

### Tinker's Maze

by

Bach Bakehouse

Copyright 2013 Bach Bakehouse

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Any proceeds from the sale of this book go to the Wilson Performing Arts Center in Red Oak, IA. They thank you for your support.
Chapter 1

It had been years since Patrick had seen a dead body. The last time had been in Viet Nam, eleven years ago. The memories came rushing back, memories he kept tightly under control in some deep place in his mind. He could once again see Kris walking the recommended ten paces in front of him, could hear the rest of the platoon scuffing along behind, each lost in their own thoughts as they walked as silently as they possibly could along the path through the saw grass and low, twisted trees. His eyes swept as much of the horizon as he could see, trusting that each of the others was doing the same, looking for that unseen Gook that had the uncanny ability to make themselves known at the most surprising and inopportune times.

The mountain air was cool as he looked at the boulder pile in front of him. He listened to the quiet rush of wind in the pines and stared, waiting for his heart to slow to a more normal pace, for the shaking to leave his knees and fingers, the numbing cold to leave his mind. The person lying near the bottom of those rocks didn't look dead. But then, neither had Kris. Pat hadn't even heard the shot until after Kris had crumpled into a pile on the ground, looking like he was sleeping except for a few spastic jerks and the slightly odd angle of his arms and legs. The person in the boulder field looked like he was sleeping, too, except that no live person would dare contort his limbs into the angles and crosses they were presently in. Nor turn his head as far on his shoulders.

Pat felt the blood returning to his face and limbs, looked up and down the pile of boulders and then moved behind one of the Lodgepole pines that covered the side of the mountain, the size of which barely hid his 200-pound frame. The rest of the platoon had scurried for what little cover they could find and then looked into the grass and sparse trees for the source of the single shot, but could see nothing. The sergeant had moved quietly in a low crouch, fanned them out through the grass that was moving ever so slightly in the gentle morning breeze but Pat just lay beside the path and stared at Kris sleeping on the hard dirt in front of him. A little trickle came from the front of his face pressed flat in the dirt, becoming an ever larger stain on the packed earth under him.

Pat moved from behind the pine and took one small step toward the body, feeling as though he should at least try to help while at the same time knowing it was too late for any such gesture. He had crawled closer to Kris, had seen the tiny hole in the back of his head, had reached out with the arm that wasn't holding onto the M16, grabbed the khaki shirt of his friend and rolled him over. The little hole in back hadn't prepared him for the massive damage to the front.

A damp sweat ran down his back, evaporated quickly in the dry mountain air. It took all his concentration to choke back a scream, a chore that had eluded him as he looked at Kris' missing face. The sergeant had shaken him several times before Pat realized that the scream he was hearing was his own, realized he was screaming so hard that his throat and lungs hurt. And then he had broken down and cried, his back to the body that had once been his friend.

He didn't scream, didn't cry. Didn't know the twisted body that lay in front of him. That pile of cooling flesh hadn't traveled the same jungle paths, hadn't suffered through the same tired rations, warm water and dusty, smelly sweat while on patrol. This one hadn't lurched through the night streets, laughing with the local whores and drinking watered down whiskey until he wished he would die rather than puke one more time.

The sergeant had helped to lift the limp pile of bones and flesh onto Pat's shoulders in a fireman's carry and then talked quietly while Pat moved like through a dream the short distance to the little hill where the Huey landed and relieved him of his burden. He had finished the patrol, forcing the memory of Kris into the back of his mind where it receded further and further as the years passed.

Pat stood stock still and stared, feeling dizzy and fighting to keep his stomach in the same place it had been several seconds before. His palms were damp and his legs quivered again as the memories tried once more to get out. He closed his eyes and willed his brain to an almost complete standstill. Then, when he once more felt in control, he took several deep breaths, slipped out of his backpack and stood with his back against the rough bark of the tree. Shading his eyes against the sun with one hand and holding the camera strap off his neck with the other, he looked toward the top of the cliff from which the man had evidently fallen. It was probably the highest of the drop-offs the trail he was now following went past.

Whoever the person had once been had evidently done his hiking for the day and was coming back. No one had passed Pat on the trail and he had been taking his time; setting the tripod, changing lenses, snapping pictures of the panorama that presented itself in a different way each time he rounded a bend or got a little higher on the trail. The changing colors that washed the mountains as the sun went from cloud to cloud never ceased to stir his imagination. Nor his camera finger.

The body was not dressed like a hiker. It wore leather loafers, not hiking shoes. There were neatly pleated slacks and a light, soft sweater over a white shirt instead of the standard hiking shorts and sweatshirt. And the backpack that advertised even the most casual day hiker was not there. The person on the boulder pile hadn't come prepared to travel very far on his last trip.

Pat shuddered again, the bile settling back into his stomach. His eyes gained back their full vision and his ears quit ringing.

He called, not too loud, "Hello."

'Hello', came the disappearing answer from several different directions as the echo bounced from one cliff to the next.

A small stone tumbled down as the last of the echoes died away. Pat looked up, expecting, hoping, to see another hiker, but was disappointed to see only the rocks with several small junipers growing in precarious little patches here and there. Another stone came skipping from boulder to boulder but still no one appeared on the trail above him.

"Hello," he called again, a little louder, expecting to see someone appear on the trail above, inching closer to the edge and knocking the stones loose from the trail as they looked down the cliff.

"Hello on the trail, there," loudly this time.

It suddenly seemed very still as the echoes that answered his call died away. The air was completely calm. The few birds and animals that made these lovely but forbidding hills their home had ceased to make their little squeaks and trills, as if in reverence to the dead. Even the omnipresent highway noises were too far away to be heard.

He checked his watch - it was 7:55 - and then looked at the little window on the back of his camera. Nine pictures left on the roll. He moved to the side of the trail and snapped a couple of pictures of the body. Then he moved to the other side and took two more. He looked closely at all of the details of his surroundings so that he could pinpoint the exact spot when he reported it to the authorities and then took one picture which showed the body and the cliff from which it had evidently dropped.

Another small stone came skipping across the boulders. He looked up but still saw no one, took a picture of the trail, almost hidden from where he stood. One more picture from another angle and the sun disappeared behind the top of the mountain. With the sun gone there was not enough light for hand-held snapshots so he left, being very careful not to turn around as he walked on legs that no longer felt like rubber away from the body resting at a crazy angle on the field of boulders at the bottom of the cliff.

The prickles on his neck as he moved away were hard to ignore and just before the first bend in the trail he stopped and turned around. He had the feeling that there would be a hiker swinging along the trail, a welcome intrusion into his day.

"Hello," he called once more.

Just the echoes answered him so he took one last look at the body and the cut in the cliff where the trail was, swung his backpack on again, adjusted his camera strap and turned away, settling into a long, easy gait that covered a lot of ground without a lot of exertion. His breathing settled into a deep, regular pattern and the turmoil in his mind began to smooth over. It returned to the thought of the body and the stones that kept falling from the trail above less frequently and focused, from force of habit, more on the best camera angle and lens to use on each scene that spread out in front of him.

As he rounded one of the last few bends in the trail, the little mountain lake appeared below him. The deep shade of the evergreens on the opposite side made the shoreline almost imperceptible. Set into this mass of darkness were the white walls and red roofs of the little private resort that stood out on a small promontory on the other side of the lake. The last of the day's light reflected off the clouds and into the clear, icy waters. He rested the camera on a convenient tree limb for support and snapped the last frames on the roll. He smiled to himself as he envisioned how the slides taken that day would look, went over the ones he might send off, assuming they were of the quality he expected.

As he continued along the trail, he replaced the film with fresh, lifting out the little cartridge and replacing it with a fresh roll while his feet didn't miss a beat along the trail which now opened out onto the little meadow that separated the mountains from the highway. He carefully stowed the empty film box in the side pocket of his backpack, slipped the spent film into the protective plastic canister left over from the new roll, snapped the top on and dropped it into another pocket in the backpack, then checked to make sure the top of the compartment was belted shut.

This done he paused a moment, feeling a bit strange, as if there should be someone there that wasn't. He turned around and scanned the line of trees from which he had emerged, the little hairs at the back of his neck standing straight out once again.

"What did you expect?" he said to himself. "You've just seen a stiff and you're half spooked. Maybe more 'n half. What did you really expect?"

He started off again, fighting the impulse to turn around and check to be sure no one was there. By the time he had crossed the small meadow and reached the gravel car-park, darkness was quickly gathering around him. There were not really any sunsets here, at least not like he remembered them when he had been small and lived with his mother and her assorted friends in New Bowers Grove, high (for the flat plains that surrounded them) in the loess hills along the east side of the Missouri River, anyway.

Pat looked over at the other vehicles in the trail head car-park. The car had been there when he had arrived. The oversized, overpriced, over-excessive and damned road maggot hadn't. The two people in the belly of the maggot were evidently eating supper. All the lights inside were on and he could see them moving around, like in a silent movie, going from table to oven as they heated their instant suppers. He couldn't hear them, though. The oven and lights required energy and the generator was working overtime, filling the air with its whirring, muffled din and a choking blast of spent hydrocarbons.

The car, a big black Lincoln, looked only slightly out of place when compared to the monstrosity next to it. One would more likely expect to see a Jeep or a VW or a little Chevy equipped with a car top carrier and trailer hitch. Pat looked at the Meal-on-Wheels again.

"Maggot," he sighed, and then returned his gaze to the Lincoln. When he met no one on the trail he had assumed that the person (persons?) had an overnight permit and wouldn't be back for a day or two. There was still no one in the car so he thought his assumption still correct.

Pat set his camera on the hood of his car, took off the backpack and placed it beside the camera, and then started fishing for his keys in his pockets. Finding them, he unlocked the driver's door and retrieved a small cooler from the back seat. He took out a small bottle of water and sipped. The light from the windows of the maggot made everything else seem very dark, the generator noise made everything else seem very quiet, the fumes made his head hurt. He guessed that he really disliked those things. They were bad enough on the road, slow, aggravating and dangerous, but worse when parked.

He turned and rested his head on his fist on top of his car. This was not normal. He was very fastidious about the black and grey Pontiac, a low slung Trans-Am with a bubble in the hood to make enough room for the engine, a V-8, originally 6.6L but with high-performance heads and cam and oversized pistons, a balanced crank, ported and polished and turbo-charged. It was one of the things he valued highly, second, perhaps only to his camera or horse. Walt had spent the better part of a year helping Pat restore it after Winston had wrecked it, nearly killing both occupants of the car.

Pat raised his head, shook himself involuntarily and looked around, just in time to see a dark shape come hurtling from behind the trash barrel that stood anchored in front of the car.

"Jeez!" he cried, and jumped back. The figure ran by, grabbed the camera from the hood as it swept past and continued on toward the front of the maggot, its feet making crunching sounds in the gravel of the car-park.

"Hey," he shouted it loudly this time. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Pat was long limbed and took only a few steps to catch up with, reach out and grab the back of the fleeing figure's shirt. He straightened up and yanked, sending the thief and himself lunging into the front of the maggot. They both managed to straighten up and push away from the giant vehicle, each grunting and trying to get some favorable purchase on the other. They struggled just an instant, Pat stronger, the other quicker, then went over in a tangle onto the grass as their feet stopped short at the log set in concrete that prevented vehicles from continuing on into the meadow.

Pat got his hand on the camera and stood up. So did his assailant, who sent off a roundhouse right. He started to duck, caught briefly the reflection of the moon off of something shiny as it came toward his head. But his reflexes weren't fast enough and, while a certain amount of the blow was deflected by his shoulder, whatever it was that had caught his eye also caught him in the temple.

The pain was intense and Pat sagged, his limbs heavy and his vision blurry as he dimly watched a pair of legs scurry around the maggot with his camera.

Inside the maggot the man interrupted his supper long enough to push back a fluorescent green hat with bright orange letters across the front that spelled out OLD FART and a mass of black filigree on the bill, what enlisted men would call bird shit. He opened the window and put his overweight and flushed face to the screen.

"Keep it down out there, fer chrissake," he shouted.

To Pat, the voice seemed to come from the other end of a long culvert, the sounds echoing and booming as they crashed from one corrugated wall to the other, becoming strange and far away by the time they finally reached his ears. A shower of gravel pelted him as the Lincoln backed out and he was dimly aware of tires squealing, horns honking and people shouting as another tourist barely got stopped in time to avoid hitting the big car.

"Goddam. Can't even get any peace here in the Park anymore! Filthy, uncultured kids! C'mon, Mother, we're outta this goddam place!"

Bird Shit in the Belly of the Maggot slammed the window shut and honked in response to the chorus of other horns. The behemoth moaned to life and crawled with jerky, uneven movements into the night, honking at another, smaller vehicle that had the audacity to be in the general vicinity.

"Jeez," Pat muttered and gingerly felt his head, waiting and trying to collect his wits. He could feel no blood. His other hand moved instinctively to his leg and he could feel the scars, hard and smooth, beneath the blue jeans.

"Jeez," he muttered again and sank back onto the cold grass of the meadow.

Against his will, he conjured up the smell of cordite as it had drifted past, the shouts and shots, the flashes as they twinkled in the night. There was no sergeant to stop his moans or the screams of the other wounded, to shake them out of their fright. They had become the perfect fighting machine, terrified into fearlessness, shouting and shooting, charging, slipping and dodging low tree limbs and dripping leaves, impervious to the shouts and tracer rounds and thuds around them. The rest of the platoon had followed, needing only a leader to get them to move ahead through the darkness. Pat was dimly aware of two black-clothed figures that rose up in front of him, pitched and spiraled when he squeezed the trigger, their rifles going a direction opposite from their twitching, dying bodies. He rammed another, crashed the butt of his weapon into its mid-section, pressed the muzzle tight against the prone figure and fired again. He was dimly aware of a sudden pain above his right eye, kept blinking trying to clear whatever was in it so he could see better. Another thud, so close it numbed his hearing, and his world turned upside down. Slowly and silently the trees silhouetted against the moon moved in a graceful arc until they hung from the sky, then continued their sweep until they disappeared in blackness. He landed in a clump of prickly bushes, unaware, now, of the shots and thuds around him, the screams of fear and dying. He brushed some slippery sticky out of his right eye, tried to stand but couldn't get his leg quite under him, then became completely immobile, horrified. The sergeant was no more than five feet away, lying with his head down the hill, his eyes wide but clouded over and unseeing, his neck almost severed and glistening black in the moonlight, his intestines a ghostly white against the soiled shirt where the spinning, white-hot shrapnel had cut him almost in half. His vision blurred from the corners toward the middle, his body relaxed and he leaned back in the underbrush, felt the warmth of his blood and urine as they trickled down his leg. He no longer cared. He dreamed of home.

"Jeez, jeez, jeez," he mumbled quietly, under his breath.

He felt uncertain and bewildered, afraid that he would slip back into the nightmare that had followed him when he was again stateside. He could feel it creeping under and around, straining the still fragile bonds that held it in check.

"Jeez," he whispered again, and lay on his back looking up into the darkness, trying to think of absolutely nothing at all.

Chapter 2

Russell Botts leaned back against the bar in the smoky din of Dirty John's Saloon, one elbow resting on the brass plated edge and the worn heel of one tooled leather boot hooked in the brass rail that ran along the bottom. He watched the figure on the stage over the rim of his beer mug, his eyes smarting in the blue cigarette haze, a vice he had never taken up, nor could he understand those that had and minced few words stating his position to anyone who would listen. The picture on the poster tacked to the door had caught his eye but he didn't take particular notice of the writing. Now his attention was riveted.

Mercede McMilion

Exotic Dancer

He ran the name over in his mind. As far as dancer was concerned, he wouldn't have known a polka from a minuet. But exotic he could recognize. He knew without even thinking about it that Mercede McMilion was definitely exotic!

Her tiny vest covered nothing but her shoulders and back. An even tinier bikini bottom was sequined in red to match the vest. The seam of her black, diamond patterned stockings accentuated her legs, making them seem longer than they actually were. She was accompanied by a similarly attired three piece band. The music was awful and the dance grotesque, but no one in Dirty John's noticed. They hadn't come expecting the artistic and they got none of it. Each had come to look, to stare, to admire, dream, and fantasize. They were getting every bit of what they had come for.

Russell emptied the mug and licked his lips, mildly upset at the rowdy group standing at the edge of the stage that blocked his full view of the bouncing Mercede McMilion. He hadn't come specifically to see the dancing, but now that he was here he wanted to see as much as he could.

The ones standing nearest the stage were fairly well along in their evening ritual and, as such, were less than inhibited. One ran a hand up the inside of her leg as she bumped along the front of the stage. She merely smiled, bent toward the group in a move calculated to be most provocative and wagged her finger back and forth.

"Naughty, naughty."

He couldn't hear over the noise of the band and the crowd but the way her lips moved, that was what he thought she said.

Dirty John replaced the empty mug with a full one. Russell turned and nodded, understood that this one would probably go on his tab, a tab that grew to a hefty amount each week, even with the perks. Never any liquor or name brand beer, but a lot of the light, watered down stuff on tap.

He turned back to the spectacle on the stage. The drummer beat on the snare, the pianist slammed all ten fingers down in a cacophonic chord, and Mercede McMilion twirled awkwardly several times and then let her vest slip to the floor. A chorus of whistles and catcalls rose from the crowd. The vest hadn't hidden anything before, but Russell was now engrossed.

She shook her shoulders and both breasts whirled clockwise. A cymbal crash and she stopped, then shook her shoulders again so that they whirled in the opposite direction. Another cymbal crash and she shook so they went round counter to each other.

The grand finale, that. A crashing chord from the badly tuned piano, a series of thuds from the drums and tinny peals from the cheap cymbals, hisses and groans and static from the guitar amplifier. Mercede McMilion bowed low as the music stopped, retrieved her vest, and pranced the four steps across the stage, stepped into the rowdy crowd gathered at the side, and retreated through the door, followed by the three musicians.

Russell licked his lips and set his nearly empty beer mug on the once polished, now viscid bar top. He nodded to the diminutive barkeep and went through the same door as the entertainers, into a hallway lit entirely by a red EXIT sign at the far end. The first two doors were marked Cowgirls and Cowboys. He walked past, the heels of his boots tapping hollowly against the bare wood floor. The boards squeaked under his weight, then hissed as years of beer and greasy food tried to keep him attached.

He knocked at the next door.

"Yeah," came a hoarse, female voice.

"Botts," he said to the closed door.

"You don't say," the same hoarse voice.

"Deputy Russell Botts, Lianoma County," he said in a voice full of self-importance. "Open up, I need to speak with you."

He thought about the mole approximately two inches to the left of her navel, the twirling, shaking finale, her pale, soft stomach, her twitching rump as she left the room.

The door opened just slightly and revealed the bleached blond head of Mercede McMilion, christened Beatrice Kloeckner.

"So where's the ID?" she croaked. Anyone could claim to be a lawman and she was being careful.

Russell dug in his pocket and produced a wallet which he flipped open to reveal a badge and plastic covered ID card.

"Just a minute." She closed the door.

Deputy Russell Botts stood there, wallet still in hand, and looked at the pink paint peeling off the panels of the door. He heard a rustling inside, then it opened and he stood looking at Mercede McMilion now covered with a short, beige terry cloth robe wound around with a wide cloth belt that struggled to hold it closed. The wallet didn't move and neither did he. Her circling breasts still burned vividly in his mind.

"Well," she said.

"Need to speak to you," he replied and, suddenly realizing it was still in his hand, hastily put his wallet back into his pocket.

"Yeah, so come in," she said and stepped back, opening the door even wider.

Russell smiled what he thought was a masculine, relaxed smile but which actually came off as quite goofy. He stood for just a minute and then stepped into the small room, flexing his arms and chest surreptitiously so that his overdeveloped torso rippled under his shirt.

The tiny room smelled of stale beer, cheap perfume and sweat. It was only big enough for a threadbare couch and an overstuffed chair, also threadbare but now hidden by a suitcase and several articles of clothing. The single, bare bulb in the center of the ceiling illuminated wallpaper that was yellowed and peeling, its feeble light bouncing back off the one sagging window, now painted over with what once might have been white paint. A second peeling pink painted door connected the room with somewhere else. The walls were thin and, behind the couch, the sound of cheap beer being passed on to its greater reward into the cracked toilet, mostly, in the Cowboys came through unhindered.

"Have a seat," she motioned to the couch.

Russell obliged. "I caught your act," he started.

She smiled and blinked her long, pasted on eyelashes to reveal purple and black eye liner. She had looked good on stage, at a distance and under the harsh lights, and this image had burned itself indelibly into Russell's brain. He didn't notice, now, the mascara and rouge and bright red lipstick, each applied so thick it almost cracked, or the breaks in her long, plastic fingernails that were only partially hidden with several layers of polish, bright red to match her lips. Her soft, white stomach actually rolled over the elastic around her waist and her fingers were wrinkled and hard with dirt wedged permanently into the creases. Her hands showed her true age.

"Did you like it?" she asked as she shut the door and moved to the opposite end of the couch.

Russell moved his head sideways in a noncommittal fashion, cleared his throat, and said, "We have a problem."

He waited for a response but got none, cleared his throat again and said, "East Gate has a porn law. No lewd books, no dirty movies, no topless dancing."

He waited but again got no response, "Of course, I didn't write the law." He turned to fully face her, put his arm along the back of the couch and touched her shoulder.

She smiled at him, blinked her eyes, then moved her hand so that one finger moved lightly along the back of his arm and asked, "Just what shall we do about that?"

She leaned forward slightly and traced a long, plastic nail toward his shoulder. Russell looked at her, moved his head so that he could better see inside the robe, put his free hand on her knee. He could hardly contain himself. His skin bunched and his mouth went dry as she reached the top of his arm, and then started down his shirt going from button to button, leaving him speechless and motionless. After the last button she grabbed hold of and pulled out his shirt.

He could hold still no longer, moved his hand up her leg and opened her robe so that he could squeeze one breast. At least he squeezed a part of it, as it was much larger than his hand could cover.

She winced, but covered it with a forced smile. The large belt buckle was no problem, nor was his zipper. Russell's jaw had gone slack and his tongue rested in one corner of his opened mouth. He had thrown her robe wide open and both hands were now busy exploring those so recently twirling masses.

She traced several lines across his stomach and navel, getting lower with each pass.

Jerking suddenly as if waking from a dream, he picked her knee up and threw it almost violently over his head and against the back of the couch, then cupped both hands behind her and stood up, taking her with him. She wrapped her arms and black-stockinged legs around him, as much or more to keep from being buffeted any more than necessary than from any passion that might well up.

A timid knock sounded at the outer door. Neither responded, although they completely quit moving. It sounded again, a little louder, and she released her legs slightly.

"Who is it, please?" Her hoarse voice coming from so near startled him.

"It's Billy Blessing," came the muffled answer through the door. "Is Deputy Botts in there?"

She looked at him questioningly, and then almost missed her footing as he unceremoniously let her down.

"Waddaya want?" he barked.

"Um, something's come up," said the voice through the door.

"What something?" He had a hard time keeping the exasperation from his voice. Didn't, in fact.

"I think you better come back to the office."

"Can't it wait?" Russell asked, wanting desperately to finish here.

"Um, I don't think so."

"Dammit, Billy, just tell me what it is that's so important."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure."

"There's a dead guy in the Park."

"So what? They're supposed to handle all the shit that goes down in there."

"The guy that saw it is in your office now. Him and a ranger. The civilian's not talkin' much and the Park ranger thinks it's more than they can handle up there."

Russell winced. He fastened his trousers and shirt, shook his head at Mercede who had now retreated to and was sitting on the arm of the couch.

"I'm coming, Billy. Dammit, I'm coming. You run along now. I'll be over in a minute or two."

He fastened his belt, then took a half step toward the couch and shook his head again, turned and left.

As the door to the hall shut behind him, the other one opened and the three members of the band filed into the room.

"He'll be back, I'll bet," she said, and the three nodded silently in agreement. They all stared in boredom at the walls of the tiny room. Three months now, living out of the yellow Cadillac and tiny rooms in dirty bars, then on to the next place. What a life! Not exactly what any of them had planned.

Chapter 3

Merlin Lawson, affectionately known as Mert to his co-workers, was sitting in the driver's seat, waiting for the kids to dump the trash barrels. He was jammed into the truck so hard that he had a difficult time opening the window with his left arm and had an equally hard time working the shift lever with his right. It's not that the truck was small, just that Mert was big. Very big. And very wide.

He sat and looked at Uinga Campground, now just beginning to come to life as the late morning sun finally rose over the surrounding mountains. This was the "city" campground - big, spacious spots leading off an asphalt drive so that the long trailers and motor homes had plenty of room. It was laid out in loops, much like a city with its blocks of houses only on a smaller scale. Electricity for their lights, radios, TVs, air-conditioners and whatever else they had brought with them came from an abundance of generators so that late evening found the small valley choked with exhaust fumes. Very few of these "campers" knew exactly why their eyes or lungs burned at night. Very few even noticed, so used were they to the condition. What few backpackers or tenters stayed did so for the showers and soon left for other campgrounds. Wildlife learned to forage elsewhere during the camping season.

The campground followed the southeast shore of Uinga Lake, small, shallow and surrounded, except for the campground itself, with short, bushy willows that grew right up to the base of the vertical cliffs that encircled the place.

The original meadow had been formed over the years by beavers. Their dams across Uinga Creek created backwaters that collected debris. As the debris built up, the industrious little creatures had increased the height and breadth of their dams, which, of course, caught more debris. Grasses, flowers, shrubs, and other plants found a place to root as the ground seemed to rise from the now wide, slow running water. And so the creek that had once splashed and bubbled in a narrow thread along the floor of the narrow valley had evolved into a park, small, marshy and buzzing with mosquitoes.

An early entrepreneur had replaced the beaver dam farthest downstream with concrete, dredged the lake, and built a lodge. Since there was no all-weather road, this business was marginal at best and the lodge soon fell into disrepair. When the state took control of the area that now made up Tinker's Maze Park through a series of condemnations and eminent domain actions, one of the first things they did was to blast a road into the valley. The first traffic on that road was a convoy of trucks filled with pea-gravel to create the shoreline that now marked the edge of the campground. The lodge was soon repaired and a sign placed near the entrance in case anyone was interested in its historical significance.

They sprayed the mosquitoes and weeds in order to make the campground more appealing. When the fish in the lake seemed to disappear they spent a great deal of tax dollars on restocking it so that no person with a pole had to wait any undo length of time to get that elusive supper for which they had come.

Of the four campgrounds in Tinker's Maze Park, Uinga was the largest, had room for the least, and created by far the majority of the trash.

Mert didn't really much care. If they didn't make the trash, he wouldn't have a job. He had no education to speak of, almost couldn't read, could only write his name, and his whole attitude was that he didn't really care. What he had was a good laugh that reminded people of Jolly Old Saint Nick. Mert needed only the white beard, red suit and big black belt to become the perfect Santa Claus.

He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and hummed along with a country song that was playing quietly on the truck radio. Occasionally he glanced in each of the fender-mounted rear view mirrors to see how the two boys were coming with the trash barrels. They were about finished when a station wagon pulled up in front of the trash truck. It didn't park, but rather just stopped and all four occupants jumped out. Three of them headed for the rest room with a collective screech that would have startled even the most stoic in the campground. The man and two boys went in the door marked MEN. The woman carried a plastic, fake wicker picnic basket which she placed on the ground in front of the drinking fountain. She took their morning's dishes out of it and spread them on the concrete then filled a gallon cooler from the fountain, threw the water over the dishes and ran a paper napkin over each.

Mert watched, faintly amused, as she disposed of the napkins by dropping them on the ground. The whole process was repeated, twice. Evidently satisfied, she gathered up her dishes and replaced them in the picnic basket.

The crew had finished by this time and both workers had squeezed back into the truck seat. All three waited for the Ford to move out of their way. It was a tight schedule today. Trying to pick up all the barrels from Uinga and the three closest trail heads, each with picnic grounds, and then make it to the landfill on the other side of East Gate before it closed was a full day's work, especially after a weekend and even this late in the season. This was popular country and the trash barrels were always filled to overflowing. Mert leaned out the window and asked if she could please move the car so the crew could get on.

"You'll just have to wait for my husband," she replied to Mert's query.

"Could you get him, please? We're pressed and would like to get this load on its way."

"Hey, Buddy, he's in the bathroom. I said you'll just have to wait until he's done."

Mert brought his head back inside the truck and said to the outer rider, "Hey, Tony, go into the can and tell this guy to get a shake on, would you?"

Tony left. He returned shortly, saying, "The guy says to wait 'til he's finished shaving. I tell you, man, that place in there's a mess! He must've drained the whole supply tank washing them kids and then used all the paper towels in the joint to dry 'em with. There's water running out from under the door 'n' the towels're spread all over the floor, solid from one wall to the other. Even down the crapper. Ruthy's gonna have a conniption when she sees that, man!"

Mert grunted under his breath as he started the truck and backed as far as he dared, cramped the wheel as far as it would go, and then tried to snake his way around the car.

The lady shouted, "Hey! You there! Watch it, Buddy! Watch the car! I said he'd be out in a minute. Just hold on a minute, there!"

Mert smiled and held his arms wide, palms up. He was used to abuse in Uinga but this lady seemed to be on an even shorter fuse than most. He said to himself, 'Yeah, I'll watch it all right! I'll watch it right under this here foogin truck, lady.'

She went to the men's room door, banged on it and shouted, in a high, screeching voice, loud enough to be heard far past even the farthest recesses of the campground, "Hey, Jake, this guy's gonna run over the wagon if you don't move it."

Then to Mert as he tried to snake past again, "Hey, hold your horses! I said Jake's gonna move it. Just stop your fat ass for a minute!"

She had moved over to Mert's window as she said this. "What's your name, buddy? Some one's gonna hear about this! Jake's gonna report this to the next Park officer he sees and if I were you I'd think about that. Jake's a holy terror when he gets started! I wouldn't be surprised to see him let you have it right here and then tell. Serve you right, too. My boys shouldn't have to put up with ... with ... with ... ," her tongue stumbled over itself trying to find the worst word her mind could dredge up but could only come up with "... gross people like you. I don't know how you ever got a job here to begin with. I certainly wouldn't hire you. Not even to clean my yards, I wouldn't!"

