching in all the way to his shoulder, eyes narrowed.
“You know,” Nate said. “For someone who just yesterday was having a hard time moving because he’d been shot, you seem to be doing okay.”
Alex didn’t respond.
“Granted, the wound looked old, but still. Old man yesterday, bright and spry today. Was it the coffee? Which, by the way, you’re welcome for. Thanks for unloading the truck and then helping yourself.”
Not a word.
“It was probably the bacon,” Art said, suddenly appearing beside him as if out of nowhere. He hadn’t heard her coming. “Bacon makes everything better.”
“Right,” Nate said slowly. “Because you’ve never had bacon before. Or met a waitress.”
“She was so nice,” Art said. “She brought me juice when I asked. And ice cream. And meatloaf. And carrots. And mashed potatoes.”
“That’s—”
“And butter for my bread that wasn’t toast.”
He waited.
She smiled up at him.
“You’re a reporter,” Alex grunted as he sat back up, as if conversational whiplash was a thing they did.
“Excuse you. I’m a journalist—”
“You should have said something.”
“Oh. Riiiight. Because you’ve shared so much with me already. How could I be so goddamn rude and not tell you about my career path, man who broke into my house? You have my most sincere apologies. Please consider forgiving me.”
“He will,” Art said. “He’s starting to like you, even though he normally doesn’t like anyone besides me. You can tell by the way he hasn’t pointed the gun at you in over ten minutes.”
Nate felt himself flushing. He didn’t know why. He didn’t give a fuck if this man liked him in the slightest. He still wasn’t convinced that some crime wasn’t happening here, and if it involved the girl, he would do every
thing he could to get her away from Alex. What Alex thought about him shouldn’t matter.
It shouldn’t.
“No wonder you ask so many questions,” Alex muttered, wiping his hand off on his leg. “Reporters don’t know when to mind their own goddamn business. Always sticking their noses where they don’t—”
“I came up here to do exactly that,” Nate snapped. Normally he didn’t give two shits what others thought about what he did. Or rather, had done. The work was important, and he wasn’t in it for the popularity. But even he could admit to himself that Alex’s dismissal stung the tiniest bit. “Mind my own goddamn business. But in case you couldn’t tell, someone had broken into my cabin and made themselves at home. Which is illegal.”
Alex pulled himself to his full height.
Nate wasn’t intimidated. Well, he was, but he’d faced assholes before. This was just another one.
He was a little relieved the gun stayed on the ground.
“Fine,” Alex said, a scowl on his face. “There’s plenty of other cabins around here. We’ll find another one.”
“But those don’t have water,” Art said. They both looked down at her. “This one does. And the lake is cold and I like my bed and I’ve only read fifteen of the books, which means there are three hundred and sixty-two left to go.” She nodded, the sunglasses sliding off the top of her head and down on her face. “Besides, Nate will be sad if we leave. He likes us.”
“I don’t like either of you at all,” Nate said.
“You made us bacon.”
“That doesn’t mean I like you.”
“It certainly seemed that way,” she said. “If you give someone something that good, it has to mean something. You can’t just give a gift without having feelings behind it.”
“It was just breakfast.”
Alex crouched down before her. “It’ll be okay,” he said, not looking at Nate. “We’ll find another place. And I know the water is cold, but if we move fast, it’ll be over soon and we can get warm again. And there might even be more books. Different kinds. It’ll be okay. I promise.”
It was the most Nate had heard him speak.
He wondered if he was being manipulated.
He felt like he was being manipulated.
Art looked up at him, pulling her glasses off slowly. Her eyes were wide, like she was a goddamn anime princess.
Definitely manipulated. But he thought it was just by her. Alex didn’t seem like the type. He was fists and guns and violence. He didn’t understand subtlety.
But Artemis Darth Vader?
She was all about manipulation.
And it was working.
“Tomorrow,” Nate said through gritted teeth. “You guys can leave tomorrow. At least let her have a hot shower. You too. But goddammit, I get to go first because this is still my fucking cabin. You hear me? I get the first shower, and I am going to stay in it as long as I want, so you don’t get to bitch at me for that.”
Art looked smug.
Alex scowled.
Nate almost smashed his face in.
Instead, he turned and headed back around the house.
He thought he heard a little girl laughing.
chapter six
Nate stuck to his guns.
He took the first shower.
The water was either ice or scalding. No in-between.
It didn’t matter.
It was wonderful.
He leaned against the seafoam-green tiled wall, feeling his skin start to redden.
The shower was where he did some of his best thinking.
Back home in the suburbs of DC, he would spend thirty minutes every morning in the shower, the sounds of water falling around him soothing. He’d lived in an overpriced apartment (it was DC—unless he chose to live an hour away, everything was overpriced) in Chevy Chase, an eighth-floor one-bedroom, sparsely furnished. He didn’t have time to own things, didn’t have the sort of people he’d call friends who’d come over and sit on the couch and shoot the shit and watch bad TV. He worked too much. He liked it that way. It was easier to depend on himself than it was to depend on others.