The woman had been standing right under the window to the truck, shaking her finger, shouting in her high voice so that small pieces of spit flew from her mouth with the plosives in her speech. As she started away from the truck Mert leaned his head out the window again and said, "The name's Mert, ma'am. That's short for Merlin, ma'am. My super's name is George ..."

She whirled around before he could finish and fairly screamed, "Yeah? Well, Mert's short for Merlin and you're short for work here. I'll see to it you're fired, hear me? Fired! So what do you have to say to that, Porky?"

She had retraced her steps and was again shaking her finger up at him.

He had pulled his head back inside, smiled, and said, "Sorry, ma'am. I'm just trying to get the trash here emptied and get on to the next one."

"You just hold on 'till we get our wagon moved, you hear me? You shouldn't to be so rude. Why don't you learn some manners?"

Her husband came out of the toilet, leading the two boys.

"What's wrong, Janey?" he asked, then to one of the boys, "Hold on, there, Jason, not so fast."

"These ... these ... persons," she fairly spit the word out of her mouth and shook her finger toward the truck, "were trying to run over the Ford. Right over the station wagon! I just got them stopped in time, Jake. I tried, but ... you tell them ... tell them ... to correct their ways or they'll never work here again!"

Jake strode to the truck, leaving the boys in the care of their mother.

"That true, Buddy?" he asked.

Mert looked down at him and nodded his head. "Reckon it is, all right. You're lucky I just didn't run over that car, sir. This is a fairly big truck and I probably could have just run right over the top of it and smashed it pretty flat if I took a notion to."

Jason and his brother let out identical howls and started to chase a squirrel. Jake turned and shouted, "You boys get back here right this instant, you hear me?"

They ignored their father, continued on toward the tree to which the squirrel had run and started to chuck rocks up at it. The squirrel chattered back, adding to the cacophony. Jake turned back to Mert.

"You know who I am?" he said. Then, not waiting for a reply, "I'm Jake Tenolds, Assessor's Office in Capital."

This evidently meant something to him for he said it proudly. It meant nothing to either the driver or his two riders.

"What's your name, Buddy?" he continued. "I'm going to make sure the person in charge hears about this. And I expect you to be out of a job by tonight. You got that? You've put your ass in a sling."

"Name's Mert, supervisor's George Konneson. That's Konneson with a K. You got that?"

"Smart ass, aren't you?" Jake stood by the truck and glowered up at the driver.

Mert smiled back and nodded, "Yes sir."

"Oh, watch out, boys," Janey called toward the tree where the two were still throwing rocks at the squirrel who had long since moved to another tree. "You're going to hit the car with those rocks. Now stop that, Jason. You, too, James."

Jake did his best to look threatening, clenched his jaw and puffed out his chest and narrowed his eyes. Then turned and stalked off toward the station wagon.

"Let's go, boys," he shouted and clapped his hands. "We've got places to go, things to see, so pile in and let's round 'em up and head 'em out!" He turned back to the trash truck and shook his finger. "You remember what I said, you hear? You're time here's short. You mark my words!"

Chapter 4

David Jones was a fastidious person and liked no clutter. His office at Tinker's Maze Park headquarters had no furniture save an unprepossessing, grey, steel desk with a grey, hard rubber top and two wooden straight chairs, one behind the desk and one for visitors. No pictures, citations or memorabilia graced the walls. The lone set of bookshelves held only three large volumes of government and Park enforcement rules and regulations. The desk itself had only a small fluorescent lamp, an oversized office telephone, and a small, silver ash tray on its highly polished top. Everything was meticulously clean and neatly squared.

At the moment he was looking out the single window, one hand held across his front, the other resting on the back of his chair and holding a half sheet of paper torn from a spiral notebook. He had noticed it as soon as he entered his office. It had been alone in the center of his desk and he had grabbed at it as if it had no business being there. Evidently someone other than his personal secretary had left it - Suzanne knew better than to produce even a hint of disorder, either in his office or the entrance to it over which she presided with matronly efficiency.

Abruptly he turned, walked to one side of his desk and punched a button on the phone. His secretary answered.

"George Konneson, please," was all he said, in a crisp, even voice.

"Yes, sir," came the metallic reply.

A moment later the telephone double beeped and he picked up the receiver, still standing in the same position. The conversation was short.

"Hello, George. What happened last night?...

"Are the locals doing anything?...

"Brush, you say. Is she seasonal?...

"Keep the same one on it. Tell her to keep me informed of any developments...

"Affirmative, but no later than tomorrow...

"Thank you, George."

He cradled the receiver, then held a button and asked for messages. He lowered himself into his chair, lit his first cigarette of the day and waited, expressionless, for Suzanne to appear.

Chapter 5

Twenty-four red and white heifers stood side by side, eating hay from a pair of wood bunks close to one side of the pen, unaware of the struggle behind them. Pat had known as soon as he had seen her that she was in trouble, had stopped his customary whistling and humming and fed the others some extra ration so they'd move away from her. She lay with her head thrown back and a bit of foam coming from one side of her mouth. He approached her from behind, speaking softly so as not to frighten her, then laid a hand on her neck to be sure she was aware of his presence, wouldn't jump up and go berserk. She breathed a weak bawl, kicked a bit, moved her head back and forth along the ground, then threw herself into the same position from which she started.

Pat grabbed her by the ears and lifted her head up, swung it forward and down, then pushed his right foot as far as he could under her shoulder so she wouldn't roll back. He stood there with the one leg braced against her back, still holding her head by the ears, trying to get her into some position that he thought would let her heart start pumping blood to all the necessary parts again.

While he stood there, he talked to her in a low, reassuring voice.

"Easy, mama. Take your time. I'm not here to hurt you, El Stupido, just trying to save your life if you don't mind. So stay cool and we'll get along just fine. OK? Take it easy, old girl. And don't roll your eyes at me that way. Save it for the old bull. Just lie still a minute and things'll start to look a bit better. You're doing OK, now, so just wait till your eyes get focused again. Maybe if you'd switch your tail or something to let me know you were going to be OK I'd feel a little better. Too bad you can't talk and tell me what's wrong. But you wouldn't know anyway, would you girl? After all, you're not the brightest critter on God's green earth, are you? So just settle back and wait a minute. Do you feel like talking to the vet? No, I don't suppose you would. But don't go to thrashing around and break my leg. OK? Just take it easy ...atta girl..."

Jenny Brush stood outside the pen, watching the heifers as they tore off and then chewed mouthfuls of the green, sweet-smelling hay and listened to the nonsense coming from inside the pen. She had found no one in the house so had walked toward any movement she could see. The man leaning over the red and white cow and talking in its ear had evidently not heard her approach. She didn't want to be here, didn't particularly like the man, and so didn't offer to help or even to make her presence known.

She felt it unfortunate that she had been on duty when the call had come in. Why hadn't K gone instead? Or Jones? The Park director usually did all the work that involved any kind of official outside the Park. Of course, Mr. Jones had taken the afternoon off and was, therefore, not available. And K was busy with a group of Boy Scouts. So it had befallen Jenny, whose turn it was to work the last shift, to drive to East Gate and deal with Deputy Botts, a chore she had carefully avoided ever since she had to deal with the man to clear up a minor misunderstanding about the places in which she could and couldn't leave a Park vehicle while in East Gate.

She watched silently as Pat pushed his leg farther under the animal and continued to talk in a low, even voice. He had winked at her the evening before while sitting in the East Gate office of the county police. In a bad mood to begin the evening, Deputy Botts had soured her farther when he had patted her backside as she leaned over to retrieve some forms from the cabinet. Pat's wink had affixed her scowl for the rest of the evening.

It had been an innocuous wink, but it was a wink never-the-less and Jenny Brush hated winkers. Her Uncle Henry had been a winker and she shuffled all winkers into the same category as her Uncle Henry. Every summer her mother had put her on a bus bound for Kansas to visit Uncle Henry and Aunt Fran. They lived about as far from anywhere as she thought it possible to get. Uncle Henry always met the bus with the same black car, so old it still had running boards along each side, although they had mostly rusted away, and had the spare mounted in the fender instead of fastened securely in the trunk. As soon as they had all stepped into the house Uncle Henry would invariably run his hand over her front, wink and say, "When you gonna grow some tits, girl?" then burst out with a high-pitched, lecherous laugh. And then Aunt Fran would join in, her ample bosom and bottom pitching and rolling with the onslaught.

Jenny Brush hated winkers.

She watched silently, immobile, as he continued to hold the cow's head and talk softly to it. The image presented this morning seemed to be at odds with the one presented to her the night before. Deputy Botts had filled her with stories of marijuana and whiskey, motorcycles and rowdy parties, wild men and wilder women. He seemed to glory in the times this Ivers and one of his cronies named Walt had spent in the county jail under Russell's watchful eye. He had almost sounded disappointed when his story ended with Ivers going into rehab at the VA hospital in Capital rather than doing any time in the state's prison facility, the Big Lockup as he called it.

Suddenly the cow seemed to get her second wind. Jenny jumped as it bellowed forcefully, stiffened its legs, threw its head back, and died. Pat was thrown off balance and went backward, his right foot caught halfway under. He pivoted his torso on the way down to relieve the tension on his lower leg and landed without uttering a sound in at least one pile of manure.

"Cranky old bitch," he said, but softly and with no trace of anger in his voice. His clean hand went to the left side of his head, near the bruise that spread across his temple.

"Crap," he said a little louder, and shook the cold, wet mass from his other hand as best he could.

He waited a minute until the throbbing in his head stopped and then struggled to get out from under the approximately half ton of suddenly limp bovine while rolling in the manure as little as possible.

"Why'd you have to go and die like that, you old crank? Didn't give me much of a chance, did you?"

He rolled the other way, put his free left foot on the cow's back, pushed and strained and finally retrieved his right foot.

"And then you had to go and throw me in a pile of shit, you ungrateful old mongrel airhead."

He slipped the heel of his sneaker back on his foot and retied it, then got to his feet and looked down at the cow, wiped the biggest pieces of manure from his pants with a finger and shook them off as best he could. He reached down and wiped his hands on the cow, turned and wiped most of the traces off his pants against her back. This done, he stood, turned toward the cow, grabbed her ears again and lifted her head up to make sure she was indeed beyond help.

"Dead as a doornail, you old biddy," he muttered as he turned away.

The color rose in his face when he noticed the lady in uniform standing there. "Oh," he muttered, and lowered his eyes. He grabbed his cap by the bill and took it off and held it in both hands. "I didn't know anyone was here."

Jenny shrugged and said, "What happened?"

"She died."

"I can see that," she said, thought to herself, 'What a jerk,' then out loud, "Was she sick?"

"No."

Jenny stood there and watched his discomfort. He motioned toward the cow with the cap, then grabbed the bill with both hands again, looked alternately at the ground, the cow, and Jenny.

"At least I don't think so," he finally continued.

He stood uncomfortably in the middle of the pen for a moment, started to say something, shut his mouth, and walked through the pen toward her. He stood for a minute at the end of the bunks and looked over the remaining heifers. The closest one raised her head and he reached over and rubbed between her ears. She tolerated this for a few seconds, then shook her head and went back to her hay. Pat glanced over the group once more, then continued to the fence and climbed over.

"They have a kind of, you know, a self-destructive habit of shutting off their, um, their heart sometimes," he explained as he stood up. "They just lie on it wrong, you know, get their legs uphill and then, like, can't get going again. Anyway, I, um, I guess that's what this one did," he looked back into the pen at the dead cow. "Although you wouldn't think there was enough of a, um, you know, a slope in there for her to get into such a fix."

"I'm Jenny Brush. We met at Deputy Botts' office last night," she held out her hand and tried to keep all warmth out of her voice.

"Yes, I remember," he said, holding out and looking at both of his own manure covered hands, palms up. "Excuse my, um, smell."

He thought he had recognized her the previous evening, had glanced surreptitiously at her several times trying to remember where it had been. Once their eyes had met and he blushed and lowered his gaze, but not before the offending, almost involuntary wink. It wasn't until the long drive home that he remembered, and then could hardly wait to get to the pile of papers stacked neatly in one corner. He opened the second section of the most recent Capitol Herald-Gazette and scanned it until he found a short, two paragraph editorial written by one Jenny Brush. He went through several more and found not only editorials but several articles dealing with activities and happenings in Tinker's Maze Park.

He finally found a two week old paper with a picture to accompany the editorial. Sure enough, it was the same Jenny Brush.

He bent over, pulled one of the few plants growing in the immediate vicinity, and used it to wipe his jeans and then his hands until only a bright green smear remained.

"Nasty stuff," she ventured. She tried to keep her voice as cold as it had been up to this point but failed. Warmth was her forte, a quick smile and easy laugh that matched the twinkle in her dark eyes. Anything else was an act and she carried it off only with difficulty.

"A little bile, a little hay, not much else. It, you know, um, it looks, smells worse than it is."

"A rose by any other name," she said, cold again. Shakespeare seemed only a bit out of place.

"You're not here to talk about my cow," he ventured after they had walked in silence a few paces.

"No, I'm not." Cold gave way to official. "In fact, I'm here to talk about last night. Russell wasn't very satisfied."

Pat stopped and looked at the mountains that rose behind the cow's pen. Then he turned to the young lady and asked, "Did I, um, leave something out or, you know, like put too much in?"

"We tried to reach you earlier this morning but couldn't come up with your number here so I was volunteered to drive over and see if you would come back and get some things straight about last night."

Pat stopped, put both hands in his hip pockets and rocked back on his heels as he looked up. Jenny also stopped and waited for his response. His thought process seemed to her to be slow, almost torpid, as if he mentally surrounded a subject and then chose carefully the bits he wished to talk about before saying anything. It was at the completely opposite end of the spectrum from her own quick and sometimes ill thought out responses.

Finally he started to walk again, hands still in the pockets, and said, "I can come over later this afternoon if there's, um, more paperwork. Right now I should, you know, probably get the vet and see, um, see just why that old biddy kicked off. Just to make sure it's, you know, not contagious, you understand."

They walked a short distance in silence before Jenny said, "You want to tell me again just exactly what you saw and where you saw it?"

She looked up at him, noticed again the scar that ran through his eyebrow, making it look as if there were two short ones over his right eye and causing the eyelid itself to droop. This fascinated her. The people she had known during her life were all still perfect. Their only scars were small ones garnered while shaving or from other minor accidents. Every nose was still straight. None of them limped or winced from pain when they moved.

He stopped, but this time didn't hesitate with his reply. "I explained that last night. The Timini Trail. You know, the one that goes off Deer Run and up past Black Lake. I would guess, oh, like maybe three or four klicks past the lake, maybe a little more. It's hard to tell exactly. You know, where the trail switches back on itself."

She looked at him in an accusatory manner. "I know what you said. It's just that I thought there was maybe another trail like the Timini that got you confused or maybe we didn't go far enough or something. Nobody could find it."

He thought back on the previous afternoon, extracting the location and all the other details from his memory as he started to walk again, changed directions as they rounded the end of another pen made from thick weathered boards and railroad ties like all the rest. "I'm going to call the vet. Have to go in to Polton to call. I, uh, don't have a phone you know. If Doc can get here yet this morning I can maybe, um, get you straightened out this afternoon."

Their feet kicked up little puffs of dust as they walked through what might once have been the front yard for the unpainted house that would have looked as though no one lived in it except for some torn curtains in the two small front windows and the fact that the front door was shut rather than hanging half open as was the case with most of the abandoned houses in the valley. And the porch light was on.

"But it's pretty much like I said, you know, just past Black Lake a bit. There's only, uh, one trail there. At least, just one hiking trail. Not used very much. I think it, you know, pretty much ends after the switch backs, just kind of fades away once it hits tree line. If you keep going you just come back down this side or else, um, follow the ridge over to Eagle Peak and then take that trail back down. But that's a long ways over to the Peak, and this side isn't all that interesting. At least, not like the Park side. You know, mostly just kind of an easy slope, a little open grazing, lots of scrub and timber."

"I know what it's like." Jenny didn't like being lectured to. "I work there, you know. It's my job to know the trails, the marked trails, anyway. I've been over them all several times during the course of my employment and I don't need instructions from you."

Pat stopped and looked at her, almost smiled as he said, "I didn't mean to imply you didn't know them. I was just being sure we were talking about the same place. OK?"

They walked in silence toward the green pickup truck with the official emblem fading off the door. As they approached it Jenny looked at him and said, "Do you really live here or do you just have your cows here? I mean, if Russell needs you again, where can you be found?"

"Yeah, I live here all right."

He glanced at her and noticed the disbelief written all over her face. She didn't bother to hide it so he continued, "Well, not exactly right here. Not in the house. I mean, I used to but now, you know, I kind of, like, well, live, um, I live over there."

He pointed toward a bulge in the mountain side with a huge ramshackle door hanging on broken hinges.

"Over there," he repeated when her eyes had scanned past the bulge more than once. "Still, um, leave a light on in the house, though. That's for Walt, you know. But I don't, like, stay there anymore."

She shaded her eyes, scanned the direction he had pointed, finally rested her gaze on the bulge, shook her head in disbelief and said, "But that's a potato bunker, right?"

"Yeah. Well, it was. But I've kind of moved in." His speech got smoother as he got over the intrusion of the unexpected company. "It's better than the house. I couldn't live there anymore after Walt died."

"Walt?" she reached for the pickup door.

"Yeah, Walt. This was Walt's place."

Pat acted like he didn't want to say any more, kicked at the dirt between them. But Jenny just stood there with her hand on the door of the pickup and waited, a trick she learned over the summer from her superior at the Park.

He finally continued. "Ol' Walt, he died there. You see, we were both kind of living there. Well, actually, he lived there. With Liz. I was visiting. But it turned into, I guess, well, um, about a pretty long visit."

They both waited for the other to speak.

He finally said, "I'll be over as soon as I see what the vet has to say."

"Do you really need to wait for the vet? Russell is getting impatient. I mean, the veterinarian could probably look her over without your help, couldn't he? Or do you have to tell him how to do his job, too?"

"I should be here," he started to push some small stones into a circle with his foot. "It's better that way. If it's contagious I can get the rest of them vaccinated or whatever. Losing one hurts. I can't afford to lose any more."

"Russell won't like that," she opened the pickup door, turned to look directly at him and said, "Nobody found any body. They looked all night and then started in again this morning while I drove over here. I'm supposed to get you back there. I wouldn't like Russell to be mad at me. He thinks you made the whole thing up so you're to get into town as soon as you can. Got it?"

Pat felt the antagonism in her voice and looked back toward the pen of cows. He needed to get Doc and he really wanted to be here when he arrived.

'Crumb', he thought to himself, 'just what I wanted to do today,' then out loud, "OK. I really want to talk to Russell again. And I can imagine that he's just about as anxious to see me."

"He's not in a real good mood today because of you. It seems he didn't get much sleep last night."

Pat snorted and said through a half smile, "Tell him I'll be in as soon as I can. I guess Doc'll have to get along here without me this time. Normally I'd want to be sure the old rip didn't do anything unnatural but I'll let it slide this time." He closed the pickup door behind her. "See you in East Gate sometime around dinner?"

"You won't see me, just Deputy Botts."

He backed away as she ground the truck into gear and moved off, then waved and said, "Pity."
Chapter 6

Jenny checked her blouse and hair in the rest room mirror before venturing into the Park director's office. He demanded military appearance and bearing, something she never did except in his presence. She didn't exactly slouch or shuffle as she moved but her mien would never be construed as even remotely martial.

She exchanged a few moments of small talk with Suzanne, then walked up to the closed door, gave one single knock as she had been instructed to do, and entered when she heard the word, "In."

She stood, too erect, directly in front of the desk, awkwardly holding her wide-brimmed hat at her side. He didn't acknowledge her presence until he had finished reading the final page of her report.

"Is this accurate?" he asked while flipping back through the five pages of typewritten notes.

"Yes, sir, as far as I know," she answered.

"I asked if they were accurate, Miss Brush, not only as far as you know but whether they are, indeed, accurate. All locations and events must be precisely and entirely described."

He hadn't looked at her yet, remained, instead, intent on the contents of the stapled sheaf of papers in his hand. She rolled her eyes just as he shifted his gaze to her.

"Yes, sir, that's everything I have heard or learned."

He didn't acknowledge the disrespectful trip her eyes had made, but put the report down and motioned for her to sit. The light was perfect for him to see her but Jenny could see only a silhouette in the bright sun shining through the window behind him. He had planned it this way, had raised the blind an extra six inches to enhance the effect. His military background was limited to occasional weekends with the National Guard but he was proud of this and did everything he could to enhance what he thought of as his military appearance.

"Deputy Botts was cooperative?" he asked when she was seated.

"Yes sir."

"Is he carrying out any investigation?"

"Yes sir."

"And what has he found?"

"There is this one person that claims to have seen a body. But Deputy Botts hasn't found it and so he thinks this particular person is ..." she paused, searching for the right word, "... fabricating the incident."

She had leaned forward as she said this, then caught herself and moved back into the chair, her spine lined up with its straight back.

"I see," Jones replied, picked up the report and again looked at one of the pages. He made a notation along the side, underlined a part of one sentence, then said, "And who is this person?"

"His name is Ivers. Patrick Ivers," she said. "His name and place of residence are both in the report, page one, about the middle of the page, I think."

He flipped to page one, checked the name and made a notation in the margin. "Have you met him?"

"Yes sir."

"What is he like? Not what you put in the report, but what did you think of him?"

"Well, sir, I guess he was OK. I mean, he's kind of a ... well, strange, kind of ... I guess you'd call him a sort of a cowboy except he doesn't look like a cowboy, at least not like the others around here or anywhere else I've seen them. And, well, sir, he didn't quite look like the sort of person to make up this kind of a story."

David Jones waited and stared without blinking into Jenny's eyes. It was his habit to wait until everything the other person had to say had been said. This was unnerving to most people. It was quite unnerving to Jenny, so she continued in a rush.

"He lives on the other side of the mountain, Road 5 south out of East Gate, then west to the Corners, and then north like you're going to Polton. There's an old broken down house that looks just terrible. I mean, everything in that valley is falling down, it seems. But even for that part of the country it's bad, like the next wind will blow it over. He drives a ... um ... a Pontiac, I think. One of those fancy ones, fast, built low to the ground. Lives alone, as far as I could tell. There was a pickup there but I think it was his, at least I didn't see anyone else. It was falling apart, too. The pickup was. And he has a dog and cats and horses and cows. At least a few ... he has a few cows."

She stopped and drew in a breath, ready to continue. But Mr. Jones held up a hand so she stopped.

He flipped to the last page and said, "I see no report from the Deputy here."

"No sir, I didn't put one in. But I can get one if you'd like."

She mentally kicked herself for her oversight. Of course Jonesy would want them. He liked paperwork, the more papers the more assurance of remaining employed.

"Yes, I would like a copy of the Deputy's report. I would very much like to know what is happening in the Park that I run. That is my job, Miss Brush, to know what happens in this Park, and then, once the facts have been established, to act accordingly."

He sat back in his chair, but didn't release the tension in his back so that it looked as if he had been tied to a board and placed in the chair against his will.

"Do you want to know everything he said? I mean, his exact words?" she wanted to know.

"I would like his exact words, yes, but that's not always possible, is it? So close will be good enough. You must be my ears, Miss Brush. Again let me say that it is my job to know what goes on in the Park and I must depend on my employees to keep me informed."

"Exact words ..." She thought a minute while David Jones looked expectantly at her.

"I wasn't there all the while. Deputy Botts kept sending me into the next room for this and that or forms or pens or whatever they needed, but what I remember the most is when he said something like ... 'he's lying face down with his arms and legs all bent up and his head twisted around. There's no blood, at least none that I could see. That would rule out a hunting accident, wouldn't it, Russell.' He looked right at Deputy Botts then, like they shared something that I didn't know after he said that about the hunting accident. Anyway, he went on and said, 'He's lying next to a large boulder with a tree growing out of it in the middle of a boulder field at the bottom of a cliff about three kilometers past Black Lake on the Timini Trail ... "

"Kilometers?" David Jones interrupted her. "Did he really say kilometers?"

"Yes sir."

"Why not miles, Miss Brush? Why would he say kilometers instead of miles? Is he foreign?"

"No sir. But Deputy Botts said he was in the Army. Maybe they use kilometers, or something like that. They do on some of the TV shows I've seen, at least. He, um, Deputy Botts, that is, told me some things that Mr. Ivers did when he got out of the Army and back here that he thought might lend some substance to his doubts about Mr. Ivers' credibility."

"Stories? What stories, Miss Brush?"

"Deputy Botts said he arrested him a number of times for speeding and racing, being drunk and disorderly and a public nuisance, riding his motorcycle on the sidewalks and in the parks and through the shopping mall, other things like that. I can't remember them all. He also said he arrested him once for trespassing, criminal trespass, I think he called it, and several times for drugs - marijuana, I guess. He said he sent Mr. Ivers to Capital for that trial and he didn't come back for a year. The most peaceful year East Gate had in quite a while as far as Deputy Botts was concerned."

"I see. Continue, please. How did," he glanced down at the papers in front of him, "Mr. Ivers explain the absence of the body?"

"He didn't," she replied. "He just said it was there when he was."

The Park director flipped to another page, underlined some words, and wrote a few more notes in the margins with his heavy, silver, ball point pen.

"What do you think, Miss Brush? Is he telling the truth?" David Jones sat up straight again as he said this.

"Deputy Botts didn't talk like he thought this Mr. Ivers was telling the truth."

"I'm asking about you, Miss Brush. Do you, personally I think he was honest?"

"I think he was telling the truth, yes, sir."

"Even though Deputy Bolts, who, I may remind you, is a trained officer of the law, thought he wasn't?"

"Yes. I guess so." She added, "Sir."

"Then why is there no body, Miss Brush? If there was a death, there must be a body. Is there any way that you know of that a dead body can relocate itself?"

"No sir, not without help."

"Then why do you think there is a body? Could you, perhaps, be misinterpreting the man?"

"Yes, I certainly could be." There was a short silence before she added, "But I don't think so," and after a slight pause, "Sir."

"Miss Brush. I deal in facts, things that actually happen. I must know whether or not there was a body on the Timini. If there wasn't, I can go on to other matters. If there was, I must conduct some sort of investigation into the circumstances surrounding the death of this person."

"Yes sir," she said.

"If there was a death, there would be evidence left behind, such as an empty motel room or a car parked too long in one spot. Has anything like that been found, Miss Brush?"

"No sir. Not unless Deputy Botts has found something since I saw him last."

"You will remain in contact with Deputy Botts, then. Please let me know what has been found. Keep me informed with these written reports. This one is very good, Miss Brush. I think I must tell you that with the tourist season almost over the Park will no longer need all of its present employees. Perhaps this is an opportunity for you to move from seasonal into the permanent employment category. That is, if you don't mind being used as liaison between Deputy Botts and me for a while. If that suits you I will see to it that you remain employed. At least until this business has been seen through to its logical conclusion. After that we will have to again review your qualifications."

He laid the report on his desk, moved it precisely into the center and squared, and then stood up. Jenny also stood, prepared to shake his hand but none was offered.

"Good day, Miss Brush."

She fought the urge to salute the man in front of her, smiled her friendliest smile instead, then turned and left.
Chapter 7

"Why don't you get a phone? It's a long way around here from East Gate."

Jenny watched as Pat snaked a rope around the back legs of the dead cow. He secured it to the saddle horn with a double bight and nudged the big, black horse forward. A clot of dried blood had filled the cow's nostrils and her head banged along as the horse and rider dragged her unceremoniously across the pen toward the gate. Dust followed and their progress was marked by a small valley devoid of the droppings that covered the rest of the pen, punctuated with an occasional spot of blood and small pieces of intestine that came from the cut the veterinarian had made when posting her.

Jenny moved toward the gate as he leaned over and yanked on the barbed wire that served as a latch. The gate swung open and he dragged the cow through. The others, seeing one of their number go somewhere they couldn't, came running and jumping, kicking their back legs high and to the side, snorting and coughing in the dust they created.

"Psiaah, psiaah! Get on back there, you old hussies! Go on, now, get back!"

Pat jumped off the horse and ran toward the open gate, waving his arms and blocking their new found escape route. When they halted, he ran around, grabbed the gate from where it had stopped swinging, and shut it, then looped the barbed wire back over the top post to keep it in place. The remaining heifers frolicked and gamboled in a clumsy circle, butting heads and pushing for a few seconds before running around and finding another of their herd mates to push.

"I said it's a long way around here from East Gate. It would be nice if you had a phone."

Jenny watched as he wound a piece of baling wire around the bottom of the post and twisted it tight. Then he stood up and pushed the cap back on his forehead. She thought he looked out of place. The few locals she knew wore boots, wide brimmed hats, slim cut, long sleeved shirts buttoned clear to the top, and held their pants up with wide belts fastened with huge, heavy, shiny buckles. This guy had on sneakers, a Chicago Cubs baseball cap, and a faded blue T-shirt with

IOWA

Home of Punk Polka

stenciled across the front. He wasn't even wearing a belt.

"I don't have a phone. I told you that yesterday. No one ever calls so I just let it get disconnected. 1 can't get it back until I give Ma Bell about 300 bucks. But that's OK. No one ever calls. No one that's worth much, anyway."

Jenny raised an eyebrow at the last remark and tried to decide if it were pointed at her.

"What happened to your cow? Did the vet ever find out why she died?"

"Yeah. He finally rolled in just after sunset last night. Found a nail in her stomach. I guess she ate a board or something. Anyway, when she lay down it went out through her stomach and finally into her heart. Killed the old biddy."

Jenny thought about this for a minute. "Why would she eat a board?"

"Good question and if I knew I'd tell you. I certainly wish she hadn't. But it seems that most members of the ruminant family don't exactly spend much of their life thinking about their options at any particular point in time. They pretty much live on instinct and not much else."

He continued, "I guess if they had a choice between alfalfa hay and loco weed they'd probably eat the hay. But then again, every occasionally they might not, too. It's hard to tell just what goes on in their head. Assuming anything does go on in there. The tourists have a name for them - slow elk. But the locals call them clear eyes. That's because you can see clear through from one side to the other. Not much going on between the ears."

Jenny hadn't expected such a lengthy explanation and was rather surprised. When she had first seen him in Deputy Botts' office he had always answered any question with a simple yes or no. They had had to ask several times to get any kind of a location out of him. At first she thought it was just the shock of finding a body. Most members of the general public were unprepared for such a thing. She knew she was. But as the night wore on she began to realize that he wasn't ever going to say very much at one time. At least not that night.

"Russell says he needs a couple of papers signed. He didn't want to come out and so I got volunteered again. Would you sign them?"

"What are they?"

She held out a long, business sized envelope.

"Just tell me what they are," he said. His mood had darkened at the thought of Russell Botts. It darkened still farther at the thought of Russell Botts with the attractive young lady that now stood in front of him.

Jenny took them out of the envelope, opened each of them and silently read their titles.

"This one says Standard Release Form on the top and," she shuffled the first under the second, "this one is," she paused as she hurriedly read the typed page, "a letter, something to the effect that you may have made a mistake about seeing a dead person."

She carefully folded each along their original crease marks and replaced them in the envelope, then held them out to him again.

"Bullshit," Pat said as he swung back on his horse. He kicked the mare on the side a little harder than needed and she jerked into motion, dragging the cow away from the pen and toward the house.

Jenny held her arms wide and looked heavenward, then followed far enough behind that she didn't have to walk in the dust, the papers again safely in her back pocket. Hard case, she decided. Most people would sign just about anything Russell Botts asked them to sign. His countenance and reputation were such that few people crossed him. She would certainly hate to be on his bad side, although there had already been several times in their short acquaintance when she had come close.

Pat kneed the horse as it pulled the carcass up the little rise upon which the old house was situated, then jerked the reins and pointed her toward the potato bunker. Jenny stopped when he stopped, continued on when he did, and finally got to what he had told her he called home.

Up close the doors were even more imposing, huge and hanging at a crazy angle. Their boards were cracked, broken, missing, weather beaten, torn apart and nailed together, patched with license plates, hammered out tin cans, and more boards. Baling wire fastened the bottoms to faded steel fence posts. Taken altogether, the whole jumbled mess looked like Peter Tumbledown, like they would falloff what was left of their tracks given the slightest excuse. The sunlight penetrated only a small way into the interior, leaving the rest in total darkness and mystery.

She tried to conjure up some image of how this singular individual must live, miles from any neighbor, completely unlike any other person she had known. More like some aboriginal than a member of modern society. He probably kept his motorcycle - undoubtedly a big, black, noisy Harley Davidson with an oversized back tire and an undersized front tire at the bottom of a pair of long, chrome plated forks topped with ape hangers for handle bars, a pair of silver studded, black leather saddle bags hanging behind the seat and over the top of two oversized chrome plated exhaust pipes - next to a pile of dirty blankets and another pile of half empty whiskey bottles.

'His choice', she thought, then noticed he had disappeared. She looked around but saw only the horse, standing patiently, her tail banging the rope tied to the dead cow as she swished the flies off her back.

"An' den he float away like de lake mist in de mo'nin' sun," she thought, silently mouthing the final words of a book she had recently read.

Hello," she said in only a slightly louder voice than her normal speaking tone. "Mr. Ivers," she called, "Hello, Mr. Ivers. Are you in there?"

"Yes," came the reply, "Just a minute."

It sounded like he was on a stage of some concert hall and she was seated in the back row. The ambience lent a uniquely unreal quality to his voice, seemed to originate from some point far away, getting lost to a certain extent in the interim distance so that she heard the echoes and none of the original. She waited until he returned, a container in each hand.

"Ice tea," he announced. "It's all I've got unless you want water, but that's on the bitter side. Tea covers it up some, tastes better. Not as good as coffee but a lot cooler."

"Thanks," she said in a voice only one step above civil and looked at the tumbler he placed in her hand. It was aluminum with several dents and most of the paint scratched off the outside. The cool felt good against the palm of her hand. She looked down inside and wondered what the bitter was in the water, noticed that the ice was at least clear, then watched as Pat tipped his back and drank it in one draught. She looked down her glass again and took one petite sip. He was right, even the tea didn't cover the bitter taste.

"You up to a hike?" he asked after he had wiped one side of his mouth with the back of his hand. He placed the tumbler on an upright piece of firewood and then sat on another, motioning her to do the same.

She resisted the temptation to shake her head no, declined the seat, and asked "Where?"

It was good to look down on this person for a change. His height made him seem untouchable and aloof, haughty, detached. Sitting he was just another person and she felt she could better deal with him on her terms.

"Timini Trail," he answered.

"Sign the papers," she took them out of her pocket as she said this.

"No," Pat shook his head and looked at the ground between his feet. "I won't sign the papers. Why would I want to sign my name to something that's less than truthful?"

"Nobody's sure that what you've said is the truth. I mean, like, well, look, there's no body. If there's no body, there's no accident, no big car, no boxer, no nothing. You're on shaky ground, at best. And your relation with Russell and your past record don't exactly do much for your case."

"Russell's told you about our little run-ins, has he? I'm sure he had it all very official and succinct like. Please tell me he didn't put in any personal anecdotes."

"He just told me about you after you got back from Viet Nam. He thinks you're crazy. If I'd seen you ride your motorcycle through that shopping mall I might think so too, especially since it was the upper level!" Momentarily leaving her show of coldness, she asked, "How'd you ever get up to the second floor, anyway?"

"Stairs. And tell Russell to sign them. He's good at that. About all he can do is sign papers and move them from one basket to another. What else has Russell been telling you about me? I better know so I can defend myself."

Jenny shrugged her shoulders and stood silent. She knew that Deputy Botts was not an ambitious person, but he did make an outward appearance of being, if not good, then at least a capable peace officer, at least from a distance. He did, after all, manage to keep the main street saloons, the ones with any amount of tourist trade, within the legal bounds of their license; kept the hookers in the shadows or in the side street bars, out of the big hotels where families might stay. He did keep the three small casinos free of trouble, and broke up a good share of the fights almost immediately, something he seemed to relish.

She wondered how this person had crossed Russell so that reading the name Patrick Ivers, or even any mention of the man, made his face red, caused his jaws to clamp shut so hard his teeth clacked together.

"Got to get busy," Pat stood up and picked up his tumbler. "Finish your drink if you like. But take Russell's papers back to him. And if you want to know about the law and me, don't ask Russell. Come right to the source. I'll tell you if you really want to know."

"Yeah, OK," she said and handed him her glass.

He dumped the tea on the ground.

"What did you mean about a hunting accident?" she asked as he placed the second tumbler beside the first.

"I didn't say anything about any hunting accident," he said, turned and started toward his horse and its trailing burden.

"When you were talking with Russell. You said something to the effect that the absence of blood would rule out the possibility of a hunting accident."

He turned and came back, looked down at her for a moment. "How long have you been at the Park, Miss Brush?" He bent sideways to look at her left hand. There was no jewelry on any of the fingers. "It is Miss, isn't it? Or should I say Mrs. Brush?"

"Since the middle of May. And it's Miss, if you must know."

Pat was expecting her chilly reply. "And you haven't been involved with any of the hunting that goes on in there?"

"Hunting is illegal in the Park, Mr. Ivers. You know that as well as I do. It's state law. Maybe even federal for all I know. All wildlife is protected as long as it's within the Park boundaries. And if I catch you, I will report you to K."

"Not me, Miss Brush. And they're protected only so long as the hunter doesn't get caught."

His reply was curt and laced with bitterness. "How can there be so much hunting goes on in that Park without anyone knowing about it? It's not that big, only thirty, maybe thirty-five miles long, probably not even close to half that across. You mean to tell me that you people don't know there's hunting goes on in there?"

"Are you saying I let people hunt inside the Park? Or that the people I work with condone such a thing? Let me tell you something, Mr. Ivers." She took a step in his direction and punctuated her sentences with her finger, shaking it at him as if he were a kid in grade school and she his teacher. "One of our most important jobs is to protect the plants and animals in that Park. Recreation is important, sure, but not any more so than the protection of the natural resources."

She stood glaring at him. He looked back at her with a measure of calm, waiting for the storm to pass while his accusations sank a bit deeper into her head.

"Well?" She stood rooted with her hands on her hips, her jaw jutting forward and her eyes dark and sparkling with anger.

"I didn't say it was condoned, either by you or any one person with whom you work. But it does happen. Not only have I heard it but I've found the remains of some of the victims. That's one of the drawbacks of hunting illegally. If you don't get a kill on the first try, you can't trail it very far without increasing your chances of being caught, or at least seen."

"Nature's a hard world to live in." She still had her hands on her hips and looked at him the hardest she knew how. "Animals die. That doesn't mean someone shot them."

"You've worked here four months and haven't heard any shots? Or run across any wounded animals? Or heard of anyone hunting in the Park? Just where do you keep yourself, anyway?"

"OK. So there's some illegal hunting goes on. That's hard to stop. Every one of us knows it happens. But it's an awful lot of territory for twelve people to cover and still keep up with the visitors. Besides, only K and Mr. Jones have any authority to arrest anyone."

"You don't have to arrest anyone. Just tell someone with some authority that it's happening. You do admit that it does, after all, happen?"

"Sure it does. I'd be a fool to say that it didn't. Any time there are animals there's going to be hunters. But that doesn't mean I know for sure when it happens. Even for sure where or if it happens. There are rumors. But they're only rumors as far as I know."

"And your friend, Russell. How about him? He wouldn't be involved in anything so dastardly as hunting inside the Park, would he, now?"

Pat was beginning to feel like he was getting through to the lady, had chipped away some of her self-assuredness, maybe put a small glimmer of doubt in her head. Just because she worked in the Park didn't mean, after all, that she was all knowing. Trail guides stayed on the trails. Ticket takers stayed in their little ticket huts. Information clerks stayed in their little information stands. Park directors stayed in their little director's offices. And not a one of them knew what was happening in the farthest reaches of their Park, only what was happening in their own particular little corner.

"I'm not saying that anyone official smiles on it," Pat continued. "Only that it does happen and that it's been happening with more and more frequency over the last year and a half, two years or so. It's slowed down a little now, what with the heaviest tourist season going on. But I bet it picks up again once the weather sets in and the visitors mostly leave."

"Well, I'll just report that. I'll write a little note and say the same guy who thinks he saw a body along the Timini also thinks he hears gunshots in the Park. How would that be?"

She said this with as much bravado as she could muster, and yet she knew what he had said was true. There were rumors and she had heard the shots, far away and echoing, although she had always told herself that they were from outside the Park and the noise just carried a long way.

"You don't have to tell anyone," he spoke softly. "Just be aware of it and see what you think. Listen while you're out hiking and taking tourists around, especially if you get up into the northern end of the Park. There're no campgrounds up that way. That's where it happens mostly, I think."

"No campgrounds," she smiled, not a friendly smile but at least a smile. "Just some cabins the Park rents out. Some sorority rented them again this year. I guess they rented them last year, too.""

"You mean they rented them for the whole summer? I thought ten days was the maximum."

"Supposed to be that way," she agreed. "But one girl rents one for ten, then another for ten, and before you know it the whole summer is booked."

"They know about that and let it happen? Those places are maintained with tax dollars and should be for every taxpayer to use."

"Well, not much I can do about it. Suzanne takes care of that, first come, first serve, you know. I guess they stood mostly empty until Mr. Jones got here. I think the Park feels lucky they're filled with paying customers. They're pretty cheap but they seem to take good care of them. Anyway, I don't think sorority girls do much hunting. Except for boys, that is. They don't use guns very much, or hadn't you noticed?"

Her temper had cooled down to almost normal again. Her hands were no longer clenched on her hips but were gesticulating about with her speech as they normally did. Her chin had once again receded and her eyes had become their normal soft, deep brown.

A red, long haired dog came out of the darkness of the bunker and sniffed at her shoes, then her legs and she backed away before it could get any friendlier. Pat snapped his fingers and the dog sank down on its haunches. "Come here, you," he commanded and the dog wagged its tail and made several attempts to stand up on its hind legs as it crossed over to him, whining and shaking its head from side to side.

"Pretty dog," she observed.

"Yeah. Here," he held the dogs paw out. "Meet Mr. Ed."

Jenny laughed in spite of herself. "I thought Mr. Ed was a horse." She reached out her hand to take the dog's paw and shook it.

Mr. Ed responded with little whines and a slobbering tongue.

"Yeah, he is. This one's not for sure what he is, though. Sometimes I think he thinks he is a horse. At least he eats like a horse. Eats enough for about three dogs his size. And then he sleeps all day. I sometimes wonder what his secret is. He should be at least again as big around as he is."

Jenny straightened up again. "Would you come down to the truck? I think we found your camera."

He started toward the truck, going ahead of and walking faster than the Park ranger.

"Don't expect too much," she said to his back. "It was in the trash. They found it when they dumped the truck. "

Pat got to the pickup and waited for her to catch up. She reached in and extracted a plastic bag with a black object inside.

"This it?" she asked.

"Let me see it and I'll let you know," he said, his mood not as joyful as a bit previously.

She opened the sack and extracted the camera. The back was open and bent, the lens cracked. Pat took it and turned it over in his hand, checked for his ID scratched on the bottom.

"Yeah," he said in a quiet voice. He cut the word short and closed his mouth tight.

"I don't think it'll work anymore," Jenny said and sat on the front seat, her legs still out of the pickup. "I'm sorry."

Pat shrugged. "That's OK, time for a new one anyway. This old thing has seen its better days, you know. And the lenses were getting scratched and beat up some. Yeah. It's time. Past time, now, I'd reckon."

Jenny heard the words but the expression said something different, like he had lost an old friend. She had noticed it when he had first checked the cow to be sure it was dead. He seemed to take a loss well on the surface, but underneath it seemed each one took something out of him he could never get back. Like he would run out of whatever it was he was losing and eventually just get smaller and smaller until he disappeared.

"Where'd you find it?" he asked quietly.

"They were dumping the truck from Uinga Campground. So it was either in the campground, the picnic ground, or one of the trail heads there. I think there's a couple or three that the truck picks up from on Mondays."

"The film?" he asked.

"What?"

"Did they find the film?" he expanded the question.

"They didn't say anything about any film."

"Who's they?"

"The day crew, a couple of local kids. Mert drives," she tried to think of the hourly workers but decided she didn't know any of them by name.

"New film so it doesn't matter. Nothing lost except a couple feet of plastic," Pat said in a soft voice, looking down at the black metal in his hands.

"I'll get back," she said as she swung her feet into the pickup and pulled the door shut, then leaned her head out the window and said, "Russell says there were no prints on the camera except Mert's. Not even yours. Absolutely clean."

She started the pickup and was about to let out the clutch when Pat shouted, "Wait a minute!"

She jammed on the brakes and leaned her head out the window again, resting her arm on the steering wheel as she did so.

Pat was down on all fours, reaching under the truck. When he stood, he had not only his camera but a half-grown black and white kitten as well.

"Thanks," he said and stood there, his broken camera in one hand, the cat hanging over his other arm as he watched the pickup bounce down the road toward the highway.

Chapter 8

The black mare whinnied and side stepped as the thunder sounded again, not so far away as earlier. Pat stroked the side of her neck and said, "Easy there, girl. I think it'll pass and leave us alone."

He had ridden out to check his cows, then continued up the mountain on the ridge between Piney Gulch and Our Lady Canyon, left the timber behind and scrambled up the loose rock near the top - a six-hour trip to that point - coming into the Park the back way. Once on top he found the Timini, slid off the horse and, holding the reins, followed it as it snaked down the side of the mountain. He looked intently at the ground, hoping to spot anything that was out of the ordinary.

He figured Black Lake was about five kilometers on east and so he had only one or possibly two kilometers in which to find something. But when he rounded the trail over the boulder field where he was sure he had seen the body on the preceding day, he had only a stone in his shoe to show for his efforts.

He led the horse around the bend, along the base of the boulder field, then looped the reins over the stub of one of the bottom branches of the lodgepole pine he had stood behind while waiting for the panic to pass. Closing his eyes, he carefully reconstructed the scene in his mind; the exact angle of the arms and legs, the twist of the head, the color and style of the clothes, and, most importantly, the position of the body with respect to any outstanding landmarks.

Once he was sure he could picture the scene accurately he stepped from behind the tree and looked intently at the rocks, picked out landmarks that matched his visual recollection. He spotted the juniper that grew out of a cleft in a large boulder and walked toward it, searching the ground as he did so.

Lightning flashed. He stopped walking and counted off thirteen seconds in his mind before he heard the thunder, not a rumble but a short and echoing sound, like a cannon. A couple or three miles, he thought. Another five, maybe ten minutes or so.

He resumed his careful walk over the boulders toward the juniper and when he reached it, looked up at the cliff above him. From this vantage point he couldn't see the trail, wouldn't know there was one if he were unfamiliar with the country.

In his mind, he could again hear the stones falling from the cliff above. 'Knocked loose when the guy fell?' he asked himself, then answered, 'Probably not. The guy was very still by the time I came along.'

He looked down at the rocks beneath his feet, then up toward the cliff again. Lightning flashed and he counted six seconds. This would not be a particularly safe place to be during an electrical storm so he turned around to leave, then stopped and turned back.

The lightning had reflected off something. He stooped down and examined the smaller rocks that filled the space between the boulders.

Wedged at a forty-five-degree angle at the base of the large and very red boulder was a cigarette lighter. He closed his eyes again and imagined the exact location of the body.

'Right here,' he muttered, and then stooped to look at the thing, feeling in his pocket for a handkerchief. The top was shut tight and, when he got his head close enough to the ground to see under it, the front had a bronze-colored emblem, raised in relief. Finding no handkerchief, he untucked his shirt and tore off a piece of the tail. This he folded in two and picked up the lighter with it. He looked carefully at the insignia on the front - an eagle, its head and beak in profile, looking to the right, its wings spread. A pair of what looked like arrow quivers was crossed on its breast.

A large, single drop of rain splattered on a rock next to him. He wrapped the lighter and shoved it in his pocket.

The lightning and thunder came almost simultaneously. Pat turned and jumped from boulder to boulder, crossed the trail, and grabbed the reins. The mare could smell the rain and feel the electricity in the air. She was definitely not enthusiastic about staying in this particular spot.

Storms were dangerous at this altitude. Not only were you exposed to the lightning, wind and very cold rain but wet clothes lingered and sucked the warmth away with only little warning. Pat was well aware of all these things and was moderately well prepared. He untied a long, heavy drovers' coat from behind the saddle and put it on, then mounted the mare and rode down the trail away from the exposed side of the mountain.

The rain started with a few heavy sprinkles and the sound of wind in the top of the pines, then came a sudden, furious gust followed by pelting drops. Lightning flashes lit the dull grey landscape and a few hailstones pelted the man and his horse. Pat adjusted the long tails of the coat, trying unsuccessfully to keep the saddle and the bags tied behind it dry, then hunched against the onslaught. He stopped the horse and, holding the reins close under the animal's chin, leaned forward and talked quietly into her ear. The wind threatened to snatch his hat so he was forced to hold that with the other hand.

Just as fast as the rain had started, it passed, leaving a shiny landscape and slippery footing. Thunder rolled in the distance but the menace was past and the sound was comforting rather than foreboding.

"How do you like that, Mandy?" he asked the horse, slid out of the saddle and turned her around so they were headed up the trail and toward the boulder field once again. Water coursed between his feet, using the trail as an aqueduct. Drops fell from the trees with the remaining gusts and splattered them both.

At the boulder field, a small stone tumbled down, bouncing from one rock to another. Then another started its tumbling journey down the across the jumbled mass.

"Hello on the trail, there," Pat called.

He got no answer. Even the echoes were swallowed up by the sodden land.

"Hello up there," he called again, and then climbed up the trail, now with purpose, still leading the horse. As he skirted the boulder field, he kept watching the slash above where he knew the trail to be, remembering his expectations when the same sounds met him as he looked at the now missing body. Pat led the mare up the soggy path until he had traversed the switchback and figured he was exactly above where the body had been. He edged close and looked over the precipice. It looked different from up here, much more hazardous than standing at the bottom looking up. His foot dislodged a small stone at the edge of the trail and it went cascading from boulder to boulder until it landed in a pile of wet, coarse gravel between two of the bigger ones with a dull thud.

Pat pulled his field glasses from a bag on the saddle and adjusted them. His forehead furrowed. The rock had landed next to a hat, now lying downside up, wedged between two rocks, dark, wide brimmed and limp from the soaking.

He followed the progress of another stone as it went down the precipice and across the boulder field. His eyebrows knit together and he stepped back, looking closer at the trail's edge in front of him. Clearly outlined in the small, smooth gravel that had been swept to the side by hikers as they moved along the trail were his own boot marks. His eyes followed this path of small stones left and right until he saw an impression left by a careless watcher. He dropped the reins and walked over to it, stooped to examine it more closely.

It was made by a medium sized hiker's boot. The radiating tread was familiar. Almost every hiker wore a similar shoe. But not every hiker had been even anywhere close after the rain. The trail that he could see was absolutely devoid of any tracks except his own and this one.

He stood up and moved slowly up the trail, spotting another print every now and again as the unknown person preceded him.

Pat felt uneasy. This was something he hadn't thought about, encountering another person up here, possibly one that also knew about the body. The imprint was smallish, however, probably too small for a man of any size, so he led the horse up the trail, going slower at any bend around which he couldn't see.

The prints stopped. He left the horse, doubled back and found the last one. It was very rocky underfoot but there was enough sand lodged between the rocks that a careless person would probably leave easily seen marks. The trail here ran along one side of a small meadow, sparsely framed by trees on three sides and, on the side along which the trail ran, a steep, treeless cliff. He looked over the edge of the trail. Unless the person he was following could fly they had almost certainly gone up the hill to his right.

There wasn't much point in following any further so he whistled to the mare. Trails' end was very near and darkness was moving in. He had come prepared to spend the night, something he had done often. He scanned the area and was about to go back down and find a spot with more shelter when his eye caught an out-of-place, light color behind a boulder not 50 yards from the trail.

"OK," he called, holding the reins of the horse a little tighter. "Come on out. I know you're there. I don't know who you are but I do know where you are."

The patch of light color that he had seen disappeared and some of those ubiquitous stones rattled down the hill.

"I don't want to come up there, really. I'm not a Park ranger. I'm just another hiker. All I want to know is why you were watching me. You can talk from up there if you want."

He waited several minutes. The boulder was alone in an open space so he knew that whoever the person was, they couldn't leave without being seen. He had spoken the truth when he said he didn't want to climb up to the boulder. He didn't know who was there and would just as soon discover that from a distance.

Finally, a figure moved out from behind and stood beside the big rock. He couldn't tell for sure who it was but the shorts and shirt were dark with water from the rain. Whoever it was had come unprepared for the elements.

Pat waited, feeling more sure of himself now. He was in no hurry to confront the figure, was content to wait until it got closer and he could recognize with whom he was dealing.

Finally he called, "Hello."

"Is that all you can say is hello?"

Pat recognized the voice. It was the lady that had come out to his house in the Park vehicle. He thought back to her introduction and finally remembered the name.

"Yes. That's all I can say right now, is hello, Jenny Brush," he called up to her. "How about you? What do you have to say?"

She started down the hill toward the trail, slipped once on a slick rock and landed on her backside, got up and continued until she jumped from a low, rocky ledge to the trail.

"I got caught in the rain," she said.

"So you did. Is your gear close?"

"At the trail head."

She grabbed a handful of hair and twisted it, squeezing a few more drops of water from it, then shivered as a breeze blew over the meadow and into the trees, moaning a bit as it went past. Her arms were left unprotected by the short sleeved shirt and the short, dark hairs stood straight out.

Pat looked at her, a really pathetic figure standing wet and bedraggled in front of him.

"You'll freeze your petooty up here. It's almost sundown now and that's quite a hike back down to your car. Another 20 minutes and it's going to start to get downright chilly. You'll probably be rather cold by the time you get there."

"Well, then, I better get started. I'm not going to get any warmer standing here talking with you, am I?"

"Probably not."

She moved to bypass the horse and had taken a dozen steps when Pat said, "Hey, listen, you want to warm up some before you go? You could borrow my coat, at least until you're some color except blue."

She stopped but didn't turn around. "I'll make it OK."

"And you'll wake up tomorrow with a case of it, too. Just a minute and I'll walk a bit with you."

He pulled the mare around on the trail till she was headed down again.

"That way I can make sure I get my coat back."

Jenny stood still but made no reply. When Pat caught up with her, she said, softly, "Yeah. OK."

Pat took off the heavy, long-tailed coat and handed it to her. She put it on and they started down the Timini. He wanted to ask why she was on the trail above him, why she had run away, why she had hidden, what she had seen, what conclusions she had drawn if any, but thought it would be better to wait and see if she said anything with only a bit of oblique prompting.

Jenny, on the other hand, was busy concocting as many stories as she could come up with, at least when she wasn't busy trying to keep from tripping over the tails of the coat.

Finally she stopped and said, "Listen. This won't work. This coat weighs at least a ton and I keep stepping on it. Just take it and let me get back to my car."

"Well, just a minute, then. We do have a couple other options," he stopped, turned and rubbed the horse's nose. Darkness was quickly overtaking them and the trail was becoming harder to see, more dangerous to navigate.

"So, tell me the options," she wrapped the coat a little tighter around her, trying to get the last bit of warmth before leaving it.

Pat could easily detect antagonism emanating from the pitiful figure shivering in front of him.

"Well," he tried to smile at her, "option one is I stay, you go. I stay warm. You stay freezing."

"That's it, all right."

"Care to hear option two?" He was adjusting the bridle as he spoke.

"I'm all ears. If you notice, I haven't moved."

"Well, option two ... Mandy and I could escort you to your car. Did you say your car or that Park truck you drive?"

"Car."

"I didn't know you ever drove anything except that pickup I see you in. Anyway, that's option two."

"My car. And three is?"

He finished adjusting the bridle, then moved around to the side and threw the stirrup over the saddle and started to fiddle with the cinch.

"You haven't told me option three," she said, tired of waiting. The thought of riding that big, black, warm horse somehow appealed to her.

"Well, three is we camp here. We get a fire going so you don't freeze to death and then, in the morning, you go east and I go west."

"No way, Buster." She shrugged out of the coat and said, "You go west, I go east, but not tomorrow."

Pat took the coat and laid it over the saddle. "I'm not being improper or anything, so don't take me wrong. I'm just being practical. Those are the three options as I see them, going from worst to best. You have a fourth?"

"No," she had started to shiver again.

"So tell me what you want to do."

"I don't think I want to be here."

"Ah, but you are, so live with it and carry on. If you want me to leave, I will. First, though, I'd like to know why you ran away when I came up the trail."

"I didn't run away, as you so succinctly put it. I was working up here. That's my job, you know, checking trails and stuff."

She shivered again.

"OK," Pat said, then turned and held out the drover's coat to her. "Put it back on. I don't want to be responsible in case you catch pneumonia and die. Besides, people would talk if I brought you into town slung over the saddle. I always thought Matt Dillon was a bit melodramatic when he'd tote bodies around that way."

She got back into the coat and wrapped it tight as she could, trying to stop her body from shaking.

"Now, get on. We'll find a protected spot and get you warmed up, then ride on down to your car."

Jenny didn't say anything. She didn't move, either.

"Does that sound like something you could live with?" Pat ventured.

She replied, softly, "Yeah, OK."

Not wanting to press his luck or to get her started again, he stood back while she got herself up, with only two unsuccessful tries. Once she was squared in the saddle, he led the horse down the trail again, slowly, feeling his way in the deepening darkness, and finally stopped at a small, level clearing surrounded with low growing evergreens that looked like they might protect them from the wind that had started to come up out of the north east and now moaned steadily through the tops of the trees.

He stood back and waited until she had slid off the horse and then untied the bags from behind the saddle. He scouted the clearing, knelt down beside a good sized rock on a level stretch that was protected from the wind by some scrubby bushes, and produced a camp stove of miniature proportions from one of the bags. He lit it with a butane wand and handed it to Jenny.

"Here, warm your hands," he said, then unrolled a plastic poncho and unbuttoned the liner.

She accepted the soft, green camouflaged liner he held out. "This thing isn't waterproof but it's softer than the coat. Probably warmer, too. Wrap up in it and then use the coat for a windbreaker."

He spread the poncho on the ground and arranged a small pile of rocks at each corner, got a canteen from the saddle and filled a small pan with water and spooned in two measures of coffee.

"You can heat this while you're at it. I think Mandy'd be happier if I loosened that cinch a bit."

When he returned, she had poured half the mixture into the tin cup and was sipping at it.

He took the pan and felt the temperature with his finger, then took a long swallow.

"Think you'll live?" he asked.

"I think so," she said, not looking up. Then added, still looking down into the cup, "Thanks."

"I only brought enough for one, but it's for one for a couple days, just in case. You like jerky or dried beef better?"

"What, like chipped beef? For sandwiches? Have you got butter or mayonnaise? Sandwich spread?"

"No, not like chipped beef for sandwiches," he mimicked her expression, then laughed out loud, trying to put her at her ease. "Like dried beef. I mean really dried. And jerky. You know, like really dried beef with lots of pepper and stuff in it."

"Is that all you have?" she asked, and wrinkled up her nose. Then added, "I mean, are there other choices besides dried?"

He snorted. "Well, right now those are the two choices. They pack well, last a long time, and are really quite nutritious. At least you won't starve with them. Oh, yes, there's a couple packages of dried fruits, too. And a little jar of peanut butter and some cheese."