Did it get lonely?
Sure.
But he never let himself dwell on it too much. There wasn’t time.
His alarm would go off at four thirty, and he’d trudge to the first-floor gym where he’d run on a treadmill, Discman attached to his hip, headphones in his ears, blasting Dangerous by Michael Jackson. He’d dutifully put in his three miles, and then he’d be back up to his apartment.
One time, he thought about getting a cat. But then he remembered he hated cats.
He wasn’t home enough for a dog.
By five, he’d be standing in the shower.
And there he’d stay for thirty minutes.
Thinking.
It helped him focus.
Toward the end of his illustrious career with the Post, he’d taken to having a shower at night too.
It hadn’t helped.
So yes, here he was now, standing in a too-hot shower, steam rising thick and heavy, as he’d forgotten to turn on the overhead fan. The tile was chilled against his back, the water burning against his front.
He could only take shallow breaths.
He needed them to leave.
He did.
They needed to go. As Alex said, there were other cabins. Many, in fact. He wasn’t advocating for them breaking and entering, but… they shouldn’t be here. They were complicated. Both of them. Nate didn’t need complicated. The reason he’d come to Oregon at all was to make things uncomplicated.
Did he have questions?
Of course he did.
They ravaged his mind. He’d always been curious. Always. Ever since he was a kid. He wanted to know everything, even those things he shouldn’t. His mother had called him nosy. She’d caught him once trying to listen in on a conversation between her and his father, and she’d told him that he needed to mind his own business. That one day, it was going to get him into trouble.
She’d been right, of course.
He was here now because of that.
He’d pushed when he shouldn’t have.
There were ethics guidelines when it came to journalism. Especially at a paper with a storied history like the Post.
They had to go.
So what if a little girl had to bathe in a cold lake.
There were people in the world that didn’t even have water to bathe in.
And the less he knew, the less of a chance there’d be that he’d be called to testify against… whatever was happening.
But fuck, did they both intrigue him.
He groaned.
No.
Absolutely not.
He wouldn’t ask a single question.
And that was final.
Alex was in the shower when Nate asked, “Why are you called Artemis Darth Vader?”
Art was sitting on the couch in an awkward position, slumped almost as low as she could go, her socked feet dangling toward the floor but not quite reaching. She had another Louis L’Amour in her hands. The Tall Stranger. Ned Bannon versus his brother over control of Bishop’s Valley. Bad guy dies, and ol’ Ned gets the girl.
“What’s that now, partner?” Art drawled without looking up. She was wearing her sunglasses. He wondered where she’d gotten them from. If they’d been stolen.
“Artemis Darth Vader.”
She lowered the paperback slightly. “That’s my name, don’t wear it out.” She chuckled quietly. “Now I get why that’s funny. Interesting. I like that.”
“Why are you—”
“Haven’t we already done this?”
He glanced down the hall, listening to the shower running. After he’d come out, Art had taken her turn. It’d been quick, much quicker than he’d expected for someone like her. She’d come out only ten minutes later, a towel wrapped around her head expertly, wearing jeans th
at looked a little big on her, purple socks, and a Chicago Bulls T-shirt that hung off one shoulder.
Alex, for his part, looked conflicted at the idea of leaving her alone with Nate. Art had told him to stop being silly. He’d growled wordlessly at her before he glared at Nate for at least a minute.
The threat there was evident. No words were necessary.
Nate wasn’t going to ask a goddamn thing. He wasn’t.
He wasn’t very surprised when, as soon as the shower turned on again, he’d opened his mouth.
“You never answered,” he said.
“I did,” Art said, flipping a page in the book. “I told you that I like it. And you said you’re Nathaniel Cartwright because it’s what your parents named you. But you don’t like your parents very much.”
He blinked. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“They’re dead, right?”
“How did you—”
“That’s what you told Macho Man. But you didn’t seem very sad when you said it. You were angry, I think. Or something like it.”
Shit. She was right. And they’d been listening in. “That’s not the point. It doesn’t matter.”
“Oh. Okay. It’s just, if you don’t like them very much, and they named you, why didn’t you pick something else?”
Nate felt helpless. This wasn’t going like it was supposed to. “That’s not how it works.”
She pushed the sunglasses up until they rested on the towel on her head. “Says who?”
He didn’t know how to answer that. “Says everyone.”
“Not Alex.”
“What?”
“Alex said I could be whoever I wanted to be. That no one could ever tell me what to do if I didn’t want them to. I could pick my own name. So I did.”
“But what about your mom?”
“What do you mean?”
“What name did she give you?”
She rolled her eyes. “One that you wouldn’t be able to pronounce, you can trust me on that.”
That… didn’t sit right. “But why—”
She grinned. “Do you know Star Wars?”
“Everyone knows Star Wars.”