"Which would you recommend?" She drained the last of the coffee and could feel it warming her from the inside. "I mean, the beef or the jerky? I haven't had either before."

"Oh, probably the dried beef unless you like spicy stuff. The jerky's only dried beef with some pepper and other hot stuff in it. Aged a little different, too. Sometimes I eat them with peanut butter or wrapped in a bit of cheese but not usually."

"OK. Give me two-thirds dried beef and a third jerky."

"What do you mean, two-thirds and a third?" he laughed again. "Here's a piece of each. Eat as much as you want. But when you're done be sure to let me have the remains so I can get them covered up again. I don't want some big, old, hairy bear coming in to investigate that wonderful aroma."

He placed several pieces of dried fruit in her tin cup, then poured some more water from the canteen into the little pan and spooned in two more measures of coffee. He searched the ground until he found two forked sticks, then made a small rock pile on each side of the fire and pushed one stick into each. He pushed a third stick through the pan handle and hung it over the tiny stove.

Pat sat back and looked into the tiny, blue flame as he chewed on his jerky. After the first bite he did put a small dollop of peanut butter on each piece. When he could hear the pan of coffee sizzling, he retrieved it.

"Here, want some," he asked.

Jenny didn't reply. He looked closer. She was rolled up in the poncho liner with the drover's coat pulled up over her head and buttoned up tight so that only her eyes and nose could be seen. He decided she didn't.

She watched him as he wiped out the pan and cup, her eyes, but no other part of her, following his movements.

"I didn't mean to be so rude," she said from inside her cocoon. "It's just that I was embarrassed to be spying on you."

"That's OK," Pat stuffed the pile of tin dishes and plastic containers into the bags, and then leaned back against the rock.

The plastic poncho kept out the moisture from the ground but not the cold. He squirmed trying to find a place to sit on that was halfway comfortable and still dry. He found one, felt the cloth-covered lighter in his pocket and wondered what he expected to do with it.

The wind had begun to calm and he hunkered down flatter on the ground, his head propped against the rock. The stars seemed even closer than usual, the air being cleansed by the rain. Small, wispy clouds floated slowly by, the moon reflecting off them so they appeared like silvery ships on a black, sparkling sea.

"Can you see Orion's sword?" he asked, "or the Pleiades? Ursa Major? I read where if you multiply the month by the longitude and add on the degrees of the pointing stars in the big dipper and then keep subtracting off 24 you can get the exact time. But if I do that it would now be... oh, somewhere around three o'clock in the afternoon. Give or take a bit. Either I forget the formula or the guy that published the book got it all wrong. I seem to recall several other discrepancies so I'll just assume he got this wrong, too."

"Can't see the stars," she replied. "Can't move. There's a warm spot and if I do I'll be out of it and never find it again. Just tell me about them."

"You know about stars?" Pat asked.

"I took astronomy my sophomore year at WTSTC but it seemed as if the professor was more interested in getting all of us up into that attic he called his observatory and then disappearing rather than actually trying to teach us anything. I never could understand those star charts he kept giving us.

"And the boys," she continued, "they were more interested in pointing the telescope toward the girl's dormitory, although it wouldn't quite go far enough for them to see anything. I think they must have scouted every crack and every hole in that chimney. They probably counted every brick and had them sorted into color, size and shape."

Pat chuckled. "What's WSTS ... what was the rest of it, again?"

"WTSTC. West Texas State Teachers College. Even the names grow big in Texas."

"You're a teacher?"

"Was a teacher." She emphasized the was. "Now I'm a Park attendant."

"For the summer or for permanent? They don't usually keep very much help over there in the winter."

"Seasonal. At least for the time being. They said they'd let me know about permanent. They also said not to get too excited about it, that they only had one slot to fill this winter. I really expect that will be a secretary or a biologist. Maybe a large animal vet. They don't really need an elementary teacher there."

Mandy snorted from the other side of the rock against which Pat leaned. The breeze blew softly through the trees, bringing with it the howl of a pack of coyotes, just one at first, then several, then an entire chorus of yips and howls. Jenny shuddered.

"Are they close?" she asked.

"Not too far away, but not too close, either. Probably won't get any closer seeing as how they have a nose for people and like to stay plenty far away. It seems as if the more they get hunted the better they survive. Wily critters. And beautiful, at least from a distance. They'll probably out-survive people. I wish I were as wise as a coyote."

He rolled the poncho tighter around him and asked, "Why'd you quit teaching?"

"Oh, I guess I kind of got retired along with the school. A lot of the oil wells dried up. Well, not exactly dried up but the price of oil got so low they weren't profitable so they got capped. When the oil wells went, the people went. And when the people went, Arkansas dried up and blew away with the wind. Most of the businesses are falling on hard times. I bet by this time next year there's only a filling station and a couple of bars left."

"Arkansas dried up? You mean the whole state?"

"No, in Texas. That's where I taught last year. Arkansas, Texas."

"So, then how'd you get a job here in the Park? Lots of people apply, but only the lucky ones get a job, and only then if they know someone."

She didn't answer right away, but then came her hesitant reply. Softly, almost to herself, she said, "I'm female and I'm part Native American so I fill two of their quotas."

"I'm sorry," Pat turned his head toward her so he could hear her better. "I'm sorry but I didn't hear you. You sound like you're about a million miles away."

She stuck her chin out and said again, but now louder and defiantly, "I'm female and part Native American so I can fill two of their quotas. You know, female, like woman? Lady, dame, girl? And Native American. That's Indian to you."

Pat looked in her direction in the darkness, remembering what he could of her features. Her complexion was not what one would consider light, but certainly not a lot darker than average and almost anyone could have dark, dark brown eyes like hers. Her angular face with its prominent cheekbones might give a clue if one thought about it. Her hair, however, was what he thought would truly identify her ancestry; shoulder length, straight and so black it shined almost blue in the sun.

"You certainly don't look like what I would imagine an Indian to look like."

"And just what is an Indian supposed to look like?" she shot back.

"Don't get upset, please," he hurried to say. "I meant nothing untoward. I guess I don't really know what I would expect an Indian to look like. Or would you prefer Native American? Indian is easier to say. But I guess they'd be no different than anyone else, now that I think about it. Was your mother or your father Indian? Or both? And I'm sorry if I offended you. I wasn't thinking when I made that remark. It's just that you don't look like what I had any Indian pictured in my mind."

"Well, I am." Her voice was still aggressive, contentious and assertive, sharp and hard.

But then she softened it just a bit as she said, "They kind of made an exception for me. To qualify as Native American you need to be quarter blood and I'm only one eighth. My mother's mother's mother was an Osage."

She looked hard through the dark to see what effect this had on him, but could see nothing in his face, could not even see his face, could barely see his outline on the ground in front of her.

"Your great grand dad, too?" he asked.

"No. My mother's mother's father was a fellow named Eagon McMurty. He was a particularly devilish rascal who only stayed around long enough to get her pregnant."

She paused. "Do you want to know the rest of my lineage?"

He rolled onto his back and looked up at the stars again, waited as if to consider her offer, then answered, "Yes, as a matter of fact, I would like to know more about your family."

She was astonished and remained silent. It had not been easy, admitting this to him. Growing up, she had been instructed to and was very careful to never reveal her ancestry. No one in Mapeston, Texas ever came right out and said they were Indian, or part Indian, or any Indian. Or Mexican, either, for that matter. Or anything else except pure, unadulterated American, as if there ever were such a thing.

Finally she said, "My mother's mother's mother married and had two children when she lived with the rest of her people in Oklahoma. A lot of them died of diphtheria, and so did her children and her husband. She moved away after that but came back again after McMurty left. She had his daughter and that's all I know about her."

When she didn't continue, Pat broke the silence with, "That daughter was your grandma, then."

"Yes, she was. My mother's mother's was Anne. She married Elmer Davies when she was quite young, didn't ever get a chance at much schooling or anything. He was a gaffer in the oil fields. I guess he was a real ruffian, as well as being a bona fide lush. They had seven kids, Anne and Elmer did, five boys right away and then around ten years later another boy and finally a girl. Elmer beat his family a lot, so grandmother finally took her kids and left. Momma says the five older boys all drifted back into the oil fields with Elmer, but that she managed to keep the youngest two pretty much in line and settled down. That's why I only have one uncle."

"The girl was your mother, then," Pat said after waiting what he thought was a long time for her to continue.

"Yes, you're right. Her name was Clarinda. Her mother didn't want her to get married at all and held out for a long time. Momma was in her late thirties when she married my father. His name was Laine Matteson. She was 39 years old when I was born.

"I've only seen pictures of my father. He was a big man, tall with really wide shoulders. Momma was tall, almost as tall as I am, but the top of her head didn't even come up to his chin. She said he had blue eyes and sang all the time in a beautiful tenor voice and that he worked for the railroad."

"What happened to him, then?"

"Oh, the women in my family have all had bad luck. He left for work one day and never came back. We didn't ever see or hear from him again. Momma always told me he had an accident on the railroad and died. I don't know if that really happened or if she were just trying to explain his absence and the story stuck. She told it different ways at different times.

"Anyway, I was still in diapers at the time so I never knew him. At least she only had one kid to raise, not seven like her mother. She changed her name from Matteson back to the same name as her grandmother. That's where the Brush comes from. The name inside my mother's mother's mother's Bible is Jenny Brush. I still have it in a box along with some other things of hers that I still keep."

She had let the coat slip off as she told her story, now reached back and threw it over her head and retreated into it and the poncho liner. She could still faintly see Pat's outline through a slight opening as he turned on his side toward her.

"And you?" he ventured. She seemed much too young from the lofty vantage point of his 29 years to have ever been involved very seriously, forgetting that he had been married within weeks of his high school graduation. "Have all the men left your life, too?"

"I've only had one, if you must know. And he didn't leave me. I left him," she said, adjusting the outer layers so that her nose and mouth stuck out into the fresh air. "So are you satisfied, now?"

He was surprised, replied with only a grunt, and they both fell silent. Pat looked up at the stars again and thought about Jenny and her mother and her mother's mother and her mother's mother's mother and the men in each of their lives, wondered what happened to them and decided it made no matter, that things were now the way they were because of, or in spite of, what each had or hadn't done, and it was too late to change or rearrange or wish anything.

"And you?" came her voice from far inside the recesses of her temporary abode. "It's only fair that you tell me about you."

Pat shook his head, didn't respond for a minute, and then replied slowly, "My mother, brother and sister are the only relatives I ever knew. I never met my dad or any of my grandparents. I don't even know their names."

He stared straight up into the sky without seeing the stars or the moon or anything else for quite a while. When he turned his head and looked in Jenny's direction again, her breathing was slow and even and he could no longer see her face against the dark material of her coverings. He shivered in the dark, wished he had a liner for himself, settled onto his back and again looked up and watched the stars, so near he felt he could reach out and grab them, outlined the constellations in his mind like on some oversized blackboard and silently repeated the story behind each.

He awakened several times during the night, still shivering and trying to find some place where the rocks wouldn't poke into his ribs, cursing the cold and wondering if he would manage to get any sleep at all, then listening carefully to be sure he could still hear Jenny's even breathing. When he finally rolled out of the poncho before the first gray light of dawn, he noticed they had slept through a light dusting of snow, white and ghostly on the surrounding trees and held off the ground by the little tufts of grass.

The meadow looked like a Lilliputian wonderland.

Chapter 9

Mert drove slowly along the Tinker's Maze Park Highway. The rain shower had made the road slick, wetting the oil and worn rubber so that oncoming headlights reflected up into his eyes. His pickup was old with only a half-ton frame and it sagged to one side with his weight. He hummed along with a country tune that played softly on the radio, the fingers of one hand drumming along on the steering wheel.

The movement along the side of the road startled him, and when he saw it was a person waving their arms, he carefully applied the brakes and pulled over to the side, then backed up the thirty or so yards to the man who was running to meet the old truck. Mert leaned over and rolled down the passenger's window as the man approached.

"Something wrong?" he asked out the open window.

"My boys," the man gasped, grabbing the door handle. "My boys," he said again.

Mert opened his door and heaved his great bulk out of the seat. A car went by and splattered oily water from the road on him and the pickup. He shuffled around the truck and met the man, who by now had regained some of his breath, at the tailgate.

"What about your boys?" Mert asked.

"My boys, they're ..." the man grabbed the tailgate for support.

Mert waited for the man to pull himself together and speak again. He recognized Jake Tenolds from his encounter earlier in the day when he was loading the trash barrels from the campground at Uinga.

"My boys," the man began again, then managed to gasp, "They're gone!"

"What do you mean, pal? What do you mean, they're gone?"

"They're gone, I said. Took off on the trail and now they're gone. Oh, Jesus, I pray to God they're still alive!"

"Which trail?" Mert asked.

"That one," the man pointed.

Mert could read hardly a word of printed English but was well versed with the Park maps. Although he had never been on a trail he knew where they all went and what kind of country they went through. The trail to which the man pointed was a particularly rough one, eventually going zigzag down a steep hill covered with loose rock and shale until it finally ended at a rapids and small falls in the Cinque River about three miles from the trail head. Not a good trail for beginners or kids. Not a good trail for anyone at night.

"How long?" Mert asked.

"Oh, God, I don't know. Janey's down there still looking for them. I couldn't get her to come back for help. She's still down there looking in the dark. Oh, God, I hope she's all right!"

"How far down the trail are they?"

"It was still light. I came back to get help but I've got to get back down there. Please, Mister, would you get someone and tell them to help me find my boys?"

"I'll tell a ranger, yes. Why don't you get in the pickup and we'll both find one and explain the situation. That way he can find out a little more about where you were and how far you were down the trail and what time it was so he can have a little better idea how many more to get and where to start."

"They're down there, I tell you. They're down there in the dark. Please bring me some help. Please, Mister, I've got to go find them. Please bring some help for me!"

Mert reached out for the man but he was already moving away, his dark clothes barely visible as he ran up the road toward the trail head.

Mert called out to him but the man didn't acknowledge so Mert returned to the pickup and drove slowly, but not as slowly as before, toward the ranger station at Crossroad. When he got there, George Konneson was working the shift in place of an absent seasonal worker.

"Got a lost couple of kids," Mert said when George finished with a pair of tourists at the counter. "The Cinque Rapids trail, that's number twelve, going down off the road to the river."

"When?" George asked.

"I just came by. The guy was really in a fright. All he could say was 'My boys,' then something about his wife still looking. I tried to get him to come down here but he ran back and down the trail. Probably took a header over the side the way he was going."

George stabbed the button on the radio and explained the situation as best he could and asked for as many off-duty personnel as could be rounded up. He locked the station and followed Mert to the trail head.

Once there he asked Mert if he would stay and brief the others as they arrived. With Mert's assurance that he would, the ranger checked his back pack for matches and the first aid kit, clicked both lights on and off, checked for extra batteries, and then stuffed in a blanket from behind the seat of the pickup. He slung the pack on his back, clipped a two-way radio on his belt, waved to Mert, and headed down the trail, calling as he did so.

He didn't know that Jake Tenolds and his lost family had already been reunited and were at this moment driving, safe and warm although faster than the reduced limit in the Park allowed, south toward the campground, leaving a trail of candy wrappers and empty soda cans.

George Konneson played the beam along both sides of the trail, careful to avoid stepping on any loose shale that might send him over the edge and into the gorge. He gave another shout every minute or so, not only to try to locate the lost hikers but also to let any group that might be behind him know where he was when they arrived. The farther he got along the trail, the farther from the road and closer to the river, the less his shouts could be heard over the roaring water.

His radio crackled and he answered. Three off duty men had arrived and were following down the trail behind him. He acknowledged, and then continued.

An hour passed and George was now covered with sweat and mist from the river. His first light had begun to get weak and he switched to the second. No prints were in evidence on the trail but he didn't consider that as unusual. The rocks and shale were not good for tracking unless the quarry was heavy with hard shoes or four legged with sharp hooves.

Two hours after he had started, he reached an overlook at the bottom of the trail. He shined his light around and, seeing nothing, turned it off and radioed for the position of the others. They had made better time than he and were almost to his position. He turned around and could see the beams of their lights.

A full moon was shining and he could see farther than he had expected back into the trees. It glinted off the water as it rushed over the boulders, caught the mist and created an almost fog like appearance that seemed to float over the river. It was a beautiful sight but spoiled by the thought of the lost little hikers. An image of his own kids huddled back in the trees somewhere crept into his head. He would kill to find them, he knew that, and he would do almost the same for these.

The three off duty rangers joined him on the overlook.

"What do you propose?" George asked.

"Trails steep," they all agreed.

"Can't fan out too far."

"I don't see how a couple of kids could get off this trail unless they just took off and left it."

"It's well marked and the trail is fairly evident, even to a novice."

George listened to them all, looked down from the overlook to the river and asked, "Do you think they went in the river?"

"If they did, it won't be any good till morning." The three men waited for George to speak.

"Let's start back," he finally said, after trying to think of all the possible places two kids could get in trouble along the trail. "Keep your eyes on the ground, be aware of any place the trail looks like it might go somewhere else, any place there's a wash out or a deer trail or anything else a kid might be likely to take. If we don't find them by the time we get back, we'll have to call for more help. Spread out and see what we can find."

He started back up the trail, the three extras behind him. They all used a light except George. He had excellent night vision and kept far enough ahead of them that their torches didn't bother his eyes.

About half way back, he noticed a place that looked slightly like a side trail. It wasn't much but might be mistaken by a couple of kids keen to explore. He waited until the next person caught up with him.

"I'll follow this for a ways. You stay here until the rest catch up. Tell them where I've gone. Then keep going up the trail but watch for any other place else like this. Keep your eyes on the ground and your ears to the radio. Let me know if anything turns up."

He pressed his transmit button twice to make sure he could hear the static in the other's receiver, listened while the other did the same, and then swung off the trail and onto the barely visible track.

The moon was now high in the sky and in full brilliance, lighting the gorge with an eerie, luminous glow. George picked his way carefully over the rocks, passing through occasional dark groups of trees that grew on small, level shelves on the side. He radioed twice for locations and progress.

An especially large boulder blocked the trail and he looked on both sides for the easiest way around before deciding to climb up. This he did, finally found a handhold on the boulder's top and hoisted himself over. He straightened up with surprise at the sight that met him. A sharp breath escaped him and he felt the adrenaline pumping out to his extremities. Then he pressed his transmit button twice and spoke into the mouthpiece.

"Konneson here. Any reports of a car going over the edge?"

His speaker filled with static twice and then, "Lipps here. No sir. Nothing on any lost cars. No visuals. Nothing written. No one's reported any skid marks or busted rails that I know of."

"Well, we seem to have one here. Can't be sure what it is except a mess but I'm pretty certain it's a car. Dark color, probably pretty good size."

He stood on the rock and looked at the twisted metal that rested against the other side. The front glass gave no reflection in the moon and he assumed it had been broken out, probably when the top had gotten smashed down. The interior was even darker than the outside. He couldn't see in at all from where he stood.

"Need any assistance there?" came from his receiver. "I'm almost back to where you left the trail."

"No need. I'll see what it is and come back. I don't think any kids could get over this rock, anyway. Any luck on your end?"

"No sir. Anyone else?"

"Sweeny here. Nothing."

"Tierney here with a negative."

George lowered himself to a sitting position with his legs out front, slid off the top of the boulder and landed on the car's mangled hood before jumping carefully to the ground. He retrieved the flashlight from the side pocket of his back pack and shined it at the front smashed against the rock, then at the wheels and finally at the back of the car.

"It's a Lincoln," he said into the radio, "dark colored, black I think," then played the light back along the side and into the interior.

"Aiey!" he jumped and felt the prickles form on his neck.

Jammed between the steering wheel and the back of the seat, the head angled over where it met the top of the car, was a person, quite still, with small, dark patches of blood dried on the forehead, cheeks and chin.

He almost shouted into the transmitter. "Get your butt over here, Lipps. We've got a driver!"

Chapter 10

The potato bunker made use of a natural hollow near the bottom of the mountain, but still high off the floor of the valley. Walt's grandfather had built an oak and tin frame and then pushed the light, native sand up to form the sides, throwing in bags of dry cement as he did so. Over the years, the whole had become one massive cave, seemingly impenetrable except through the huge opening in the east side. He had stored one small crop in it and then never raised another potato.

After he returned from Viet Nam, Pat often woke during the night, partly from the pain in his legs, partly from the memories in his head. One day, Walt showed up with a brand new, four foot, galvanized stock tank and rolled it into the back of the potato bunker. He cannibalized old pipes and tubing, dug an old cast-iron station heater out of a dump and traded a pair of fender mount mirrors for a shallow well jet pump. Together, he and Pat cleaned the pipe, welded the cracks in the station heater, took apart and rebuilt the pump.

They wound the tubing around and around and around the heater, ran pipes from the tank to the pump to the tubing and back to the tank. When they finished, they had the only whirlpool/hot tub/spa in the valley. "Kind of like going back to the womb," Walt would say as he roused Pat for morning chores.

After Walt died Pat found the memories too strong in the house and wandered aimlessly into the bunker. He slept on the rocky floor, sat on wooden crates stored there since long before his time, carried water in buckets from the well, cooked in a black iron pot heated with a propane weeder, and read by the light of a kerosene lantern.

As the summer ended, he decided he would over winter in the comparative warmth of the bunker. He buried the electric lines from the entrance pole and hauled in load after load of dirt, as the locals called the stuff they walked on outside. Actually it was sand, fine, finer and finest, with hardly a hint of the organic matter necessary to classify it as real dirt. He moved the stock tank farther to the back and piled this so-called dirt to within a half foot of the top, burying the envisioned bathroom supply and drain lines as he did so. A concrete and sandstone riser was constructed for the station heater after which he reconnected the tank, wrapped more tubing around it and connected this to a new hot water supply tank. The water closet, sink and shower he cannibalized from the bathroom in the house and stood them along an imaginary wall. Drain lines ran along the side of the bunker and, outside, the short distance to the septic tank. The supply lines, however, confounded him since it was quite a distance to the well. So he carried water in buckets from the house. Every trip he made a silent vow to never do it again.

As the weather turned steadily colder, he brought in thin limestone rocks from the lower reaches of the Cinque River. These were mortared together to form two very rough sides of a room with the galvanized tank at the center. These two walls extended only a bit higher than its ceiling rather than completely to the top of the bunker. The open space above he planned to eventually use as another room and built a steep stairway, again from stone, up to it.

Once the bathroom was finished, he extended a similarly constructed retaining wall, two feet high, for a raised alcove across the rest of the back. He scrounged some big, really heavy cast iron plates and welded them together for a fireplace liner. A section of twelve inch auger tubing was enclosed in the back wall of the alcove with more of the limestone to form the chimney.

Each time he carried another bucket from the house he thought about the water supply situation. He finally erected an angle iron frame close to the limestone wall that enclosed his bathroom and begged the workings of a drill from the local plumber and well wizard.

Bit by bit, he managed to drill down through the rocks and sand. At seventy feet, the depth of the windmill, and with a dry hole he almost gave up. Six days and fifty feet later he hit a fairly decent supply. It only ran four gallons a minute but the water was cold, potable, and, although bitter, it smelled good, not full of sulfur like most of the wells on the valley floor, especially the supply in Polton.

Sometime after Christmas, he cranked up Walt's old, battered D7 and moved in enough boulders, as big as the machine could manage, to build a wall and enclose the back third of the bunker. Although he chose the boulders carefully, there were still gaps. These he filled with increasingly smaller stones held in place with mud from the alkali flats north of Polton.

Exactly in the center of this wall he created a passageway, three feet wide, its rounded top eight feet high at the center. This was lined with stones softer than the native stone in the walls, medium brown in color, almost square, smooth and flat on the exposed side, gotten from a pile at the end of the ranch road close to the highway, dumped there by some forgotten person for some forgotten reason.

Spring came and he raised the passageway floor a step and covered it with paving bricks trucked in one pickup load at a time from Capital where they had torn up the old streets in favor of asphalt, thereby eliminating any personality they might have ever had. An old shipping pallet was leaned up against this portal to keep out unwanted visitors, mainly desert vermin and varmints.

More of Capital's paving bricks covered the floor of both the bathroom and the raised alcove. He placed them carefully on a bed of sand and dry concrete, spent quite a lot of time arranging and rearranging them to fit with the least amount of space between them and then poured water and thin mortar into the remaining cracks.

When the Polton Community Building was razed that summer he carefully removed the maple floor boards from the gymnasium, the movie screen from the stage, four of the better sets of wooden theater seats, and, as an afterthought, the old player piano, badly out of tune and missing some strings but with a good sound board and lots of possibilities. The maple he used to cover the floor of the main room, started in the center and laid it to form a diamond pattern rather than in parallel rows like the floor from which it had been taken, carefully measuring and fitting, removing and sanding and refitting until each piece butted perfectly against its neighbor. When it finally met with his satisfaction he covered the entire floor with NuBall HydroGym Wood Floor Finish, taken from a closet the day before the building was reduced to a pile of rubble.

He laid the NuBall on thick, several coats, and used three five-gallon buckets in the process. He used another five-gallon bucket to put a shiny finish on the bricks in the alcove and bathroom, getting two thick coats from the one bucket.

He used #9 galvanized wire to hang the theater screen down from the ceiling near the wall opposite the alcove and bathroom, placed the piano off to one side, as if waiting for the player to appear for an old silent movie, and arranged and bolted the theater seats to the floor so they faced the screen in two short rows with a small center aisle. He smiled to himself as he did this, wondering who would ever sit there. Probably no one, but it pleased him to have the arrangement. He, at least, enjoyed sitting in them.

When he salvaged an ancient wood-burning kitchen stove, he discovered it was so large that it wouldn't fit through the passageway and so, again using the old D7, he built another wall, similar to the first, with the giant piece of old iron inside.

The shipping crate door had been a nuisance, if not just downright impossible to use, so he built the opening in this wall square, again lined it with the same brown stones used to frame the passageway in the first wall he had built. Three huge, black, iron hinges were placed as the wall went up, their support wings going back into the granite and concrete a full four feet. On these he swung a very thick, very heavy, solid door fashioned from the parts of a shaker table taken from one of the abandoned mining operations farther up the valley. The exposed hinge wings were so large they extended past the opposite side of the door so he torched them off, ground the ends smooth, and then used the extra pieces to form plates across the outside. This whole affair was bolted together with 7/8-14 steel bolts, again salvaged from the shaker. These bolts he cut off several threads past the end of the nut on the inside, and then mushroomed each with a heavy ball peen hammer until smooth.

He bent and welded keepers from 3" by 1/4" steel straps, cemented them into the stone on each side of the door, and then bolted a similar pair to the door itself. An oak 4x6 completed the locking apparatus. He never felt the need for it and so it had always rested against the wall near the door.

The remainder of the paving bricks was insufficient to cover the entire kitchen and, by this time, Capital had given away their complete supply, so he used most of his remaining supply to build a floor under the old stove and a threshold under the front door. After viewing the size of the remaining pile with a judicious eye, he laid one row completely around the kitchen, carefully fitting each brick to match the uneven edges. Then he added another row, and kept adding more rows around the room until the bricks ran out. He used no concrete, merely smoothed the sand beneath them and fitted them together as best he could. He hauled in almost pure white sand from the dunes outside Junction and trickled it between the bricks. With the bricks in place, he placed some large, flat stones in the center, and then kept hauling in more and more of the white sand until the floor of the room was filled to the same level as the bricks around the outside.

All in all, the whole place seemed more like some strange medieval castle than any sort of occupied home. Pat was, however, comfortable here and the work, which by now had spread over a complete year, had been good for his psyche. Days he worked the ranch and built his house. Nights he soaked in the whirlpool. He hardly noticed the time and thought less and less of Walt and his other nightmares. His only visitor had been Mandy on the day he had considered the project officially finished. He was generally content to leave it that way, especially since he had to reset all the bricks she walked on in her excursion.

Now, he sat in a dog-eared, overstuffed chair in the back room of the bunker, his feet up on one of a seemingly endless supply of wooden boxes. A large, heavy, professional slide projector, tucked into a niche halfway up the limestone wall, whirred softly and threw a beam of light onto the huge screen across the room.

He sat, not particularly looking at the last slide in the set, and thought about the day before. He and Jenny had walked as far as Black Lake together. She seemed to have a somewhat friendlier attitude than in their previous encounters. If not friendlier, then at least tolerable. This, he decided, he liked. Much better than the antagonism he had felt when she had first come out to see him on Russell's behalf.

When the first grey light of dawn appeared he rolled out of the cold, stiff poncho and lit the small stove to make coffee.

"Smells good," she had said from the warmth of her temporary home.

Pat smiled at her, trying hard to hide the shakes and shivers that coursed along his limbs and made his abdomen tighten against his will.

She stood up and held out the heavy coat, but kept the liner tightly wrapped around her.

"Here, it looks like you need this."

He put it on and turned the collar up against the morning cold.

She retreated, said, "I thought about waking you up last night but you were snoring so I thought you must have been in a very deep sleep and so I didn't disturb you."

Pat smiled wordlessly over at her, unaware that he snored and wondering if it were really so, then busied himself with extracting some beef from his pack. She declined the peanut butter, he smeared his thick and wrapped it in a piece of cheese before biting off a piece to chew while he caught and saddled Mandy.

"You'll be late for work this morning," he said as he gathered up and bundled his supplies.

"Don't have to be in 'till noon," came her reply. Actually, she had planned to go in earlier than the 12:00 penciled in for her on the work calendar. It was very late summer and a couple of extra hours to let them know she really cared for the job certainly wouldn't hurt her chances for extended employment.

She insisted that she could make it back to her car without his help. He insisted she stay wrapped in his liner and that he accompany her to get it back. She finally accepted a leg up and they started down the trail toward Black Lake, only three kilometers down the canyon but more than twice that by the twisting, turning trail.

When the sun peeked over the mountain, she slid off the horse's back. They walked slowly, being careful to look down and not at the other person. He finally asked why she was at the boulder field in the rain. She didn't respond.

Neither spoke as they negotiated a switchback in the trail, she going first, still wrapped in the poncho liner, then Pat leading the mare, the coat now draped over the saddle.

"I saw you," she said, finally. "I saw you looking at the drop off. I didn't believe you. None of us really believed you. Russell said you were, um, unreliable. Not his exact choice of words."

"I can imagine," Pat grunted.

"So I thought I'd do some maintenance up on the trail to see if you ever came back to look at it. I was there all afternoon, rearranging the rocks and clearing brush, but you surprised me. I thought you'd come up the trail and instead you came down from over the top. Anyway, I was trying to get someplace where you wouldn't see me. My hat blew off and over the edge. I thought you'd see that even if you didn't see me."

He smiled at the thought of her snatching at the hat as it went sailing over the edge of the cliff, knew the helpless feeling as it moved with the wind just out of reach, over and down.

"So you watched while I checked out the rocks?"

"I wanted to believe you. You seemed to be honest in your assessment of the situation, the location, etc. Not fishy like if you had made it up. But I wasn't sure. Maybe you were just slick."

"And what did you see?"

"Well, I guess I would have to say you were looking for something. And a person who looks that close is probably pretty sure there's something there to be seen. So maybe there really was a body, and all that other stuff you said. I guess that maybe I do believe you. At least, more now than I did."

"Did you stay on the trail in the rain?"

"Yeah. There was really no place else to go. I just squatted down behind a bunch of juniper bushes when you passed the first time. You weren't really looking around, just walking with your head down. I guessed then that you were looking for something."

"You guessed correct. I was looking, all right, but I wasn't finding."

Jenny thought about this a minute, shot a quick sideways glance at him before she went on.

"Anyway, I got down behind the same bush during the storm. Not exactly the driest place to be. Probably not the safest, either. The lightening was scary! Anyway, after the rain I got back on the trail to see if you would come back to the boulder field and look some more. Which you did."

"Well," he said, "I didn't really look too hard after the rain. Anything that was there would have been washed away. But I did hear some stones falling down from that trail up there. That's how I knew someone was up there. Most four-legged critters are usually too careful to broadcast their whereabouts."

He stopped. "Tell me just what you saw." When she had stopped and turned around he said, "Exactly, I mean."

"Why?" she asked.

"Because there was someone up there that afternoon and I want to know what they saw. There were stones falling then, too. I bet whoever it was followed me and then swiped my camera. I had taken a couple pictures there and they might have wanted to get rid of anything permanent."

Jenny hesitated. "You think the guy was pushed, don't you? Now that's ripe! That's really good! Murder in Tinker's Maze Park! Trouble is, no one thinks so except you. No one else even thinks there was ever a body. Not Botts, not Jones, not K, not anybody."

"You don't think so?"

"OK, then, no one thinks so except you and, well, I guess, me. But I would like to see something a bit more positive. There should have been a body there if you really saw one, you know? They don't usually get up and move away."

"How about pictures? Would you believe it if I showed you some pictures?"

"Yes. Probably," she sounded a little unsure of herself. "But they could be, you know, like, doctored, too," she added after a moment's thought.

"Who's Jones?" he wanted to know.

"Huh?"

"You mentioned a Jones. Who's he?"

"Oh, him. He runs the Park, top honcho. Kind of a strange duck but he's really efficient. I guess he gets a lot of things done that none of his predecessors could. Came in early last year and really got the place going again. I've been told it was pretty much in rack and ruin before he got here."

"And K?" Of the three names mentioned, Botts was the only one he knew.

"Supervisor. The K stands for Konneson. Great guy. He'd give you the shirt off his back if you needed it. Cover for you when you're late. Day off if you partied too hard. He's what makes the people there tick."

She paused and waited, but Pat appeared to be paying no attention to her. Finally she asked, "So now what do we do? I could ask K but he's on pretty good terms with Russell. Even turns his back when Russell nails a deer or elk inside the Park."

Pat snorted, "Even you know that no hunting ever occurs inside the Park."

He didn't look at her so couldn't see the red creeping up around her ears.

"No," he continued after a minute. "I'd feel better if Russell just laughed at me. You shouldn't have to put up with that. Just let it drop, OK? Go on about your business, whatever that may be."

He thought a minute, readjusted his hold on the reins, and said, "So tell me about what Russell is doing. Is he just going to sit around and do nothing?"

"Well, I don't know all the ins and outs of law enforcement, but no, I don't think he can do that, at least not completely. You have a report filed and on record. And if you recall, you wouldn't sign any retraction or anything. Boy, did that chap Russell's hide!" She couldn't quite keep the satisfied tone out of her voice as she said that, and paused to chuckle before going on. "So I guess he has to at least keep it on some sort of active status for a little while. Besides," she smiled and added gaily, "Jones has me in there to keep him honest."

"Just what is your job," he wondered. "I thought you were a ranger. Then I thought you were hooked up with Botts, and now I don't really know what I think you do."

"Oh, I'm just a seasonal worker. You know, trail guide and maintenance, or sometimes I work in the Visitor's Center or at one of the gates handing out passes. Sometimes I have to work clean up if Ruthy and her bunch get behind. But it's getting toward the end of summer and so there's fewer people coming into the Park. There's too much help right now so I was kind of extra baggage until this came up. I was told to help Russell, to keep J and K on top of things, kind of like a go between. Liaison, I guess maybe you'd call it. That'll probably change by the time I get to work, though."

They had come to the boulder field and stopped. Each looked toward the spot where Pat had seen the body, and then, almost in unison, they lifted their eyes toward the trail above.

"It's not bad from down here," he said, after a moment.

"No, it isn't," she agreed. "Much less intimidating from here than up there."

Pat kept looking at the higher trail, now almost yellow with the soft morning sun and said, "You haven't told me what you saw from up there."

"OK. Well, let's see ... I couldn't see much except when you were on the trail. That's pretty easy to see from up there if you get close to the edge."

"You could see us when we started back down the trail?"

"Sure could, until it started to rain. You can see quite a few different little parts of the trail from up there. I think you might be able to see Black Lake, even, if you know where to look. And you can see the electric lines, the old slide, the creek... well maybe not see the creek but you can surely hear it. You can see a lot from up there. It's higher than most of the trees below it. But I didn't really see anything much when I was watching you. I had to get very close to the edge when you walked out on the boulders. In fact, I had to get down on all fours to see over the edge when you stopped by that big boulder."

Pat tried to think of something he could ask that was appropriate and to the point, but didn't know what he wanted to drive at so he just moved on. When they got opposite the place where he had spotted her hat he handed her the reins and retrieved it.

When he got back she asked, "What did you pick up over there?"

"Your hat, of course."

"No, no. When I was watching you, I mean. You found something just before it rained. You got down on your hands and knees and looked at it before you picked it up."

She had her hat on now and looked quite different with it sitting atop her head. It hid most of her face and he could no longer be sure of her expressions. Only her hair seemed more visible, blacker than ever and very wild and unkempt after the soaking. She pushed it back under her hat and looked at him, expecting a reply.

Pat decided she was only asking out of curiosity and so extracted the lighter wrapped in his shirt tail from his pocket and held it up. She looked but made no move to take it.

"Zippo, I'd guess. Lots of the guys overseas had ones similar to it. I don't suppose it'll amount to much of anything but it's the only thing I could find. What do you propose I do with it?"

She took it then, holding it in the torn cloth, and examined it. She seemed to look intently at the emblem, turned it on its side to see it in profile, turned it back to the front, engrossed in the figure.

"Well, I don't really know. A good detective would check it for fingerprints. At least, Sherlock Holmes would, I'd think," and she handed it back. "What's the design on it?"

"I don't know what it is. I thought you might know. Is it some sort of Park insignia?"

"No," she answered. "It doesn't look like something a Park would use. They seem to tend more toward trees or flowers, maybe a bear or lion or something like that on occasion. But they don't usually show anything in any position like that. Parks usually show how they think they really look, you know, like a side view or just the head. This ... eagle, is it? ... is more stylized, almost brutal, you know? And those things going across its breast. What are they, do you suppose? They kind of look like arrows in a quiver, don't they?"

"Yeah, they do at that. I think you're probably right about the Park angle. Too severe. Anyway, I'd better get this to an official. I was thinking about prints but they're probably all wiped off, jiggling around in my pocket and all. Maybe you'd better take it down to Russell. Or on second thought, maybe you'd better give it to one of his deputies. Russell'd probably keep it, think you were giving it to him personally seeing as how he figures himself as quite the Casanova."

"Yeah, I could give it to Billy," she thought out loud. "He's not real bright, but he is pretty straight. At least he wouldn't lose it. Not right away, anyway."

He held it out to her.

"Can you come around tomorrow and look at those pictures? They'll be finished by then. No doctoring, I promise. But it does take a while to get them processed."

Jenny listed mentally the things she had to do the next day. "Well, I guess I could probably do that. Maybe not tomorrow morning, or maybe not even tomorrow depending on how things go, but either then or the next day. That is, if you really don't mind the intrusion."

"No. No, I don't mind. I really would like you to have a look at them, see if you think the same as I'm thinking."

They continued back down the trail, walking in silence, each listening for the calls of any mountain critters but hearing only their footsteps in the quiet mountain air. As they rounded another switch back she asked, "Why does Russell dislike you?"

He chuckled. "I think dislike might be an understatement."

She didn't say anything, kept walking and waiting for him to continue, but that was the last he said other than to make small attempts at light conversation. They lingered a while by the lake across from the red topped lodge, watched a gull soar easily over the water, and finally, as they had planned the previous evening, she continued one way and he went back the other.

Chapter 11

Russell Botts' upper body was once very powerful. He had spent a fair amount of time over the years lifting weights and doing calisthenics, all aimed at developing his chest, back, arms, and neck. As he grew older, however, he lifted weights less and drank more. His once powerful upper body was becoming not smaller but softer so that certain parts tended to jiggle when he moved, and his belt buckle sometimes looked as if it were the only thing holding up that part of his anatomy directly above.

He invariably wore a half size too small short sleeved shirts, even in the coldest days of winter, and rolled them up one tuck to emphasize his large and still powerful arms. The front he left unbuttoned as far as officially prudent with never an undershirt to hide the abundant, red, curly hair that covered his chest. He was proud of any part of his body above the waist, his face being no exception, and he rarely failed to at least glance in every mirror or window glass he happened to pass.

But, while his torso had developed into something of which he was still very proud, his legs were relatively short and not a great deal more than average in strength. When he walked, this became very apparent since he rolled his upper body back and forth, his legs seeming not to bend very far, as if they were continually stiff. And he was bowlegged. That and his rigid walk kept the outer edge of his western style riding boots worn off and this only served to exacerbate his peculiar gait.

Jenny wasn't exactly excited about climbing the Timini again, but kept a poker face when he asked her to go. She was able to easily keep ahead of him as they started the climb. He didn't mind and made no attempt to get any closer. He was careful to get no farther behind, either. Her moving body filled his mind and he imagined where the legs beneath her official Park shorts ended. He wouldn't have been able to explain anything about Black Lake after they had passed his gaze was so intent.

Once they started climbing, she was much quicker and so he called for her to slow down. She waited on a rock beside the trail until he arrived, then stood to leave. She didn't, however, because Russell held up his hand and collapsed on the rock, breathing heavily at the exertion of climbing through the thin air.

"How much farther?" he asked between deep, heavy breaths.

"We're probably just over halfway there," she replied, then took another drink from her plastic water bottle.

Russell looked at it. He hadn't bothered carrying anything with him except his revolver in an ornately decorated leather holster and its matching belt. There were twenty-six shells for the revolver strategically placed in loops around the belt. He always kept two or three loops empty, rearranging them from time to time, so that it looked used. Also slid onto the belt and around to the back was a leather holder for handcuffs and, on the left side, a black, shiny, wicked looking night stick with a thick leather thong hanging from the top of the handle. Official issue, but he had bored a hole in the end opposite the handle and filled it with lead.

Jenny saw him look at the water but ignored it, capped the bottle, and put it back in the side pocket, tightening the drawstring when she was done. She leaned the pack against the rock and looked around for identifiable animals but found only chipmunks and robber jays.

When the Deputy sounded like his breathing was more natural, she slid into her pack and started to walk. Russell was up quickly and followed closely. When they started to climb, he was perfectly situated. He liked following women up stairs. He also liked to help them out of cars or up out of chairs, especially when they wore short skirts. He imagined their faces on the centerfolds he had cut out of magazines and pinned to the walls in the back room of his office.

When they came to an extra steep slope and Jenny bent over for a handhold he placed a hand on each of her buttocks and gave her a push up. She went ahead as if shot from a cannon. He couldn't see the red that began to creep up her neck or the flared nostrils or the flash of anger in her eyes. And then he couldn't manage to keep up with her, in fact lost her on several turns and came lumbering and panting up to the boulder field several minutes after she arrived.

"Over here," she said from the big rock with the tree growing out of the crack in it.

"Just a minute," he croaked, his throat dehydrated from the dry mountain air.

She was still irate and refused to give him any chance to sit.

"This is where Mr. Ivers found the body. He came back and stood right in front of this rock. That's where he found the cigarette lighter. It probably fell out of the man's pocket. That was before the rain, though. Everything is probably all washed away by now. Even if there were tracks or anything else here, they probably got washed away in the rain."

Russell was climbing carefully over the boulders toward her. A hiker, the first they had seen, hailed them from the trail above so he stopped to wave and catch his breath. He only started to move again when the man came around the switchback at the far end of the boulder field.

"You're a sharp kid," he said to her when he got close.

She walked around to the far side of the boulder and pretended to be looking at the ground. She didn't trust him, trusted him less now than the first time she had walked into his office and he had shown her the red, highly glossed walking cane made from a bull's penis.

"Know what this is?" he had asked and when she didn't answer had said "It's the pecker off the bull I'm eating for supper tonight. Haa, haa, haa. You like it?"

She hadn't taken the offered appendage and he continued, "Too bad he can't use it anymore. You see, I'm his muscle from now on. He's part of me. He's my past and I'm his future. You get my gist, there, Honey?"

She shuddered as she remembered his laugh at the end of the one-sided conversation. She had been too dumbstruck to reply. Lecherous old bastard, she thought.

"Well, not much here," Russell said from his side of the boulder. "I don't think he has any pictures, no matter what he told you. It would be impossible to get a body down the trail in time to whack Asshole on the head. I wonder who he had pose for him. One of his drinking buddies, probably. Most of 'em'd kill to get another snort. Come here and show me where he says he found that lighter, would you? Probably one of theirs, but show me anyway. "

Jenny stayed on her side of the boulder.

"Right between your feet," then to herself 'Asshole'. "Look between the rocks. Sometimes there's sand where they get splintered off in the winter. That's where he found it."

"I'm surprised he didn't keep it," Russell said from the position he had taken to inspect the space between the smaller rocks. There was sand between a few of them and it was all very smooth except for the tiny tracks left by the mice that lived in the cracks and crevices of the jumble of rocks. He stood up and looked at Jenny as she climbed farther up the cliff.

"Where're you going?" he called.

"Well, maybe the person bounced or rolled or something so I'm looking to see if he did or if he just landed there first."

"If you find anything, don't touch it. I've got a couple specimen bags in my pocket we can put anything in you find. I wish Asshole hadn't picked up that lighter. He wouldn't know a piece of evidence if it crawled up his pants and bit him in the crotch."

Russell had started around the boulder, then squinted at the ground as Jenny started back down, relieved that he wouldn't have to go any farther. Not wanting her to know this, he bent and inspected the rocks at the base of the boulder.

"Nothing there," she said as she got closer. "I think whoever it was just fell. That or they got pushed off the trail up there. This is about where they would land."

Russell continued her train of thought, completely missing her reference to the push.

"Probably wouldn't bounce any too much. You get my gist, Honey? Muscle and bone aren't real accommodating in that respect. They just splat in a heap when they land, blood and stuff all over. Sometimes their eyes get pushed out by the force. I wonder if any teeth got knocked out."

He finished and looked up to see if the words had any effect on her. She had continued past and was standing on the other side of the boulder.

"Look," she said.

"What is it?" he asked, coming around to the lower side.

"I'm not sure," she answered, then stooped to examine it closer and said, "It's a quarter."

Russell bent over, his eyes looking to see if there was any possibility of a quick glance down the front of her shirt, then spotted the coin and picked it up.

"So it is."

He held it up to the sun, examined the edges to see if it was, perhaps, one of the earlier minted quarters that were all silver.

"Do you think that might be a piece of evidence?" she asked.

"Of course, sure, it might be," his voice lowered, the tone gruff. He fished a plastic bag from his back pocket and dropped the coin in, then pressed the zip-lock top shut.

While he was doing this Jenny started skipping down over the boulders toward the trail. He followed at a careful pace.

"So what happened to the body?" he asked when they were both on the trail again.

They paused their conversation as a group of hikers passed. One stopped to ask Jenny how much farther to the top and whether there was anything worth their time when they got there. She told them the approximate distance, explained the features they would pass, then ended by saying the beauty of the walk was worth their time, but that no, there was nothing spectacular when they reached the end of the trail, that they would just have to turn around and come back down the same way they went up unless they wanted to take the time to find the Crest Trail, an especially demanding hike and none of the group looked as if they were prepared for such a rigorous stroll. Or they could go cross country. If they did that, they would need an overnight permit.

The hikers conversed among themselves, thanked her, then continued up the trail, laughing and shouting as they went. Comments about the officer needing a trail guide to find his way floated back as they rounded the switchback.

"I say, now, tell me just what did happen to the body up there? That is, assuming there ever was one." Russell said again, looking at the boulder.

"Don't know," Jenny replied.

She thought of all the possible ways a body could be removed from the spot. Not many, when you thought about it. No motorized vehicles were allowed here and it would be a long way to carry a package as limp and unwieldy as a body would certainly be. Bury it, maybe? The ground was rocky and the smell would give away any shallow grave. Or maybe it had just been dragged into the trees and left for the bears and coyotes. But even then parts would probably show up, not to mention the smell, again.

Besides, if the person had really followed Pat and stolen his camera, then why would they go back and get rid of a body and risk being caught? After all, he would probably go to the authorities immediately and there would be officials running all over the place. Not that it happened that way. Russell had hooted when Pat had told his story, had spent at least an hour grilling him before he had even bothered asking the Park Service to have the area scouted. That would leave plenty of time.

But then, what about the Lincoln? Where was it? Russell and a couple of the county police had checked all the hotels and motels in East Gate and Junction, all the rooms and campgrounds. She had checked the concessionaire at Crossroad and all the campgrounds and cabins inside the Park. Neither of them found a black Lincoln nor any missing person. They found nothing out of the ordinary at all.

"Let's get back," Russell said, turning. "There's nothing here for us. Just one more dead end. Just like Asshole's one more dead end."

"I'll be along," Jenny said, then spent what she thought was enough time searching the rocks for Russell to get far enough ahead that she wouldn't have to see him unless he waited for her at the car-park. When the hikers came back down, she attached herself to them for added assurance.

As they crossed Deer Run, she could see Russell standing beside his white, official Ford, talking on the radio. He climbed into his car as they approached, turned on the flashing lights, and pulled out onto the road with a squeal of tires. The siren faded away as he disappeared north, up the Tinker's Maze Park Highway toward Crossroad.

Chapter 12

Pat had fallen asleep in the chair, the projector fan humming quietly as it threw the last picture against the screen. Thinking was heavy business, especially remembering things that he didn't really want to dredge up again. Sleep helped get things back into their proper nooks and crannies, back into their respective cages where he normally kept them locked tight and well under control.

His eyes opened suddenly and, without moving any other part of his body or changing the rhythm of his breathing, he looked around to be sure of his surroundings, listened intently. He then took a deep breath and picked up the remote from the floor where it had dropped, changed the reverse switch, and went through the slides backwards.

There were two trays of them, all five rolls that he had taken during his day in the Park. He had gone through them once while thinking over the events of the previous night, but had not paid particular attention to them. Now he sat up straighter and made mental notes of the details.

The pictures of the body made him shiver, but he looked at every one very carefully, spending almost a full five minutes on each. Four of them were from the front of the body and the head was turned in his direction. He could see about three-fourths of the face above the rocks upon which it lay. There were no distinguishing marks; no beard, no scars, no hint of any identification in the clothes, other than the fact they weren't standard hiker fare.

Only one slide showed the trail above the body. This he scanned with extra attention but to no avail. It was hard to even tell there was a trail in the picture. All in all it was a very dull, depressing slide.

He continued back, going through the day in reverse order. There was Black Lake, not as good as the last picture on the roll. The old cabin by the trail head was not too bad but not worthy of any attempt at publishing. There were several of the mountains with the lake and concessionaire at Crossroad in the foreground. Another of a small child eating an ice cream cone and having more on his face than in his mouth. There was one of a dog leaping to catch a Frisbee. Another of a pair of maneuverable kites sailing over the lake, their respective pilots digging their heels in the soft sand of the beach and struggling to keep from being pulled into the water by the strong wind that whirled out and over the lake.

He had caught a buck elk unaware and got several snaps of the creature before it went bounding off.

The waterfall pictures were disappointing, as usual.

Earlier in the day he had taken a ranger stroll, exposing the first two rolls of film. There were the usual pictures of falling trees and shimmering lakes, old mining equipment rusting away to oblivion, the streams and waterfalls, trails leading through the trees to some unseen place, sparkles of dew on juniper berries, a Robber Jay, waste paper in the middle of a beautiful meadow of red and blue and yellow flowers.

Then there were the unusual. They had surprised a porcupine and he had an excellent close up of the head and eyes, as well as several from a farther distance. A ptarmigan had put on a display for them, stopping in the trail as if confused and prancing about for almost a full minute. The Monks Hood, Purple Gentian and Indian Paint Brush were luxuriant. An Indian Pipe stood stark in the sun against an old, black, rotting stump. There was a very fine picture of a tiny seedling growing back at the base of a charred stump left over from the wildfire of two years ago. He liked pictures of flowers the best and he marked them mentally to be separated out for possible future use.

Throughout the stroll he had taken pictures of the ranger guide and some of the crowd. These he flipped through rather fast since he was not particularly interested in portraiture, until he got to the last picture on the first roll. There, standing behind the ranger, grinning widely at something he had evidently just heard, was the very person he had seen lying on the rocks in the pictures on the last roll.

Pat sat straight up and looked intently at the head and shoulders, the only part of the person he could see because of the people crowded around the ranger, all of them looking at something he had probably planted there to make himself seem knowledgeable.

It was him, all right, and he had his hand on the arm of the lady next to him, probably a wife or, more likely, a girl friend since marriage often tends to dampen some of the public display of affection.

He adjusted the focus, tilted his head left, then right, trying to get a better view of the woman. Hair jet black and short, put up in a tight, hard curl all over. He remembered Jenny's hair, also black, but naturally, and soft and shiny when the sun hit it just so. This was not her head. The hair was too short, the face too long, the eyes too light and the skin too pale.

"Well, well," he mused. "And what have we here?"

He went through all of the crowd pictures again, scanning each for another view of the two. He was disappointed but spent most of the evening flipping between the pictures of the body and pictures of the crowd, making sure that they were, indeed, one and the same person, searching for other glimpses of what he was sure was the murdered man.

Chapter 13

Suzanne folded the dust cover neatly over the typewriter, checked her desk again to be sure everything was tidy, pushed her chair under it so that each end of the back lightly touched the front of the desk. With everything in order she knocked twice on the inner door.

"Good-afternoon, Mr. Jones," she said through the closed door.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Lemp," came the muffled reply.

Inside, David Jones was smoking his final cigarette of the day. He allowed himself precisely three, one to start his day at the office, one immediately after dinner, and one to end the working day. Each he smoked only until it was half gone, then neatly severed the end so that no smoke persisted when he had finished. He didn't like the smell of the cigarettes burning in an ashtray, didn't even like the smell once they had reached the halfway point and he worried that the added tar, nicotine and other harmful elements of the tobacco plant that collected in the remainder were harmful to his health.

He had once considered his smoking a weakness and so resolved to stop. But then he had heard from a veteran about the natives of Southeast Asia, working men who smoked one small pipe full of very strong tobacco after the noon meal and lived to be a hundred or more and worked every day of their lives. So he had rearranged his thoughts and now considered himself more strong willed for smoking a limited number each day rather than quitting altogether.

On his desk was a report of the automobile found Saturday evening by George Konneson and the other volunteers. He had reprimanded George about not staying on to search for the boys. It hadn't come to his attention that the family had been reunited, nor that they had left for home that very morning. Mert had gone to Uinga and found the man by searching for the Ford station wagon. David Jones held a firm belief in the chain of command and rarely spoke to drivers or hourly workers. That is what supervisors were paid to do. Supervisors would speak to them. He would speak to the supervisors.

Beside the report were several Polaroid pictures, two of which were of the driver. One had been taken while the car was still in the position George had originally found it, the other when he had been pried loose and placed on the ground. Both were clear enough that anyone who knew the person could have identified him. Both his face and body had survived the plunge remarkably well. To this point in time, however, no one had come forth to identify the person.

Mr. Jones flipped through the report again. The entire morning had been spent trying to remove the car from the gorge. They tried wreckers first. Unable to reach it, they had finally resorted to a helicopter to fly the wreckage out. The remains of the car had been wrapped with several bands of cable to keep the various parts from falling off. Once it was gone, the hourly workers had come in to pick up and remove the pieces that had fallen off during its jolting journey.

Satisfied with the report, he picked up the phone, dialed, and then pressed the speaker button.

"Deputy Botts, please," he said when the call was answered, then sat back.

After a moment, Russell answered.

"Deputy Botts, this is David Jones, director of Tinker's Maze Park. Have you had any luck with the identification of the Lincoln we found this morning?"

"Yes sir. It belonged to Curtiss Werkmann, that's Curtiss with a C and two S's, W-E-R-K-M-A double N. Lives in Junction. I was just getting ready to notify the people there and have them tell the wife. Unless you want to or you want me to," he added quickly.

"It would be better for someone in your office to do it rather than someone from here."

The line was silent while David Jones pursed his lips together, closed his eyes and paused for a second.

"I understand you have several pictures of the man reported to have been found last Friday in the southern extremities of the Park. Is this so?"

"No sir. I don't have any at all, but this drifter from the other side of the mountain says he does. Says he took several of them. Pictures, that is. But he did bring in a lighter he found there. Well, he didn't exactly bring it in. Sent it in with your ranger. Probably nothing to it, though. Just some hiker probably dropped it is all."

David Jones raised his eyebrows and paused a brief second.

"A lighter? What do you mean, a lighter?" He thought back to the two reports that Miss Brush had brought. Each had mentioned pictures. He couldn't recall any mention of a lighter in either report. He pinched at the bridge of his nose, trying to relieve the pressure that was building behind it in his head.

"A cigarette lighter," Deputy Botts continued. "Zippo. It's got some sort of a picture that sticks out from the side on it."

"I see. I see. Please tell me, what happened to the body?"

"Robert's Mortuary picked it up about an hour ago."

"No, no. I mean the body that was reported to have been found on the Timini Trail."

"No one's been able to find it."

"Oh, I see. It is hard to have a death and no body, wouldn't you agree, Deputy Botts?"

"It sure is," Russell did agree.

"Do you know anything about this, ah, drifter you say took the pictures?" He picked up on Russell's description and emphasized the word drifter slightly.

"I know him, all right, but I didn't say he really took the pictures, only that he says he took them?"

"I see. You're saying, then, that he's not trustworthy?"

"No sir. Er, yes, sir. That's exactly what I'm saying." Russell couldn't keep the glee from his voice every time he put another blemish on Pat's character.

"I see. Yes. Very well. Now, about those pictures. You say you don't have them yet?"

"No sir. He says he'll bring them in once he gets them developed, or rather your ranger says that he says that he will. That would be your ranger, Jenny Brush."

"Yes, Miss Brush. That's correct. But now, getting back to the problem at hand, I'll drop in when I can and bring you these Polaroids that George took. You might be interested in them. When would be convenient for you?"

"Oh, just come on in whenever you like. I'll be here until six tonight. I could stay longer if you wanted to come now. Or I could make it a point to come in earlier tomorrow morning if that would suit you better. Or any other time would be fine, too."

"You don't need to make a special effort," the Director said. "I am in no bigger rush than you. If you don't want them until tomorrow that would be fine with me."

"Sure, I'll be here any time you need."

"Thank you, Deputy Botts. I'll bring them in tomorrow, then."

They each said their goodbyes. David Jones reached forward and pressed the release button to cut off the line, then sat back stiffly in his chair and pressed his fingertips together. Several minutes passed, then he reached into his upper right desk drawer, brought out one of his unfiltered cigarettes and rolled it back and forth between his hands across the smooth, shiny top of his desk, running over in his mind all that he could of Jenny's reports and his conversations with Deputy Botts, trying to connect all the open ends.

Then he broke his own rule and smoked a fourth cigarette, smoked it without thinking right down to a butt so small he almost burned his fingers as he put it out.

Chapter 14

A white body suit clung to the finely sculptured form of Caroline Werkmann. She twirled in time to the music coming from the stereo, balanced on one foot and kicked at the heavy bag that hung from a chain in her basement, letting out a whoosh of air as she connected. She twirled in the opposite direction on the other leg and slammed the bag again. Her concentration was consummate, blocking out every sight, sound, smell, thought except for the heavy, brown, leather bag at the end of the thick exercise mat and the music which seemed to rhythmically carry her through her ritual.

Six more times she twirled and kicked at it, then attacked it with every available part of her body as a different tune began. She butted it, lashed out with both hands, both elbows, her knees and feet, turned sideways and crashed each shoulder and hip into it. The music changed again and she danced and kicked and shook, twirled, somersaulted, squatted, lay on the mat and turned over and over on her neck and feet, stretched, jumped and clapped the bottoms of her feet together, kicked, threw her arms into an arc over her head, all in time to carefully chosen rhythms, the routine the same as the day before, the same as it would be the day after.

The music softened and she collapsed onto the floor with her knees bent under her and her arms straight down from her shoulders so that her perfectly manicured fingers went below the tips of her perfectly manicured toes. She stayed in this position for the duration of the short piece, then turned and stretched her legs, arms and torso while the music faded away. The tape ended and she lay, breathing deeply and evenly, until she could feel her heart return to its normal pace.

She got up, unzipped the suit and left it lying on the exercise mat. Emulating as best she could a ballet dancer, she walked on the tips of her toes to a full length mirror surrounded by a double row of lights. She faced it and lifted a breast in each hand, examining each. Then she ran her hands over her stomach, sucking in and making it as small as possible as she did so. Facing away from the mirror, she examined her posterior, then turned sideways, straightened her back, threw out her chest, and viewed her profile.

And finally she faced the mirror again, placed her feet slightly wider than her shoulders, and again ran both hands down across her flat stomach and out onto her hip bones, closed her eyes and tilted her head back slightly, sucking in air between her small, white teeth as she did so. She held her breath a few seconds, then squared her shoulders and walked her ballet dancer's walk to the shower.

'Curt's dead,' she thought. 'I finally did it, he's really dead.'

She smiled as she dried off, remembering the surprised look on his face as he took her foot in his belly and went, silently, over the edge, heard in her brain the dull thump as he hit the rocks below. Her smile faded. If only that damn hiker hadn't happened along. There wasn't supposed to be anyone on the trail that late!

'Oh, well,' she thought.

Her smile returned and she threw the towel on the floor for the maid to pick up. She climbed the stairs, twirled twice, then opened the door and, still naked, walked gracefully across the lawn and dived, head down and toes pointed, into the Olympic sized swimming pool, leaving only a minute splash as she did so. Three laps at a full speed crawl, then she turned over and did a back stroke until she felt ready to face the day.

It would be hard, concealing her glee. She had grown to hate Curtiss Werkmann. His money kept her around, his money tied her down, his money made her afraid to leave, to face the uncertainty of a world without it. She had the estate, a beautifully sculptured twenty-one acres on the plateau above Junction, an oasis of green in the middle of a dead, brown landscape. He provided her with maids, an unlimited expense account, clothes, jewelry, cars with drivers, cars without drivers. She had friends with which to play cards, friends with which to play golf, friends with which to go shopping or flying or vacationing. She had friends with which to have affairs, and she had many. These she kept very secret.

Curtiss also had his friends with which to have affairs, but he had neither the need nor desire to keep them secret. He seemed to crave introducing Caroline to his latest interest, would sometimes bring them to the house and tell her to leave, or at least not make her presence known. When he did this, she understood just how vulnerable she was to his whims.

Dead!

She walked carefully across the lawn away from the pool. Then, once inside, she pirouetted and leapt through the air, touching the ceiling with a finger as she did so.

At 9:35 that morning Deputy Russell Botts stood at her front door and delivered the news about her husband. She dutifully held back the tears, looked aghast while he told her what had happened. When he finished his explanations she cried, silently at first, then, when he placed a hand on her shoulder, collapsed against him while the sobs and shudders shook her body.

Deputy Botts smiled as he put his arms around her, consoled her, stroked her hair and back, told her to cry until she couldn't cry any more. He could feel her warm, perfect body and smell her perfume, asked if she needed him to stay, offered to take her somewhere for a drink or anything else she might need to help calm her.

She, on the other hand, knew that it was entirely too easy to turn even the hardest man into a babbling heap of rubble; knew which curves fit the best into which crevices, could feel him catch his breath and begin to get excited as she moved gently against him. She cried on his chest until exactly the right moment, then backed away, wiped her eyes, and politely turned him down, excused herself as being too heartbroken to be seen in public.

She danced in the privacy of her living room as she watched his squad car crunch down the white gravel driveway, turn through the iron gates in the stone portal, and disappear behind the spreading yews and pines, the line of demarcation between her lush, green combe and the harsh brown of the valley as it descended into Junction.

Chapter 15

"Oh, oh, oh!"

Jenny remembered an old joke from her first year in Teacher's College.

"Look, look, look!"

Except this time it wasn't funny.

"Damn, damn, damn!"

She clutched and down shifted, trying to get the engine to catch again, and then guided the now silent pickup off the road. There were no ditches along this stretch of highway. In fact, the road bed was the same level as the surroundings. It looked as though, if a person wanted, one could just drive off and go cross country as far as they wished, passing neither ditch nor fence, although there were rocks, washouts and other natural hazards that might impede their little excursion.

"You could be in trouble," she said out loud, to no one in particular.

The engine ground over slowly with the starter when she turned the key, but didn't give the slightest hint that it might start again. She slammed the steering wheel with the palm of her hand, winced, pulled the hood release, winced again as it slipped through her fingers, grabbed the door handle and pushed with her shoulder and almost fell out when it flew open.

She fairly stomped around to the front and, after searching for the catch that she knew had to be there somewhere, threw open the hood. Mechanical things mystified her, but she thought she could at least check to see if the motor were missing or perhaps broken in half. It was neither. It lay in its compartment, covered black with congealed oil, smoke emanating from the depths in small wisps, the thing hot and still except for a little gurgle and a slight hiss from the big hose that connected the engine and radiator.

She banged down the hood, got back in the truck and reached for the two-way radio. In its place was an empty bracket. She remembered Shawn telling her he had taken it out for repairs.

"Oh, chitters," she said in a loud, exasperated voice and banged the steering wheel with both hands, then got out, reopened the hood, and, leaving it open, climbed into the vehicle and rummaged around behind the seat, got out and stood by the side of the truck, looked both directions, hoping for a vehicle, any vehicle, to come along.

The sun beat down on the lonely stretch of asphalt, so that she had to look through waves of heat in her search. The day promised to be a scorcher, a day that could be unforgiving to young ladies that leave the comforts of civilization without a radio, water or any other items of self-preservation.

She kicked the side of the truck, hopped around on one foot, holding the one she had just used to abuse the poor vehicle. After three circles and two good yells for good measure she flopped on her back onto the seat, lay there several minutes wondering what to do, then pounded her head with her fists and shouted several strings of very unladylike phrases, quit only when she realized that a car had stopped and the driver was looking out the passenger's window at her.

She lay very still for a second, listening to be sure there really was a car engine running on the road beside her, decided it needed a muffler as well as other mechanical help, then sat up, smiled and said, "Hello."

The driver offered her a toothless grin in return.

"Um," she was embarrassed to think what he had seen or heard or might be thinking about her, "I think my pickup has quit."

She got out as she said this, leaned down toward the closed window.

The driver gave her another gummy smile, then guided his faded, dented, oversized Oldsmobile slowly onto the shoulder ahead of her pickup and got out, leaving the engine running so that the blue cloud emanating from the exhaust pipe that ended somewhere underneath the car drifted slowly rearward, exiting around the bent and peeling bumper, changing the color of the official vehicle behind it to something between a disgusting blue and a repulsive green.

"Hi. Danny," he said in a surprisingly high voice as he approached the left front fender of the pickup. "Peek?"

Jenny gave him a double take, nodded her head and the man disappeared in front of the raised hood. She stood off to one side and craned and tilted her head in an attempt to see what he was doing.

"It just quit," she said.

He took off the air cleaner, jiggled the throttle linkage, pulled and replaced each of the spark plug wires and finally tried to twist the distributor. He half climbed into the engine compartment, looked down the carburetor throat, and said, "Try," so she got back in and turned the key, listening to the starter growl, hoping to hear the familiar purr of the in-line six. She was disappointed.

"K," came from the other side of the opened hood. Then, "Bad news."

He climbed back out from under the hood while Jenny walked to the front again, then said, "Fue' pump."

She tried to decipher the staccato burst of noise from the man's mouth.

"What?"

"Fue' pump."

"What about the fuel pump?" She had heard Shawn talk occasionally about something called a fuel pump but didn't know where it was, why it was needed, or if it were even a part of a pickup engine but rather some other piece of equipment for which Shawn was responsible. It might have been the rubber hoses from which she drew her daily ration of gas.

"Shot," came the cryptic reply.

She wrinkled up her nose and he said, "None good." Then elaborated, "Noth' in carb," and when she still returned a blank stare he said, "None gas."

He turned around and kicked the trunk of his car. The lid popped open slightly. He raised it the rest of the way and retrieved a can of gas. He poured a little into the carburetor and told her to try it again. The engine caught immediately, ran until the little bit of gas was gone, then sputtered and died.

"See," he said as she came around to the front of the pickup again. "Shot."

She looked at the raised hood, and then back at the man in front of her, a short, sinewy, leather faced person with legs bowed to the extreme, clothed in dusty dungarees and a long sleeved, white shirt buttoned to the top, rooted in a pair of boots that were weathered to match his face and hands, so old and worn that his little toe, covered with a grey, woolen sock, was coming through the side of each one, and all topped off with a wide brimmed, black felt hat with a long, white feather stuck into the band.

"What do I do?" she asked, not necessarily of the person in front of her. Then, realizing he was still looking at her, asked, "Where's the nearest phone so I can call the Park?"

"Polt'," came the squeaky reply.

She stood a minute, wondering what to do.

"Need lif'?" he asked.

Either she was becoming accustomed to deciphering his bursts of speech or he said it plainer, but this time she understood him.

"How far is it to Polton?"

She didn't really want to get into the rattling death trap in front of her pickup, especially not with the strange little man driving it.

"No' far," he shrugged. "Fifteen, mebbe."

"Um, do you know a Mr. Patrick Ivers? That's who I was going to see."

She didn't remember his place as being too far ahead. Assuming he would be there. If he weren't, there was no phone from which to call anyone so she would either have to ride the rest of the way into Polton with this Danny or wait for Mr. Ivers to get back from wherever he was.

"I'm go," he said. "Fen' day."

"To Mr. Ivers', you mean?" She still didn't entirely understand the man's fractured sentences.

"Ye. Gonna Pat."

"OK," she said and put the keys under the seat on the little shelf in the frame.

She gave the front tire a little sideways kick as she passed, held her breath as she hurried through the blue exhaust smoke, then waited beside the passenger's door that didn't open when she tried the handle. Danny slid across the front seat, opened the glove box and took out a small pair of vice grips, clamped them on the handle shaft and twisted, smiling up at her as he did so.

"Some fix it," he said as she got in, careful to not dislodge the locking pliers that he left attached to the shaft, tried not to look at the seat to see what she might be sitting in.

"Thanks, Danny," she said as he looked first in the rear view mirror, then the outside mounted mirror, then turned as far as he could to be sure there were no other vehicles coming and that it was safe to pull onto the deserted road again.

Once moving he gripped the wheel with both hands and stared intently at the road ahead, sped up to 40 MPH, then let up on the accelerator pedal and slowed back down to 30 MPH, then up to 40 again, and so on, back and forth, until Jenny felt almost nauseous and wanted to scream at him to choose one or the other but to please make up his mind, and 55 or 60 would be even better, assuming the old car would not fall apart at such an unholy speed.

When they finally turned off the Valley Road and onto the long track that led to Pat's, neither had said a word. Danny guided the car, now at a very constant 15 MPH, up the road, past the house, around the pens, and onto a trail that led almost straight east, climbing gradually as it led toward the mountain peak that formed the boundary of Tinker's Maze Park. The path looked, from a distance, like it continued smoothly to the top but before they had gotten very far, it dropped into a ravine.

Up on the other side, Pat was jamming down on a double handled post-hole digger. Again and again he pulled the sand, gravel and small rocks out of the hole and deposited them all in a little pile beside him. Sweat dripped off the loose ends of his hair each time it jerked as he banged the digger into the hole, ran off his chin and down his chest, glistened from his arms and back as it caught the morning sun.

He turned as Danny jerked to a stop, pulled the black bandanna off his head and mopped his face, refolded it and put it back, pulling the ends of his hair behind his ears and through it in a short pony tail.

"How goes it, Danny?" he called, then noticed the passenger and quickly turned, picked up and pulled on his t-shirt, but not before Jenny had seen the scars that dotted his chest and back, little round bumps that stood out from the rest of his skin, and one in particular that went up and across his back from middle spine to shoulder, then curved back to the base of his neck, pale and hard and jumping like a child's rope as he moved.

She fiddled with the makeshift door handle until it opened, then got out and followed Danny to where the hole was ready to accept its post.

"Hi," he said to her, then looked at Danny and said, "I've got the north corner set. Finish this one and we can string this side."

Danny tipped his hat back on his head, took the diggers, paced off the distance to the next hole with an exaggerated stride, and started to attack the ground.

"You know Danny?" he asked.

She replied that no, she didn't, then explained the demise of her fuel pump, why she had come, and ended with a petition for a ride to Polton so she could call Park maintenance to come get the pickup.

He nodded as she spoke and started to walk, she following as she finished, talking to his back. When she finished, he said nothing, but continued to walk until he reached his horse. He flipped a stirrup up over the saddle and tightened the cinch strap, then took the reins and, before moving on, looked around at her, at her feet, making sure her footwear was sufficient for the trail. She wore the same hiking boots that had made the tracks he had followed on the Timini and he smiled as he remembered her coming out from behind the rock, wet and not entirely unlike a stray dog.

"Strange person, Danny," she ventured, as they started to walk.

"Yeah," he replied. "I guess a horse kicked him in the throat when he was just a kid. He didn't talk at all for several years, and he started to act really weird. He got his voice back, or at least a voice, but he's never been what you might call normal. He's a darn good worker, though."

She told him about the Lincoln and its driver, one Mr. Curtiss Werkmann. Pat recognized the name immediately as one of the more important VIPs in Junction.

They walked a ways in silence before he said, "They're here, still in the projector. You can look at them. Would you rather have Danny or me take you into Polton?"

"I think I'd be sick if I had to ride with Danny very far. He can't seem to decide just how fast or how slow he wants to go. Would you mind taking me?"

"No, that'd be fine. I wouldn't mind at all. Do you want to call the Park or the county police?"

"Ha! The Park, yeah, but why would I want to call Botts? So he could pat my bottom or slobber down my shirt? Get serious, man. Hey, listen, if it's any trouble to you I'll get Danny to take me in. I really don't want to take up your time if you're busy or anything."

"I said I'd run you into Polton. Not much to do now that the corners are set except run a couple strands of wire. Danny can do that. I'd run you clear back to East Gate if you wanted."

"Not necessary. I'll call the Park and they'll have someone here to pick me up. I can wait in a store or something until they get here."

"Not much in Polton anymore. Certainly no stores, but I could have Leonard call Botts if you want me to. He has a police radio in his gas station so he can call for help if some emergency comes up."

"No. Please don't. And what is all this with Deputy Botts, anyway? You sound as if you want him to come out here and get me. Do you?"

"No, but I didn't know how you felt about Russell. Some women, quite a few, even, really seem to like his style."

Pat said this last a bit softer and scuffed his feet as they walked, as if not exactly enthusiastic about her answer.

"What exactly do you mean, Mr. Ivers? I don't want to be one more in a long line of his conquests. And as for my feeling about Deputy Botts, well, he can take his snide comments and lecherous remarks and place them all very neatly where the sun doesn't shine, if you don't mind my saying so. And I hope he gets hemorrhoids from the sheer bulk of it."

Pat stopped his shuffling, smiled faintly and said, "Well, no, I guess I don't mind your saying so. I must say, those are my sentiments exactly, although I don't suppose he's looking at me as another one of his conquests."

They walked awhile in silence. Pat had several attempts at conversation go through his mind, but that's as far as they got. Women, especially pretty ones, especially this one, seemed to get him tongue tied. Either that or prone to dumb remarks. He finally just said, "You can look at the slides while I clean up. Then I'll run you into Polton."

Chapter 16

They followed the ravine, effectively hidden from the world as it bent and curved and seemed to reel from one huge, exposed boulder to the next, the sides looming at first high above them, but decreasing as they moved farther down the slope. About a mile after they started, it turned sharply and widened into a shallow vale with several small cottonwoods and a number of willows. A spring welled up from a cluster of large rocks near where they stood, the clear water almost bubbling out. Bamboo and other tall grasses, waving in the gentle breeze, followed the water as it ran gaily away from them, over, around and past the dark, shiny, rounded rocks. Further downstream, a dam created a small pond. There, the creek spilled through a culvert and into the deeper part of the ravine where it continued for several hundred yards before disappearing in the sand.

They walked to the water's edge, the air cooler in the shade and with the breeze blowing across it and over them. The side opposite from where they stood was a bright sea of colored flowers, yellows and reds, purples and pinks, interspersed with low shrubs and twisted, closely trimmed trees. In the distance they could see Polton, a tiny cluster of buildings split by the dark thread of highway that followed the bottom of the valley.

"Know where we are?" Pat stopped and patted Mandy, waiting for Jenny to guess.

"No. Somewhere behind where you're living, I'd guess."

"You'd guess right, then. About 50 paces, is all."

He pointed away from the pond, to a cleft in the ravine wall behind them. They walked to it and he handed her the reins. "Right through there."

The climb looked harder than it was. Pat scrambled up first, held out a hand for Jenny to grab on to, and finally he whistled and Mandy lunged up the slope.

They skirted the mound of dirt that formed one wall of the potato bunker. Pat lapped the horse's reins over a post, led the way through the huge doors and, walking slowly in the dim light after the brightness of the desert sun, they made their way toward the rear. She paused as he pushed open the heavy front door and disappeared into the blackness, heard the click of a switch and the kitchen was illuminated by a soft, even light emanating from a row of boxes mounted high on the walls and completely encircling the room.

"Wow," was all she could say and stood stock still just inside the door, looking left and right, up and down, at the unexpected. It was not as she had imagined it to be, nothing like the aboriginal cave she envisioned at her first visit.

The native granite and limestone of the mountain that formed the north wall and almost all of the ceiling was completely uncovered. But the man-made south wall was concealed with weathered boards, bleached to a light grey by the sun, set longitudinally and butted up against two of the 12x12 oak timbers, now dark with age, which had been in place since the bunker was first constructed.

"This is the kitchen," Pat announced from where he stood in the passageway opposite the door in which she stood. He watched her stare for another minute, and then asked, "Does it meet your approval, then?"

"Oh, yes, it's quite unique. Where did you get that stove?"

The wall at which she was looking was dominated by the huge, black and chrome wood burning stove, now centered between the oak timbers.

"That came out of the bank building in Polton just before they bulldozed it. Tried to get the vault door, too, but it was so heavy I had to leave it behind. I had a devil of a time getting that here," he nodded toward the stove. "But even that was easier than punching a hole through the wall to let the chimney out."

He watched her walk left along the wall, following the paving bricks, to the corner. She looked down inside a pair of concrete wash tubs to see a small pile of tin dishes standing half in and half out of several inches of cold, dirty water, then turned and followed a counter made from a piece of quarter inch stainless steel found, as he explained, lying along the right of way for the railroad that used to run up the floor of the valley, now polished bright and resting on a pair of white painted steel machinist horses.

She continued to circumvent the room, passed the stove, lingered by a group of wooden boxes stacked like oversized children's blocks, and glanced at their contents. There was a variety of unmatched cast iron pots and pans, some with lids but most without, nine boxes of dry cereal (she counted them, and that didn't include the instant oatmeal), six boxes of dried milk, eight jars of peanut butter set in two neat rows, a myriad of commercial jellies and jams, crackers, tins of soup and fruit and vegetables, some cracked and/or broken pottery bowls, utensils, matches, a pair of camp lanterns, and other miscellaneous items one would normally find in a kitchen. And a few that would not normally be found there.

She turned away from the stacked boxes and looked across the room. The opposite side was almost entirely filled by a very long wooden slab made of rough, non-dimensional lumber and laid on its side to make a table with four narrow wooden boxes for legs. The table top had been heavily coated so that the pock marks and hardware were mostly smoothed over. Lined up along this table, five to a side, were more boxes. Boards carved and sawn into geometric designs had been fastened upright for backs. This whole assembly, table and chairs, was held six inches off the almost gleaming, white sand floor by three large shipping pallets, bolted together and with boards nailed in to fill the gaps in the top. These had all been sanded smooth and coated with the final container of NuBall, the empty five gallon bucket of which now stood under the steel counter and used as a waste receptacle.

"There's tumblers in those boxes over there," he said, pointing with the pitcher he had taken out of the refrigerator.

She turned back and got two, the same two faded and scratched aluminum tumblers they had drunk from the first day she was here, and he poured each of them full from the pitcher.

"Ice tea," he announced.

"I thought it might be," she said and took more than a petite swallow.

Pat walked over to the massive door and pushed it closed. It swung easily on well-oiled hinges.

"Just what is it you're trying to keep out with such a big door? That looks like something they'd hang on a castle."

"I'm not really trying to keep anything out except varmints, scorpions, black widows," he shrugged, "maybe a sidewinder now and again. I guess Mandy'd come in if I let her but that only happened once, just after I built it.

"To be honest, the door is this size because that's what I found. It came from an old mine at the north end of the valley, not too far from Junction. I think it was some kind of separator or shaker table, or something like that. Nice, huh?"

"Well, I don't know that nice is exactly the word I'd use, but it is substantial, to say the least."

She looked around again and held her arms wide as she said, "I didn't expect this. I don't know what I expected but it wasn't this."

"You're not exactly thrilled, huh?"

"Oh, don't get me wrong. I didn't say I didn't like it, just that it isn't what I expected."

"Then tell me, what did you expect?"

"Oh, I don't really know. I guess I thought you lived in a cave like, well, like cave men did. You know, fire ring in the middle, drawings on the wall, a grass mat on a shelf along the side and all that. But certainly not this. This is... unique. It's gorgeous, actually."

A small, quick smile crossed his face. "Thanks. You know, you're the first person I've ever had in here. Even Danny thinks I still live in the house. No one's been in here except me. And now you."

"Why would people think you still live over there? Can't they see your tracks and all leading into here? Or lights, or other activity?"

"Well, no one ever comes around much, and I leave a light on in the house all night for Walt. Well, not really for Walt, but for his, you know, his shadow, like, in case it ever comes around. I want him to know where home is."

He motioned with his head and led her through the tall, doorless opening in which he had been standing when she first entered the kitchen.

Jenny paused at the start of the passageway and ran a finger over the almost square stone. "Did you mine these?"

He laughed. "Not unless you call cleaning up a pile down by the highway mining."

She left the kitchen and entered the passageway. It was at least six feet long and their steps echoed as they went through. On each side was a cavity with a flat piece of sandstone for a bottom. An old railroad brakeman's lantern rested in each, one with red glass and one with green. These had evidently been wired for electricity since a weak light came from each and illuminated the passageway. The walls were decorated with the bottoms of different colored bottles of varying sizes and textures set in with the stone and the red and green lights reflected off them to yield still more colors.

He flipped a switch under a stone shelf and extinguished the lights behind them. The lanterns gave only enough light that she could make out his movements as he went to the opposite side of the passageway and flipped another switch under the shelf on the other side. The inner room was illuminated with the same type of soft, high, even light that had just gone out in the kitchen.

Again she was amazed at what she saw. One side was completely taken up by two walls that evidently surrounded another room. A low retaining wall ran along the back, made of sandstone, stacked with what appeared to be no regard for a smooth appearance and held together with mortar. The two higher walls stopped at about two thirds the height of the ceiling, creating a black void into which the soft lights refused to penetrate.

"Got those out of the Cinque River down where it joins the Haldron," he said when he noticed her looking at the sandstone, marveling in their sheer bulk and calculating in her head what that many pieces must weigh, how many he could get in a pickup load, how many trips he must have made to complete it.

"It's a water wall. The drainage and recirculation got to be almost more than I could handle. But I finally got enough pipe laid in the floor and along the top that everything eventually came together. It's really great on hot days, gets it so cold in here you have to put on a coat. Want to see?"

She declined, the natural coolness of the earth being more than adequate, noticed the now familiar paving bricks laid at the bottom of all the walls, like they had in the first room, ran her feet over the highly polished oak floor and thought that the diamond pattern seemed entirely logical in the room. Why couldn't all gymnasiums lay their flooring boards in a pattern rather than the boring, all one way, back and forth?

Jenny walked slowly through the center of the room to the alcove and stood by a long, low, dark wood table completely covered with books; hardcover books, paperback books, magazines, catalogs, all in haphazard disarray. They spilled off the table in several places, lying in disheveled heaps where they had fallen. She picked up two of them at random and read their titles, _William Carlos Williams Selected Poems_ and _The Comic Zen_.

"Is your reading always so light? Or do you have something against Agatha Christie or P. D. James?"

He walked over to the table and looked at the pile of books. "Well, I doubt if there's any Christie here but there might be some in one of the crates outside and I'm afraid I'm not familiar with the other one you mentioned."

"James. P. D. James. You ought to try her sometime. Good mysteries. Absolutely as good as Dame Agatha, I think. Maybe a bit wordy but better. Or a different style, at least."

She said this as she followed the low stone wall away from the table and climbed the three wide steps into the alcove. The bricks beneath her feet no longer felt spongy, but were hard and unyielding and she noticed they were now cemented together. She could only assume the entire alcove floor was bricked, for a large, thick, oval carpet, colored a bright turquoise with red edging and geometric designs covered a good portion of the center. She walked along the massive walls, past two small stacks of firewood, one on each side of the fireplace, then on toward the north wall. Built into the sandstone was a recessed shelf two feet deep and just as high. She ran her fingers along the shelf. It was covered with oak boards, the fronts not cut square but rather still curved in the shape of the tree from which they had been taken, bleached until they were almost white and coated until the wood itself felt smooth as glass. Lined up on the shelf was his entire collection of antique knives - "thirty-eight of them," he said with some pride - ranging in size from a three-foot cavalry sword with intricate designs etched on the blade, to a two-inch lock-back with a black blade and pearl inlay on the handles. All were free of any sign of dust, neatly oiled and extremely sharp.

Walking back into the main part of the room, she spun slowly around, taking in all the details she had missed.

"You need chairs," she observed.

Indeed, the only furniture except for the table that held the books and a down-in-the-ears easy chair, were the two rows of theater seats and a few throw pillows lying here and there.

"And windows."

She paused.

"You're amazing. I would never have dreamed anything like this existed. Not here, not anywhere. It's really beautiful. But you do definitely need windows. You can't see what's going on outside. How do you know if it's day or not?"

She looked around again, taking in all the unexpected charm of the place, then took her shoes off and slid her feet slowly over the smooth oak floor, climbed the stairs to the raised alcove again, and noticed a recess in the tall sandstone wall at the south end. She approached it and asked, "What's this?"

"Bathroom," he said from his position in the center of the room where he had stayed while she meandered about. "It's open if you care to see it. The light switch is on the left."

Unlike the outside door, this one, while still solid wood, was light, easily opened, completely silent, swung out on large hinges set into the sandstone. She felt along the wall as he had instructed and flicked the light switch on. Again, the lights were soft and muted, even less luminous than in the kitchen and the inner room, almost dark, in fact.

"There's a rotary dial next to the switch if you need more light," he said, still standing in the center of the room.

She twisted it all the way, and then rotated it back until she could just see the far wall. There was the usual white porcelain sink, water closet and claw footed tub lined up against the wall just inside the door. Towels, soap and other toiletries rested in three wooden boxes, stacked much like those in the kitchen, against a white steel shower. The walls, instead of rock, were covered with a double layer of rough, grey, weathered boards set vertically so that they seemed to hold up the low ceiling, also covered with the same weathered boards, but set so they radiated out from the center, not joined side by side but in layers so that they gave a three-dimensional effect with some of the last placed boards completely hidden in the shadows.

"What is this?" she called out to him, looking at the stock tank sunk into the concrete and brick floor in the center of the room so that only the rolled lip protruded.

He stood in the door, now. "Well, I guess that's my version of a whirlpool. That," he pointed to a green painted motor, "is a shallow well pump. It sucks water out of the tank, moves it around that stove where it picks up a bit of heat. Well, actually, quite a lot of heat when it gets going good. Then it gets pumped back into the tank through a couple rows of nozzles under the surface. It works pretty well, actually. The water really rolls."

"Is that for your arthritis" she asked in a flip tone, beginning to feel very comfortable in the unusual surroundings, "or to heal your shin splints after a hard day on the tennis courts?"

"Well, yes," he paused, looked down and dug the toe of his shoe into the depression between two bricks. "I guess that's for arthritis. At least, my form of it."

"Oh, I'm sorry," her face colored. "I didn't mean to pry or say anything I shouldn't."

He smiled a lopsided smile and she became more aware of the scar running through his eyebrow, now becoming comparatively paler as the rest of his face reddened.

"I, um ... I get, um ... it's for my legs ... you see ... they hurt sometimes, mostly at night. So what I do is, I get in there and then after a while they don't hurt so bad any more so I can get back to sleep."

"I'm sorry," she said quietly.

"Don't be. You didn't know. You didn't have anything to do with it." His voice got a little edge to it, "Ever. So don't be," then softened again. "It's just something I've learned to live with."

He turned and walked back into the inner room. She followed, turned off the light as she left, then stood there, now unsure of herself again.

"The ceiling's low in there," she finally said, and he turned around to look at her again, his face once more its natural color.

"Yes," he answered, "the bedroom's above it. There's stairs in the corner there if you want to see it, too." He pointed to a dark corner where the two sandstone walls met. "Be careful going up. It's dark and there's no light there. And they curve a little to match the wall. Go on up if you want. There's isn't any door and the light switch is just to the right, on the wall. I'll clean up while you're up there."

"Oh, I mustn't," she protested.

"Ah, go ahead. You might as well see it all while you're here. It's not messy or anything. I made the bed this morning and picked up all my dirty clothes. It's very tidy, you see. All ready and just waiting for company. Go ahead while I shower."

She reluctantly climbed the steep, narrow stone stairs, her hands feeling for the next as she went up. At the top she turned and felt for the light switch, flipped it up and looked around. She could look out over two of the walls into the room below and realized she was standing in the dark space above the sandstone of the water wall. Boards similar to the ones in the bathroom below covered two of the walls. Instead of being placed in an orderly and normal upright position, however, these were all set at an angle so that they seemed to fall around the room like a row of dominoes.

Pictures of every size, mostly framed but a few just pinned up, hung on the boards. Most of the framed pictures had little scraps of paper stuck in the lower right corner with the Greek letter pi, a date, and then two numbers with a slash separating them.

On the opposite wall she could see a small, heavy, wooden door, resembling the front door in that it was crossed with three long pieces of black iron. The top and bottom straps were again the hinge wings. A huge, heart-shaped padlock of ancient ancestry hung, closed, in a ring that passed through the middle, largest, strap of the door. She lifted it, felt its bulk, looked at the huge keyhole in it, and let it drop with a loud thunk.

She ran a finger over the top of a small sheepherder's stove that sat near the back, its black pipe spliced into the metal stove pipe that came up through the floor from the station heater below. More wooden boxes were stacked in checkerboard fashion against the south wall and held clothing and other personal articles, as well as several more framed pictures.

The north wall was lined with four more wooden boxes butted together and covered with a thin mattress. Its blue striped edge just stuck out below a tattered, olive drab, Government Issue sleeping bag that dated probably from the Korean War or possibly earlier. It looked much too heavy to use when camping but she imagined it was warm and an excellent permanent place in which to sleep. At the head was a very small pillow, covered with a dark blue, cotton case to match the sheets that lined the sleeping bag. She sat tentatively on it and decided it would be classified as very firm.

Suspended from near the middle of the granite ceiling was a kerosene lamp, wired, that now provided the light for the sleeping room. She walked over and touched it, then moved to look out over the room below.

"My own balcony," Pat said stepping into the room.

Jenny was startled and jumped, suddenly reminded of JD's dorm room at college. She shuddered and returned to the present. "Where'd you get that lamp?" Her eyes followed him as he moved toward the stacked boxes.

"Um, I guess that came from one of the old ranches on the other side of the valley," he answered.

"Look at the top of that wall there," he pointed to the short stone wall that looked out over the main room. "I really worked to get that pipe laid into those rocks that way so that it drains over and down the wall below."

She did but wasn't particularly impressed since she understood nothing of plumbing or hydraulics.

He reached into one of the wooden boxes and retrieved a shirt and a pair of pants and threw them on the bed. She turned and fled down the stairs. When he followed a few minutes later he was in fresh jeans, a dark red polo shirt and clean, white sneakers.

He pointed to the short rows of theater seats. "Be seated. Watch your step, please. And sorry, but the popcorn machine's out of order."

She lowered herself into one of them, thankful for the small, corduroy cushion that covered each of the seats. When the overhead lights were off, they looked at the slides he had taken. There was, indeed, a body on the boulder field. It was definitely a body and not faked. The angles of the limbs and twist of the head attested to the fact.

They went carefully through each slide, pointed to the odd angles of the man's limbs, calculated as best they could the exact place of impact, tried to make out anything on the trail above, and finally decided that, yes, there was a body and that no, there was no evidence of foul play. Both knew there was no body at any later time.

"Tell me again what you could see from the trail when you were watching me. Think hard and tell me exactly."

The slide he had taken of the trail from the boulders below was showing on the screen and provided the only illumination in the room.

"The trail." She thought a moment. "You and your horse, the lightning, the rain coming. What do you mean, what could I see? You've been there."

"Not as much as you, I don't think, and maybe, if I have, I haven't seen everything there is to see. So tell me again what you can see from there. Black Lake?"

"Sure. I think you could see Black Lake if you knew where to look for it and what you were seeing when you spotted it."

"And what else. The tree tops, for sure. Maybe the creek?"

She hesitated. "Not the creek, I don't think. It's really covered with brush and stuff that hangs over it. It's not very wide, you know. A couple feet at the most right there. But you can hear it, all right. And you can look over the tree tops at the mountains on the other side of the Park. You can see the electric lines, too."

"Electric lines?" he looked at her with interest. He remembered no electric lines.

"Yeah. They're on those big, tall, ugly poles. They come into Kelt's Lodge from over the mountain. I don't know why they put them there instead of along the road. I should think it would be easier to come from Crossroad than over the mountain. And they cut all the trees away from under them so they can have that ugly little service road."

"What service road? Where's it go?"

"I don't know. It's just a service road that doesn't get used too much anymore, not since the slide a couple summers ago. I guess that fire came pretty close to getting those lines, heated the ground enough that it shifted and a bunch of rocks came sliding down that side. At least that's what I've been told."

"Does that road go completely over the mountain? And if it does, how close are those lines to the Timini? And if it's very close, how close, and how hard would it be to cross from that road to the trail? And if it's not hard, could a body be carried across?"

She turned to look at him against the harsh light of the projector.

"Do you think...?"

She left the thought unfinished, turned and settled back into her seat, thinking about someone carrying a limp, heavy parcel across the little creek and depositing it in a vehicle waiting on the service road. Very convenient. Too convenient. Too planned. But possible.

Pat switched absent mindedly to the next picture. Jenny looked at it a moment before the beauty of it struck her.

"Ohhh," she breathed, and asked to see the rest of the pictures in the tray.

She was amazed at the feelings they invoked. More than just a snapshot, each was a portrait of time captured forever, the colors, muted or strident, enhancing the mood of the shapes. An entire meadow was elicited in the shape of a simple flower; the struggle for survival echoed in the gnarled and twisted branches of a tree once standing against the onslaught of an avalanche and caught in a shaft of yellow light; procreation witnessed in the tiny seedling sprouting from the decaying needles surrounding it.

"These are simply just beautiful," she said when he flipped on the lights again. "When did you take them?"

"Same day I found Werkmann. I like to get out at least a couple times a month and go through Tinker's Maze or down to the confluence of the Cinque and Haldron Rivers. Neither is what one would term grandiose but each has its own sense of beauty. All you have to do is look for it. Even The Sands can be more than just a stretch of desert if you don't look at it as just something to be gotten across as fast as possible."

"Well, I really like them. Jonesy says you've had some in magazines. Is that true?"

"Sure, several times. That's really where I get most of my income. Advertising shots, calendars, general stock pictures, sometimes a bit of writing to go along with them. Those numbered pictures you were looking at upstairs came from a show at one of the galleries in Capital last winter. To be real honest, those old cows out there sure wouldn't count for much if I had to depend on them."

He walked to the far end of the room and came back with a picture in a frame.

"Here, please take it," he said and handed it to her. "It's one I did a couple weeks ago. I think you'll like it."

"I couldn't," she protested, and looked at the picture. In the center toward the bottom was a clump of bright red flowers that she recognized as Indian Paintbrush. The sun, angled low, reflected off the white bark of the aspens that surrounded it, seemingly unable to penetrate and leaving dark the space behind them. The overall effect was one of a jumbled, severely straight lined, black and white background which all seemed to point to the softly curved, bright red flowers.

He took the picture out of the frame, picked up a long, black pen from the table and said, "Please. I'll be hurt if you don't."

She looked over his shoulder as he made the mathematical sign pi in the lower right-hand corner underneath of which he penned the date and then replaced it in the frame.

She thanked him, held the picture at arm's length and tilted her head first left and then right. "Pi," she turned and smiled at him. "Patrick Ivers. Very clever."

Chapter 17

Jenny sat on a wooden chair listening to the steady click of the IBM. 'She's an excellent typist,' she thought as she watched Suzanne's fingers fly over the keyboard, translating words, presumably Mr. Jones', from the tiny earphones on her head to words on the paper in the machine. It was eerie, seeing Suzanne concentrate, her eyes closed, humming very softly under her breath some sort of unpublished series of sounds, her fingers, almost a blur, the only discernible movement of her body, while the words, sentences, paragraphs, magically appeared on the paper.

Under the click of the typewriter was the steady rush of the air conditioner propped solidly in the bottom part of the window, spewing forth its comfort like a barrier against the glaring heat on the other side. Jenny checked her watch, had waited fifteen minutes already, but didn't mind. As long as she sat in here she didn't have to face the oppressive heat of the entrance station.

She stood as the door to Mr. Jones office opened, faced it, and was surprised to see a lady emerge, her white blouse brilliant against the emerald green of her suit. Jenny stared a moment, envious of, among other things, the perfect legs that extended from the skirt that was only just longer than the bottom of the jacket. The legs were naked; no need for hose to make them appear any more nor, certainly, any less than what they were.

She was followed by Mr. Jones, who touched her back lightly to guide her back through the only door in and out of his domain. Once outside, she turned and took the extended hand of Mr. Jones.

"If we can be of any more help, please feel free to call on me," he said, not so much shaking the hand as just holding it, somewhat as if preparing to but never quite accomplishing the task.

There appeared a perfect smile, revealing perfect teeth. Jenny could see only the vaguest hint of makeup and no jewelry; no rings necklaces, pins, bracelets, not even a watch. They would only detract.

"I'll probably do that," she was saying. Even her voice seemed perfect to Jenny, low but not vulgar or husky, the words formed precisely on the tip of her tongue, exhaled with exactly the amount of air needed to make them feminine but not so breathy as to make it excessive. "I have several other matters that will undoubtedly require your attention. Is there a time of the day that's convenient for you, a time when you're less occupied?"

Mr. Jones freed her hand and replied, "I'm in and out all day, but I'm almost certainly to be here at 7:00 in the morning or during Mrs. Lemp's lunch from 11:45 to 12:30. I'm also here at 4:00 in the afternoon. Otherwise, you can call me at home."

He turned to the secretary who had now stopped typing, nodded in her direction and said, "Mrs. Lemp will give you my number and address." He turned back. "Feel free to call me at any time. I'm rarely away in the evenings."

She thanked him and turned to leave, Mr. Jones accompanying her, his hand again placed lightly on the small of her back. She smiled at Jenny as she walked by.

They moved past, then stopped. "Mrs. Werkmann," David Jones made the introductions. "This is Jenny Brush. She works here in the Park as a ranger. This is Caroline Werkmann, Miss Brush."

The two women said hello, then Caroline turned and left the office. For just a slight moment the three remaining people looked silently at the now closed door. All three felt like some sort of vacuum had been created with her exit. Each gave a little inward shiver and went back to their particular task, Suzanne to her typing, David Jones to his office with Jenny following a few steps behind. She closed the door behind them and stood in front of the chair from which Mrs. Werkmann had, probably, just removed herself. The faint smell of her perfume lingered, as did the more overpowering odor of the Hai Karate that David Jones kept in a bottle in one of his desk drawers and applied liberally several times throughout the day. The smell of the two colognes almost covered, but didn't completely mask out another scent, one with which Jenny was familiar but couldn't quite place.

The Park director sat, motioned the young woman to do the same, then took a manila folder out of his middle desk drawer and opened it, scanning quickly through the last two pages.

"I presume, since you were with Mr. Ivers earlier, that you visited with him this morning, Miss Brush?"

"I did."

"I shall presume you saw the photographs he claims to have taken of the, ah," he paused slightly, "corpse?"

"Yes, sir, I did. Except they're not photographs, they're slides. He's an exceptional photographer, just as you pointed out."

Mr. Jones' lips formed a very small, satisfied smile but he continued to look at the report in front of him. He didn't say anything, waited, as was his manner, for her to say something first.

Jenny's mind wandered back. Pat had driven her, over her protestations, to East Gate. The Pontiac was not new but the exterior was immaculate as was the interior which smelled very faintly of Naugahyde and Armor-All. The dashboard, seats and floor were spotless and there was a feeling of great power expressed in the angular movement of the car as the engine accelerated. She could feel one side rise when Pat pumped the accelerator, unconsciously braced her neck as the car seemed to effortlessly leap forward, tightened her stomach against the pressure in her middle as she was pushed back in the seat by the sudden acceleration, could feel, as well as hear, the deep, throaty roar that came from the exhaust pipes, rising to a cackle then falling off with almost explosions as he eased his foot off the accelerator and shifted smoothly into the next higher gear.

The car stayed at a steady, comfortable 75 MPH. Their conversation was easy and light, never strained, and ebbed and flowed with the few points of interest they passed along the way.

Once in East Gate he had driven to the City Building. A side door on the main floor led to the offices of the constabulary. Russell was sitting at his desk staring at the street through the opened door, sweating through his shirt in the heat of the day. There was a window air conditioner that had once worked but Russell liked to brag that no heat nor cold was too much for him and so had not bothered to have it fixed, much to the chagrin of the other office personnel. He looked up and scowled as Pat and Jenny entered. The screen door pulled itself closed with a bang behind them.

Pat stood just inside the door as Jenny moved forward and explained about the slides she had just seen, the number and content of each. She explained that Pat would have pictures made from each of them and she would go and get them and bring them in the following day. She finished with, "You have the lighter, don't you, Russell?"

Russell finally took his eyes off Pat and looked up at Jenny.

"What lighter?"

"For Pete's sake, Russell," Pat finally spoke. "The one from where I found the body. You know, the boulders under the cliff along the Timini, the one that's in the report I filed with you. In this very office, even."

"Oh, that again." He turned to Pat. "Listen, Asshole, why don't you just admit the whole thing's a hoax? Let me get this business finished up so I can move on to something important?"

"But Russell, I just saw ..." Jenny started to protest but was cut off by Pat.

"It won't take any of your time because you'll never do anything about it. But I do want a report of the incident on record because I did find a body ..."

"Bullshit," Russell interrupted.

" ... and I think it's important that some sort of record exist because someday that body's going to surface or someone's going to file a missing person report."

Russell, still leaning back in his chair, glared at Pat with an assumed air of nonchalance. Pat glared back through half-closed eyes with an equally assumed air of nonchalance.

Jenny shook her head in exasperation, turned and was about to leave when a door to one of the back rooms opened and David Jones entered. She suspended her exit, turned instead and greeted him.

"Good afternoon, Miss Brush." He was polite, as usual, to a fault. "Have you made any headway with Mr. Ivers?"

With that she introduced Pat to the Park director, who stood silently appraising the man in front of him for just a moment, then offered his hand with a, "How do you do, Mr. Ivers?"

"Just fine, thank-you, sir, and yourself?" came the reply, then silence again fell over the room and Pat turned and left, saying as he stood with the screen door ajar in his hands, "Don't lose that lighter, Russell. And be careful with the pictures Jenny brings you tomorrow."

David Jones asked her to come to his office when she got back to the Park. She nodded at him, shrugged her shoulders toward Russell and walked outside. Pat was just outside the door, his back and one foot against the wall.

"You could try being civil sometime," she said, not looking at him but rather standing sideways, facing toward the mountains that formed Tinker's Maze Park and stood always over the town, shadowing it, imposing its own ponderous personality on East Gate and everything that went on in it.

He didn't say anything, just looked across the street, over the tops of the few cars that were going to and coming from the Park.

"You up to a soda?" Pat finally broke the silence, pushed away from the wall and stepped off the boardwalk and into the street.

She nodded, then turned and followed him across the street and into the cavernous building that housed the Great Western Apothecary. At the height of the tourist season there would barely be standing room, much less a clearing at the soda fountain that took up one complete wall of the establishment. Today they found more than one pair of empty stools.

Jenny jumped, startled out of her reverie.

Mr. Jones repeated, "Does he also have the pictures, Miss Brush?"

"Yes sir. Only they're not pictures yet, just slides. He says he'll get them made into pictures tonight."

"Oh, I see. Now, these pictures... er, slides you say he has. Have you seen them?"

"Yes, I have. There are," she stopped and counted mentally, "six of them. He really wants to get them made into pictures and then bring just the pictures instead of the slides. He said he'd do that first thing when he gets back."

David Jones looked at her across his desk and waited for her to continue.

"I'm supposed to go out and fetch them tomorrow sometime and then drop them by Russell's office. He wanted to go up that service road yet today."

She looked at the Park director, saw a puzzled look and expanded. "You know, the one that follows the electric lines past Black Lake. He's still trying to get someone to believe him about that body he saw on the Timini."

"Do you still believe him, Miss Brush? As far as the body is concerned, that is?"

"Oh, yes sir. I'm absolutely convinced he saw one there. If you could see the pictures, you'd know there's no question about it." She spoke fast, almost tripping over the words, paused momentarily, then said, slower, "If you want I could go back this evening and get them for you. Or first thing in the morning. I'm sure he wouldn't mind my bringing them back just as soon as he's finished with them."

David Jones was watching her as she said all this, comparing what she said to the details of her reports, filing and linking them in his mind. She's very capable, he thought, for a scatterbrained, female Texan, that is.

"No, Miss Brush, I need you in the front entrance station. If I want them so soon, I'll go myself."

"Oh, I don't mind going in the least," she said, hurriedly.

The director smiled at her across his desk, relaxed ever so slightly and leaned back, folded his hands on his lap, and said, "No, Miss Brush, I would venture to guess you wouldn't mind at all." He straightened back up to his usual stiff posture. "But that won't be necessary. I don't think there will be a need for any great rush to get them. If there is, I can get in touch with you since you are so willing to go. Is that agreeable?"

Jenny looked down, knew that her face was really flushed and was glad for her dark complexion that hid most outward signs of embarrassing moments. She clicked one thumbnail against the other, then looked back up and replied, "Yes, sir. That would be just fine. I mean, tomorrow would be OK. If that's OK with you, that is."

"And about what time will you get them here, do you suppose?"

"Oh, I'll probably go over late morning or so."

"Will he be in town or in the Park again anytime soon?" David Jones inquired. "I'd like to speak to him about this business. I still have my doubts there ever was a body, you know. I'm a man of science and only believe what I see or what can be proven. I want to be sure there is something to work with before I jump into this business wholeheartedly. Deputy Botts assures me that Mr. Ivers is a ne'er do well and not to be trusted. I prefer to see that for myself."

David Jones looked down at the papers in front of him and then stood. Her appointment obviously over, Jenny also stood and retreated out the door. Suzanne winked at her from under her tiny earphones as she left.

Chapter 18

The young man behind the Park information desk at Crossroad had been most helpful as he pointed out that tourists weren't theoretically allowed on any service road but if they should happen across one there was nothing to keep them from following it. With that he had taken a yellow Quick Reference Marker and traced a line showing the exact location and length on a Park map.

Pat nursed the Pontiac over the graveled road that followed the shoreline along Black Lake to Kelt's Lodge, found the dirt service road and slowly followed it to where the Park's road ended and the utility's service road began. He got out and opened the back door, thought better of putting on the back pack, and followed the road under the electric lines, up the bottom of the canyon and along the creek that fed Black Lake. He guessed that the Timini was two or three hundred yards up the hill on the far side of the creek.

The service road generally followed the bottom of the canyon, rarely very far from the creek, a clear, swiftly flowing thing that was a gurgling series of short rapids and small falls and still, deep pools. Where the old slide had partially dammed it, the creek widened out into a soft, spongy marsh. Yellow flowered bushes covered the flat area and Pat stopped to rest. The road to this point had been quite steep and when he turned to look back he could see parts of Black Lake through the trees and even some of the red tiled roofs of Kelt's Lodge.

He turned and continued along the road which had now flattened out and made for easier walking. He slowed and watched the ground, hoping for any kind of a sign but knowing the rain had washed the ground here even cleaner than on the Timini. Past the slide, the road started to climb again, and fifteen minutes later, it made a sharp left. Pat stopped and let his eyes follow the electric lines as they went up and over the mountain to the other side. The road as it continued was little more than two parallel tracks that followed the wires and even a quick glance showed they hadn't been used for quite a while. The ruts and rocks and small trees growing in the tracks would make travel by any four wheeled vehicle all but impossible.

He turned and looked down the valley again, could occasional hear very faint highway noises in the distance, then turned and stepped across the narrow creek at a gap in the bushes that lined its banks and walked up the gentle slope on the other side. Before he had gone ten yards, he intercepted the Timini. He glanced both ways to get his bearings, and then knew he would have to go no more than fifty yards, if that, to the bottom of the boulder field.

He looked back toward Black Lake but could see nothing because of the trees growing beside the trail. Nor could he see anything from the bottom of the boulder field. Higher on the trail, however, around the switchback and up, he could see the trail through the trees below, could easily make out the service road he had just followed and parts of the creek that it followed as the sun glistened off the moving water. He could make out the road that followed the power lines over the mountain, the jumble of boulders from the old slide, even two people picking their way through them near the top. He grunted to himself. Anyone could look out from here and never see any of this if they weren't looking at exactly the right spot and for exactly the right thing. He never had, at least.

Satisfied, he swung back down the trail in his long, distance-eating stride, down the slope, across the creek and back onto the service road toward his car.

Pat had seen landslides on television and in movies with their dust and rumble and huge rocks that bounced up in the air as they went helter-skelter down the hill, obliterating every object in their path. This is not what happened and it caught him unaware. Instead of what he imagined would be a characteristic roar and bouncing rocks, the whole hillside just looked like it decided to slip. The rocks and trees moved but they did it in concert, their relative positions almost unchanged.

He was aware that something was different, knew that the low, ominous rumble was not something that occurred ordinarily, but didn't figure it out until the leading edge of the moving mass was almost upon him. His eyes got large and his breath stuck in his throat, his whole body stiffened and for just an instant he stood frozen in one spot.

He turned and ran, looking back as he did so, and knew that he wasn't nearly fast enough to outrun the dust and roar and a sure death at the hands of the moving mountain. He jumped off the trail and got on the downhill side of the biggest boulder in sight, one that would normally be considered huge but now seemed minuscule as he lunged around and hunkered down at its base, trying to wedge himself into as small an area as he possibly could. His knees were shaking, his ears deafened by the terrifying noise. The first of the rocks bounced around on each side of his enclave and his vision was blocked and his lungs choked with a dark, fine, profuse dust that blotted out even the sun.

He burrowed deeper under the rock, tried to become one with it, pressed up against it so hard that he scraped the skin on one side of his face.

"If there's a God in heaven, then watch over and protect me," he shouted as loud as he could, but the words were snatched out of his mouth by the roar and wind the falling rocks created.

Smaller rocks filled in behind him as the debris piled up. He squeezed his eyes shut, then felt the huge rock he was hiding behind start to move, not the shaking or vibrations he had felt up to now but a definite shift in its angle of repose.

"Oh shit! Oh shit," he screamed.

He was really scared, more so than he thought he had ever been in his life. He willed his legs to get moving, to get him out from behind this rock that was about to fall over and snuff out his feeble little life, but they wouldn't. They merely lifted his body to a standing position and then froze. His arms were dead weight. His heart was pumping so fast that had he taken the time to acknowledge it, he might have been afraid of going into overload.

The adrenaline coursed through his veins and he pushed with all his might against the rock, the veins in his neck expanding out to almost bursting, a frail attempt to keep it upright.

Around him, the sliding hillside was coming to a halt but he was unaware of this, was still trying to make his legs move, still trying to get his nose and mouth down inside his shirt so that he could breathe again without choking, still trying to hold the rock upright. The dust made his eyes water and tears ran down his cheeks, creating little rivulets of pink across the black dirt that stuck to his skin. He tried to remember any prayer at all that his mother had taught him but was unsuccessful, uttering instead only a series of sobs and heaves that he was sure would be his last.

He was still pushing, praying, crying, trying to move his rigid limbs when he realized that the only noises were echoes from a distance, that the dust was not as thick and he could almost see the top of the rock above him, could almost breathe without choking up and coughing.

He realized that there were rocks pressing against his legs, made a mental inventory of all the body parts and was glad when he realized the rocks were hurting him. At least he still had feeling.

Gingerly he lifted first one arm, then the other, looked at his hands as he wiggled his fingers, sat on his knees, then on his haunches and looked around. He had hunkered down between two fair sized rocks at the bottom of the huge boulder he had chosen for shelter. These had kept the rocks that came around each side from crushing him, from even hitting him with any force at all. They had also probably kept the huge boulder that now hung over him at a precarious angle from moving any farther than it had.

"Thank you, Lord," he said out loud, then started to stand, slowly, checking his limbs to make sure they were still intact. Both legs were sore and bruised from rocks hitting them, his back and arms felt like Atlas must have felt after a hard day's work carrying the world around, his head felt like it would at least fall off every time he moved it left or right. But all of the pain felt good, he was alive and glad to be so.

Rocks were still moving in various places on the hillside, little trickles of stone that broke out first one place, then another, as if the hillside weren't quite ready to be still. The ones he grabbed hold of to hoist himself out of his shelter were of no help, merely collapsed in on him so that he got another set of bruises as they bounced off his chest and legs.

But the dust finally lifted and sunlight again fell on his thankful eyes. He stood next to his lifesaving rock and surveyed the damage. How and why he was still alive he had no idea. He was not only alive, but almost unscathed!

Perhaps there was, after all, a God and He really did have His eye on the sparrow and all His creatures.

Then again, perhaps it was just dumb luck.

Whatever.

The falling rocks had completely covered the little marshy glade through which the creek had run, knocked over several utility poles and completely obliterated the road. Pat looked at the havoc and wondered if it were really destruction or just change, then headed on shaky legs across the now silent debris.

Chapter 19

Visitors and rangers alike stared at Pat's dirt streaked face and torn clothes. He now walked with only a slight limp. His legs had managed to get most of their strength back although they ached, along with almost every other part of his body. The young ranger didn't seem particularly interested in his story but dutifully noted the time, location and his name, filling in each item on a form he retrieved from beneath the counter. As they finished, a voice came from the office nearest the outside door.

"Is Brush back yet?"

Another ranger, farther along the counter and busy talking to an older couple, replied, "No. She's probably hasn't had the time to get there."

"Why didn't two of you go? You know boats, the lake and the rules. Who saw it go?" The unseen voice from the office again.

"I did."

David Jones had entered the building and now stood in the door from which the unseen voice had come. Pat couldn't see the man cringe in the icy stare, but he did see the look on David Jones' face, a look designed to thwart even the mere hint of any challenge to his authority.

"What's she after?" Pat asked of the ranger as the Park director spun and took the stairs to his office two at a time.

The young man was just now finishing the report, his head bent low over the desk and the pen held awkwardly between his index and middle fingers as he wrote.

"Boat," he replied, not looking up from the paper.

"Been gone long?" Pat asked to the top of his head.

The ranger looked at his watch, returned the pen to his shirt pocket, slid the paperwork into a metal tray, and said, "Half hour, hour maybe."

He came out from behind the counter and walked to the windows that formed one entire wall of the visitor center. He stood against one double glassed pane and pointed to the far end of the deck, the edge that connected with the dam that created Tinker's Sink, the name of the lake over which they were now looking.

"We keep all the boats under the deck, there. Someone didn't tie it up right and the wind pushed it out and across the Sink. I expect by now she should be getting pretty close to the cove where it was headed."

The ranger pointed to a rocky cliff that dominated all the others that lined the shore on that side of the lake. "I expect that's where it ended up."

Pat thanked the young man and walked out onto the deck and down the stairs to the beach. A truck was dumping another load of sand from the quarry in Junction. A never-ending task, it seemed, trying to keep this beach sandy against the combined forces of wind and water that tried to carry it away.

He got in the car and was about to start it when he had a second notion. He sat a minute and then, instead of driving back to the ranch, got out and retrieved his backpack and swung into his long, easy gait, now slightly altered by the bruises on his legs, across the sand and past the ice and drink machines, past the showers and bathrooms, and finally onto the south trail, taking the newly purchased camera from its pocket in his backpack as he did so, more from force of habit rather than any particular interest in the scenery.

The south trail was one with which Pat was relatively unfamiliar. He had walked it once or twice but it was generally not what he considered photogenic and that once or twice had been enough to satisfy him. The lone exception was when he had been caught in one of those unexpected mountain showers that comes while the sun still shines. He had just climbed to a small summit on the trail and was confronted with one of the most vivid rainbows he had ever seen. That was worth two rolls of film before it disappeared.

He preferred the trail that followed the north side of the lake. It sloped to the water's edge with trees and meadows running almost the entire length. These provided a profusion of flowers and abundant chances to view and photograph wildlife that came out to the water's edge. Not only was it prettier, it continued farther than the one on the south shore, up a twisting, narrow, deep canyon with steep walls and a multitude of connecting and cross canyons. Tinker's Maze, the Park's namesake. A good sized stream occupied its bottom, bubbled out of an icy spring called Tinker's Tank after the gang of outlaws who, during the late 1800s, occasionally took refuge in the hollow where it originated. From there it passed under pretty little bridges the Park had built on the trail, widened out into pools clear enough to see the ouzels as they dipped, and cascaded over rapids and falls before emptying into the lake.

The south trail was not generally favored by the hiking public. The shoreline rose almost perpendicularly from the water in a jumble of boulders and sharp rocks interspersed only occasionally with patches of level, rocky ground that supported a small variety of stunted trees, bushes and grasses. Wildlife rarely appeared on this side.

The cove to which the ranger had pointed was much farther than it had seemed when standing in the building. Not only a lot farther but much rougher as well. In and out, over and around boulders and escarpments the trail led as it wound its way along the lake. Pat stopped only twice to take pictures, and then was not enthusiastic about the envisioned results. The view here was one of water and rocks, nothing to make it unusual or even very interesting unless you were here after a storm or at twilight when the color of the sky might add a touch of interest.

A high cliff jutted out into the lake and served to form a boundary for the cove. The trail made a sudden right turn at the very tip of this cliff, then meandered down to the water's edge at the end farthest from the lake before following in and through a jumble of driftwood and boulders and coarse gravel that marked the water's edge. As he descended, he looked out across the dark water, expecting to see a light green boat pulled up along the shore, unconsciously noted how the air changed from hot and dry to cool and wet as he got closer to the water, was permeated with the smell of fish and water plants instead of dust and evergreens.

There was no boat in the cove and, disappointed, he wondered if perhaps Jenny had already corralled it and gone back when he saw, close to the water's edge, a pair of soggy, official brown shorts, a matching shirt and some underclothes spread over several rocks. A pair of now familiar hiking boots was in the gravel below, topped with a wide-brimmed ranger's hat.

"Skinny dipping," he said to himself, then continued walking the trail around to the lake proper, staying as close to the water's edge as he could. As he rounded the point, he spied the breakaway boat halfway to the back of a smaller inlet, still floating free but upside down. His brow knit as he scanned the shore. No bare legged Park ranger was to be seen.

"Jenny," he called, not loudly but with enough volume to be heard at the farthest end of the little cranny in the lake. "Jenny Brush."

"Hey," came the almost inaudible reply, but from the water rather than the shore.

"Where are you?" he called, just slightly louder than the first time.

He looked at the boat but could see nothing except a light green hump in the dark water. He walked faster and called again.

"Hey," came from the boat.

He looked closer and could see a dark bump in the side of the boat. He looked even closer. The bump was a head.

"You out there, Jenny?" he called, cupping his hands around his mouth to direct the sounds.

There was no reply but he could see a hand move above the head, dark against the light color of the boat.

"You all right?" he called, feeling his heart begin to pound. Adrenalin began to flow again and made his joints jitter, covered over the pain of his bruises and aches, made him forget his dull but persistent headache.

Just the hand wave and a soft "Hey."

He shook his head, then shrugged out of the back pack, removed his shirt, sneakers, socks and pants. The water quickly became deeper than his head and he thrashed toward the boat. The icy cold made it easier to breathe in than out. The air stayed in the top of his lungs, reluctant to go any deeper than absolutely necessary.

It seemed a long time but he had actually been in the water less than two minutes by the time he reached the boat. Already his extremities were beginning to numb. The water was really cold. He could see that Jenny's color was not right. Her lips were a funny shade of dark and her nose a bright red lump. She smiled but didn't move otherwise, her lids half closed over bloodshot eyes.

"What the hell are you doing?" Pat shouted at her. "Wake up, you hear?"

He reached over and took her chin in his hands, moved it back and forth, then paddled in and pulled her close. Her skin felt like a fish's, smooth and slick and just about the same temperature as the water.

"Jeez, you're freezing," he said, not necessarily to inform her of the fact but rather just to have something to say.

He looked back toward the shore not more than 50 yards away. So close, so far.

"Can you get in the boat if I turn it over?" he asked.

She shivered and opened her eyes, then pulled her arms tightly around him.

"We've got to get out of here," he said, loudly. "Can you get in the boat if I turn it over? Can you stay up while I try to turn it?"

She smiled, shivered, nodded yes. Pat knew she couldn't. He reached behind him and, with one arm still clutching the girl, pulled them toward the stern.

Once he had positioned them both at the rear of the little boat he said, loudly, "I'm going to turn around. I want you to grab onto my back. OK?"

She shivered but didn't open her eyes. He repeated, "OK? You hear me?"

This time she did open her eyes and nod. He took one of her arms and lifted it over his head, spun around and then made sure both her hands were clasped together again before grabbing the boat and rocking it back and forth. The waves created by the rocking splashed over the pair of them, and he finally let out a grunt and gave a great effort, sinking the boat under the water as he did so. It disappeared, then slipped sideways and resurfaced, full of water but with the right side up. Jenny had loosened her grip and Pat splashed around, grabbed her hair and pulled her back toward him.

"Don't do that to me, you hear?" he shouted.

She smiled and fluttered her eyes, then locked her grip again.

"You're going in the boat. OK? You hear me? I'm going to push you over the end of the boat. You're going to help me. Got that? It's full of water but it'll stay up enough for you to keep your head above water. Tell me you heard me. Now!"

"I heard you," she said softly and opened her eyes to look at him, his face barely six inches from hers.

"You're going to grab the gunwale, then kick like hell and pull yourself in. I'll help the best I can but I can't do it alone. You got that? Kick like the dickens and pull yourself up. If you do it right you'll spill right on over into the boat. Tell me what you're going to do. Tell me now."

"Kick my feet, pull into the boat. And you don't have to shout. I'm right here."

"Right," he said, softer than before but still louder than normal. "You ready?"

She nodded and he guided her hands to the boat's wood edge and got behind her, placing his hands on each side of her waist.

"Kick!" he commanded.

She responded with a feeble movement of her legs and pulled slightly toward the boat.

Pat kicked as hard as he could and went under as he pushed her up. When he resurfaced, she was still holding on the end of the boat.

"Crumb," he said to no one in particular. "Let's go. This won't work at all. Turn around again, OK?"

She did so, slowly, and locked her arms around him. He pushed away from the boat, hating to do so since it went against everything he had ever been taught, but he knew he couldn't get her into it and that he couldn't push it to shore and hold her both.

"Can you still kick?" he asked, thinking that any movement at all would get her circulation going better than it was at the moment.

She responded with a small movement of her legs and he shouted, "Good! That's good. I can't do it for both of us. You'll have to help so keep it up."

He continued to talk in her face as he used his legs and free arm to propel them toward the shore. Her eyes remained open now, looking closely at Pat's scarred eyebrow and crooked nose. Every few strokes he would ask through ragged breaths, "I can't see a thing. Are we any closer?"

She would invariably smile and work her legs a little, then slack off after two or three kicks.

He banged his knee on a hidden rock, looked up and saw they were closer than he had dared to hope, let his legs drift toward the bottom and stood up.

"For chrissake, help me, will you?" he demanded, gasping, as she sank into the water again.

She stood up, then and wobbled back and forth when she released her grip. Pat caught her, pulled her closest arm up over his head and around his neck, caught her around her waist with his other arm, then staggered from one submerged rock to the next as he worked toward the shore. The shallow water felt absolutely temperate but he knew that was an illusion, remembered how frigid it felt when he first went in.

Twice he slipped on slimy rocks and went down. By the time they finally made it to the shore he felt like collapsing. The air was dry and, in the shade, cool and the breeze brought goose bumps to both their skins. He half-dragged, half-pushed her along the trail, past the end of the shady nook and out into the sunshine. There he let her slip down onto the smooth round top of a rock between the trail and the water's edge.

He walked as fast as he could, still breathing heavily and shivering himself, and retrieved his backpack and clothes. Jenny was shivering, curled up into a small fetal mass, her eyes closed tight. Slobber bridged between the bottom corner of her mouth and the rock. Pat threw his shirt over her, then began rubbing her arms with a leg of his pants, first the one that was on top, then as much as he could of the one she had pinned under her. She curled up even tighter, drawing her legs completely under the shirt. He used the other pant leg to dry her hair as best he could, then put them on and slipped his feet into his shoes.

"Can you wait here for just a minute while I go get your clothes?" he asked.

"Just a minute and I'll go with you," she said in a shaky voice, pushing the spit off her mouth with her tongue.

She made no move to get up and Pat set off alone on the trail in a gentle jog, barely able to lift his feet from the path. When he returned she still hadn't moved, didn't answer when he spoke to her and he had to shake her to get her attention.

"Better put your clothes on. They're dry and will help you get warm again. I'll see if I can get a fire started."

"No fire," she said, but didn't move.

"What do you mean, no fire? You're freezing to death, lady, and you tell me no fire? Have you got a better idea?"

"No fire. Not allowed." She tried to sit up but the effort nauseated her and she lay back down in the same position and hugged her knees.

"Neither's hunting," he said softly and rummaged around in his back pack until he found a butane lighter and some tissue paper. There was a relatively sheltered place in the sun where some small gravel and sand had gathered between a gaggle of larger rocks. He gathered some driftwood together and started a small fire. She didn't move during the whole procedure and he had to lift up and carry her to it once it was going.

He let her pile of clothes drop to the ground beside her, then took his shirt and shook it like a rug trying to get the moisture off. He tilted her forward and put her own shirt around her shoulders, then his. She leaned back again and he arranged her khaki shorts so that they covered her thighs.

"I owe you," she said, the quivering almost gone from her voice, although her body still shook, mildly but with an occasional more violent spasm.

"Yeah, you do."

"Twice I owe you."

"Yeah, so I'll collect sometime," he responded.

He laid her socks over a rock near the tiny fire, placed his shoes and socks on another rock, then picked up one of her legs, placed her foot in his lap and began to rub the ankle and calf, pushed up so that the blood returned to the heart rather than being pulled away.

"Don't rub the skin off," she said after several minutes, so he put the one leg back on the ground and repeated the procedure on the other until she complained about that one, too.

"Why don't we get your pants on?" he asked when he thought she was recovered enough to move, and struggled to get both legs started and into her shorts.

"Most guys would want my pants off," she muttered.

He could feel the warmth radiate through his groin and hoped she didn't look at him at that particular moment.

"I know the feeling, but you're in no condition. You'd be just like a vibrator, though," he said, not looking up at her. "That might be quite an experience."

She made no move to help other than try to lift her middle so he could slide them up over her hips. Her eyes were open now and she watched him all the while. He struggled with the last few inches and she finally took the tops and pulled them completely on, watching his face as he rocked back on his heels and looked up at her.

He nodded toward her hand. "You still married?"

She raised her left hand and looked at the lighter color where her wedding ring had once been.

"No."

She looked up from her hand. He was looking right exactly into her eyes and she felt flushed.

"Yes, but only until all the papers get finished up. I haven't seen JD since I left Arkansas. That's another reason I left. I wanted to get far enough away that I wouldn't always be reminded of what I had hoped might be."

"You haven't had it off very long, have you?"

She shook her head and continued haltingly. "I wore it for a little while. Being married is easier than being alone. I didn't know that when I left, but it is. Living alone is hard."

"I can appreciate that," he nodded.

"I only knew that JD scared me. He really scared me when he was drinking, but it got to the point where he even scared me when he wasn't. I left him once, right after the first time he grabbed my hair and dragged me down the apartment steps. But we got back together again. That was rather dumb, wasn't it? The next time he did it I knew he was really just a mean person and I left for good. He used to hit me sometimes, even when he wasn't drunk. It wasn't too bad at first but each time he hit me it was a little harder, and it seemed like each time was a little sooner. I was scared of him, I truly was. He didn't seem like the same boy I married."

She had said all this while looking at the ground in front of her, now raised her eyes and saw that Pat was still looking directly at her face. She pulled the two shirts around her shoulders, drew her knees up to her chin and clasped them tightly with both hands. Her shivering was almost under control.

Pat moved to a rock on the opposite side and sat looking at her. Asked, "What were you trying to do with the boat?"

"Jonesy said to bring it back. It didn't look very far away so I thought I'd just wade out to it, get in and paddle it back. Have you ever tried to swim with all your clothes on? Well, it's not very easy to do so I came back out and took them off and then started off again. I got out to it OK, but it was deeper than I thought and then it turned over when I tried to get in and then the wind blew it back out into the lake and around and into this cove here where you found me. I wasn't strong enough to push it ashore and then I got tired and cold and was afraid to leave it."

The rocks protected them from the breeze and the sun felt good on his chest. He stretched his legs out in front of him, leaned his head back and half closed his eyes. It wasn't until he became aware of her silently looking at him that he started to feel self-conscious about the scars on his body. His face reddened and he crossed his arms over his chest and drew his knees up.

Jenny felt his discomfort, and said, "You were wounded pretty badly, weren't you?"

Pat smiled. "They're not all from the war," he said and leaned his head back again. The day's activities were beginning to tell on his energy reserve and he suddenly felt like he could sleep clear into next week and then still be tired.

He looked comfortable, facing into the sun, eyes closed, soaking up all that warmth. She stood up, weaving just a bit until the head rush passed, pulled the two shirts loosely over her shoulders, and sat beside him, her arm dark against his lighter, sun reddened skin. She leaned her head back against the same rock as he, closed her eyes, and concentrated on the warmth of the late afternoon sun going through her face and neck, her stomach, her arms and legs. It felt so good after the chill of the water.

"Do they all still hurt?" she asked, not opening her eyes or moving her head.

"Just my legs."

"Mm. How'd you get the rest of them?"

"Motorcycles," he responded through a sleepy haze.

"You're crazy," she replied, aware of his more rhythmic breathing, her own senses clouding over and slipping away as the exertion of the last hour overcame her.

That's how Davy and Kyle found them when K got worried and sent out another pair of rangers to see what had happened. Two half naked bodies leaned against a rock in the last golden rays of the setting sun. Pat's arm had gone around her while they dozed and she had nuzzled into his side.

Davy and Kyle looked at each other, snickered, and returned to Crossroad, taking a story and the now wind-beached boat with them, upside down and on their heads, one to each end.

Chapter 20

David Jones was livid.

"Just what was going on in your head, Brush? If you're going to bonk this drifter, at least have the courtesy to do it in private."

Jenny sat in the wood chair facing the desk while the Park director paced back and forth behind her. The window was dark and a single bulb burned in its fixture in the center of the room, making harsh shadows. Pat waited in the visitor center downstairs. He hadn't been invited to the inner sanctum.

David Jones, although upset, never raised his voice.

"Did you tie the boat up?" He answered for her, "No. Did you return when you were finished? No. Did you have any idea that others might get concerned when you didn't return? No. How late would you have stayed if Davy and Kyle hadn't come looking for you? What if they had been visitors instead of employees? How would that have looked? Do you understand that I'm very upset?"

He paused in his pacing and stood looking at the back of her head.

She didn't move, said quietly, "I was not making love with Mr. Ivers. Nor had I made love with Mr. Ivers any time this afternoon. Nor have I ever made love with Mr. Ivers."

"Two people of the opposite sex, asleep next to each other, not a stitch of clothes between them. What am I to think, Miss Brush? That the good Lord just dropped you there in your birthday suit? Let's face it, the facts point to some entirely different conclusion!"

Jenny spoke without moving her head, quietly, to the vacant desk in front of her. "Have you asked me what happened?" She answered for him, affecting a tone similar to his. "No. Were you there to see what happened? No. Did either Davy or Kyle ask me what was happening? No. The simple fact is that I got stranded in the lake with the boat and Mr. Ivers was kind enough to get me out and keep me from freezing. And the fact is that we were both wearing more than just our birthday suits."

"By taking your clothes off." Jones ignored her last protestation of innocence. "He kept you from freezing by taking your clothes off. That makes a lot of sense! What were you doing in the lake with the boat, Miss Brush? I said to make sure it was beached. Did Mr. Ivers help you beach the boat?"

"No. It was still free after we got out of the water. You only said to bring the boat back, not beach it or tie it up, just bring it back. That's what I was trying to do when Mr. Ivers found me. He just came by, OK?"

"OK? What do you mean, he came by to see if you were still OK? Does he always come by to see that you're out of harm's way? Does he follow you around to be sure you're safe and sound? Doesn't he think it's safe, you working here in the Park? Does he hold your hand when you cross the street? Does he check the toilet seat before you sit down? Does he go into your room first to be sure there are no ghosts? Make sense, Brush!"

Jenny stood up and turned around, her patience wearing thin. She was exactly as tall as the Park director, looked neither up to him nor down at him. "Did you know there was another avalanche above Blacks Lake? I doubt it. Did you know he was caught in it? Probably not. Pat thinks someone is trying to get rid of him and any evidence that there really was a body on the Timini. He's probably concerned about his safety. I've been with him and so maybe he's also concerned for my safety. Is that so bad, Mr. Jones?"

She turned to keep facing him as he walked around and sat behind his desk in his stiff pseudo-military manner. He looked at her a moment, motioned her to sit which she ignored for several seconds before finally sitting at the front on the very edge. His face had returned to its normal color and his voice was completely under control when he said, "You think that Mr. Ivers suspects foul play in, ahh, what shall we call it? The Mystery of the Disappearing Corpse?"

"Yes, he does."

"And you, Miss Brush. Do you also suspect foul play?"

"I don't know for sure. There are plenty of aspects that make the whole thing seem unlikely, and yet he had the photographs. I saw them. There was no doubt in my mind that it wasn't staged. Those pictures were very real."

"Let me remind you that your Mr. Ivers is also a drifter, known to have, shall we say, less than principled acquaintances. He has also spent time in jail, Miss Brush. Are you aware of that?"

"I know that, Mr. Jones."

"Did you know Mr. Werkmann, Miss Brush?"

"No, Mr. Jones, I didn't know Curtiss Werkmann."

"He's the owner of Werkmann Aviation. Perhaps you have heard of that, Miss Brush?"

"No, I've never heard of Werkmann Aviation."

"Werkmann Aviation is located in Capital. They rebuild aircraft to specification for corporate executives. Mr. Werkmann owns much more than controlling interest in the operation. Or should I put that in the past tense and say owned? His wife now owns that interest. His wife, Caroline. You met her earlier today, if you'll recall, Miss Brush."

He paused for a reply but Jenny said nothing. He waited as was his habit but still Jenny said nothing. She looked straight across at him, working hard to keep her eyes level on his and her hands still in her lap. Her nostrils twitched ever so slightly as, at the mention of Caroline Werkmann, she recalled her scent, a scent that was still in the air.

"Do you believe a person really struck him on the head and then fled in 'a big, black car' as you so succinctly put it?"

He looked at her. She still said nothing and he continued, "He also said there was a motor home in the car-park. Let me remind you that none of this has been substantiated."

"Just his word, is all." Jenny's voice was devoid of all emotion. "That must count for something. That and the fact that he did report it. Nor did he hide the fact that he knew of Mr. Werkmann."

David Jones ignored her and said, "Could this Lincoln of Mr. Werkmann's have been the same 'big, black car' that Mr. Ivers saw leaving the car-park? That is, assuming one ever left the car-park without Mr. Ivers in it."

Jenny was startled by this statement and hesitated before replying, "I don't understand what you mean."

"What I mean is that Deputy Botts has a theory that your Mr. Ivers knew Mr. Werkmann, was black mailing him or maybe was just a thief out for the money he carried, which was well known to be substantial. Maybe he hit him, or they struggled, but in any event, Mr. Werkmann was, shall we say, done in."

Jenny again held her face completely motionless while David Jones waited for her to say something. She didn't immediately, but rather sat for another minute trying to get her thoughts back in order, then asked, "But if Pat was with Mr. Werkmann at the Timini car-park, how did the Lincoln get clear up to the Rapids? I don't see the connection."

"Deputy Botts doesn't think Mr. Ivers was ever at the Timini car-park that his car was at the Rapids car-park which is only a little more than half a mile from where Mr. Werkmann's car went off the road."

"Excuse me, Mr. Jones, but what about the slides? Pat has pictures. I saw them."

"I would suspect that Mr. Ivers is very capable of altering photographs. I would venture to guess that they aren't the originals. No, Miss Brush, I'm afraid that Deputy Botts has a rather compelling case."

"He's got squat," she said, a bit more forcefully than intended. "What he has is an unhealthy dislike for Mr. Ivers and he's going about trying to frame him."

"Miss Brush, let me assure you that Deputy Botts has no such feeling for this Mr. Ivers. He is an officer of the law and as such has sworn to uphold that law, regardless of his feelings for any particular person that falls under his jurisdiction. Do you understand that, Miss Brush?"

"I know what officers of the law are supposed to do. Russell Botts is not an ordinary officer of the law. In fact ..."

"I'm glad you concur with me regarding Deputy Botts' capabilities, Miss Brush. We at the Park will be working with him under the assumption that the demise of Mr. Werkmann was not natural, that it was caused by a fellow human being, and that person is your Mr. Ivers."

Jenny let out a quick breath and sat back in her chair, not ready to accept the fact that Pat was now a suspect in a murder. Her mind was in a jumble and she was unaware that Mr. Jones was watching her or that several minutes passed before she again said anything.

"Patrick Ivers didn't kill anybody," she stated flatly.

"I'm sorry you feel that way, Miss Brush. Mr. Ivers is a Viet Nam veteran. He was trained to kill, was a member of an army of fighting men whose reputation upon their return was, how shall we say, less than savory. They, as a group, are well known to have flash backs, moments of black fury of which they later have no recollection. Their mental state is, generally, unbalanced.

"I know, Miss Brush. I have seen them, you know. Many times I've had to deal with such people in my National Guard unit. They don't fit in, they're restless and untrustworthy. They're troublemakers, almost every one of them.

"And I'm afraid that it is quite certain Mr. Ivers has killed, Miss Brush. He has killed in the past, quite certainly. His reputation in this territory is quite tarnished. A lush and a squabbler. No, I know, and I think you know he's a killer, has quite definitely been so in the past and the facts are such that I'm quite certain he's killed again."

David Jones paused. Jenny was looking past him, out the window into the night. It just couldn't be true that Pat was a murderer. She had no absolute proof other than she just felt that way. But why was Jones setting him up like this? Russell Botts was not so persuasive that a person with any intelligence at all couldn't see right through him. Somehow there was something that Jones was missing, but she couldn't find the words to express this to him, was too amazed to even open her mouth.

"Now, Miss Brush, I'm afraid the Park has too many employees. Your conduct this afternoon was less than reputable. I'm giving you notice of termination," David Jones' voice cut into her thoughts, the full impact not coming for a minute until she had time to think about what he had just said.

"I'm required to give you ten days' notice, which I am now giving you. You may either work for those ten days or not, Miss Brush. Normally I would insist that the employee work. You were good help until this afternoon. I will make an exception in your case should you decide to leave now. Either way, you would, of course, still receive your pay for that time."

She looked at him with unbelieving eyes, her mouth partially open, not ready for such an abrupt end to her time in the Park, thinking of how it would complicate her life. Her finances were a mess and she would have hardly enough to get to a city where she could find another job.

Mr. Jones stood.

She also stood and said, "This isn't fair, even. I've worked hard for you. Your perception of this afternoon is completely and way off base. I was supposed to be considered for a permanent job. I've done nothing to warrant being dismissed."

Mr. Jones walked to the door and opened it without saying anything. She turned and glared at him, then left the room without looking in his direction again. The smell of Caroline's perfume was even stronger in the receptionist's office. She hadn't noticed it on the way in. Again, Jenny's nostrils twitched. She halted abruptly and then turned right instead of going straight ahead to the outer door. David Jones made a quick step through the door, positioning himself in front of her.

"Where are you going, Miss Brush?"

"I'm going to use the ladies' room, if that's all right with you, David. Even though Mr. Ivers isn't here to check the seat for me, I have to pee."

"Do it downstairs, Miss Brush."

Jenny looked needles and darts at him, then whirled and stalked out the door, not slamming it but shutting it harder than she normally would, walked stiffly down the stairs in a red haze of anger, past the glass counters and stuffed animals and map displays, didn't answer Pat when he asked her what happened, marched out the door and across the parking lot, opened the passenger's door to the Pontiac and climbed in, folded her arms across her stomach, then began to cry.

"Jeez, what happened up there?" Pat kneeled outside the car and talked through the open door.

She didn't answer for a minute, then sniffed and wiped her eyes with the back of one hand.

"I got fired."

Her words came out clear and loud, echoing across the deserted parking lot. She looked straight ahead out the windshield.

"What? Fired for what?"

She still looked straight ahead at the darkened windows of the visitor center and headquarters of her former employer. She paused just slightly and said, again just as loudly and clearly, "Fired for not bringing the boat back. Fired because I was lying beside you. Fired because there are too many people working here now. Can you understand that?" She pulled the door shut for emphasis.

Pat stood up silently, wondering why she was so mad at him and getting ready to defend himself.

"She's there," Jenny said softly.

"Who?" Pat started to turn toward the building.

"Look at me!" she commanded. "Don't look at the building. Caroline. I could smell her perfume. She's in there."

Pat's head snapped back to face front. He stood a minute, and then walked around the car, studiously not looking at the administration building, bent down to check a tire, opened the door and got in. If Jenny had more to say, she kept it to herself and he finally fished the keys from his pocket. The engine caught immediately, its throaty rumble echoing off the building and across the deserted parking lot. He let the tires burn longer in each gear than he had for a long time as he headed toward East Gate.
Chapter 21

Pat drove straight home and did evening chores in the beam of his headlights, trying not to think of the aches and pains that resulted from his afternoon escapades. He thought instead of the tank in his bathroom and its inviting warmth and comfort.

He walked gingerly across the empty front space of the bunker, the outside of what he now called home, what he had dubbed 'the porch.' At the door he stopped, his face a picture of apprehension in the dark. He always closed the door tight to keep out the little desert vermin. The door had no latch so he used a small wedge under the bottom and pulled it up tight. He had vowed to fix that someday, but to this point in time, not even the strongest desert winds had pushed it open so he saw no need to hurry with the change.

The door was now slightly ajar.

Warily he stepped inside, switched on the lights, and scanned the room. Everything seemed in order. There was nothing here that a thief would really want. He strode across the room and flipped the light switch for the inner room, glanced in and saw that everything was pretty much as he remembered he had left it.

There were several camp lanterns in the stacked boxes and he took one, lit it and gave the floor and table a cursory examination. He saw nothing out of the ordinary, moved to look at the layer of fine, well-worn dirt just outside the entrance. Here, along with the familiar sole marks of his sneakers and riding boots were several unfamiliar prints. The track - tracks, actually, there were more than one although none of them were complete - were cut deep into the dirt with an even deeper indentation at the heel. He assumed they had been made by a heavy man, at least as heavy if not heavier than himself. Several partial prints pointed as if they were entering, several as if they were leaving.

He sat the lantern down and carefully placed his own feet just above the tracks that were clearest. Shorter than his own 13s, but wider. Reentering his home, he came back with a pad of artists paper and proceeded to draw an outline of the prints, using one in particular that was more than half complete, filling in with parts of the rest until he had a good drawing of each of the complete soles, using his fingers and hand to measure the prints and get the exact size and shape transferred to paper.

He held the lantern directly above the clearest ones and looked very closely at them, could make out a square depression just about in the middle on one print where the name of the shoe must have been affixed to the sole during manufacture, but couldn't be sure since he could make out no letters or other marks on it. He drew this little square in on the left sole, looked again, but couldn't see it on any other prints so left it off the other.

The entire time he was making the drawing he was consciously aware of his surroundings, tried to be in tune with the night noises, to see if anything else was out of place. He could feel no discord in the cool night air, none of the hairs on his neck moved, no fifth sense of impending disaster or intrusion on his privacy. Whoever had invaded his home had already left.

He went inside and looked momentarily at the oak plank leaning against the wall where it had always stood, decided against barring the door, then walked to the refrigerator by following the wall, setting the lantern in the box from which it had come as he passed, and got out the jar of tea which he carried as he skirted the rest of the room, taking an occasional swallow from the jar as he did so. When he reached the door again, he stopped and looked around the room once more.

Satisfied that nothing was amiss he walked toward the long kitchen table, sat down the jar of tea, and then, as if something suddenly clicked in his mind, turned and strode into the inner room and looked at the tray of his most recent slides. There had been but one empty slot when he had shown them to Jenny earlier in the day. Now there were several empty slots and he knew, without looking, just which ones were missing. He replaced the tray in the projector and confirmed his fears. All of the pictures he had taken were there except the ones of the body.

"Damn you, Russell," he said under his breath.

He grabbed and lit the lantern, went to the front door, opened it again and stood looking at the tracks in the dirt. Try as he might, he couldn't make them fit Russell's feet. To begin with, he had never seen Russell in anything but the highest-heeled western style boots, and these were definitely not those. And secondly, Russell had uncommonly small feet. There was no way Pat could fit the burly lawman with the set of prints at his doorstep.

An accomplice? Possibly. Russell had several unsavory friends that would feel no remorse at all about operating on the greyer side of the law. He said out loud, "Not like you, huh Russell?"

Suspicions welled up in his mind, made all the more real by the dark outside the small halo of his lantern. He felt that he was definitely in danger, that he had probably seen a body he wasn't supposed to see and had evidence of it. Why else would someone swipe his camera or his slides?

They could take the physical evidence, but he still had his memory. He thought back over the day. Strange, full of coincidences. Was the slide up from Black Lake a coincidence? He thought of Jenny. Was the boat in the lake a coincidence? Whoever had stolen his slides probably knew she had seen them. He wondered if she were in danger. He hoped not, didn't remember her saying anything to Russell about them other than the fact that they did exist.

And the lighter? What would that prove? Nothing! Without the slides it was nothing! It was probably nothing much to begin with, but it was something in his mind, something concrete that reminded him he hadn't dreamed the whole ghoulish episode.

He looked at the prints again and tried to imagine someone sneaking into his home. Someone that wasn't Russell. What would they do, knock and wait for an answer? Probably not. After all, who knew he lived back here and not in the house?

No one except Jenny. Could she have taken them? No way, unless she had wings with which to fly over the mountain. The speedometer as he had traveled from East Gate to his home rarely was less than 90. No one had passed him, he had met no one. There was just no way she could possibly have been here and left again without him knowing.

Danny? Probably not. Much too simple to get involved in anything that required any amount of thought or planning.

Then it occurred to him that he must have been watched. This morning? Yesterday? He tried to think back on his movements but they all blended together in his mind. If the person who had swiped his camera were good enough to get that close without his being aware of their presence, it would be nothing to watch him from a distance, see his comings and goings from the old potato bunker. There were, after all, plenty of rocks and rises behind which they could hide, gullies from whose depths they could easily track his movements.

He tried to imagine the best location from which to observe, the easiest to get to, the best vantage points, the easiest from which to escape in case of discovery. It just had to be within sight of the front of the bunker, a fairly large area to be sure. He cataloged them in his mind, meaning to visit each one as soon as daylight made it possible to see again.

How big would the place have to be to conceal a watcher?

Or was there more than one, taking turns watching him while the other relaxed? His assailant of the first night came into his mind and he leaned against the door frame, closed his eyes and pictured him as best he could; the less than average height and slim build, the fluid movements, any other physical characteristics he could conjure up in his mind.

No face to match the body, but he did imagine an approximate size. Smaller, lighter, more graceful than the person whose tracks were at his door.

Was there a connection? There had to be.

"I'll find you," he said into the night air, then raised his voice. "Every one of you."

The echoes bounced off the walls of his porch as he turned and headed, painfully aware of the day's events, for the security of his tank.

Chapter 22

The Silver Saddle Parade was the kickoff to Junction's annual celebration and brawl that revolved around its well-advertised and now famous, or maybe infamous would be more correct, rodeo. The population swelled to at least half again it's normal 14,756 hearty souls and was represented by nearly every one of the states, as well as a good number of foreigners. Roving bars appeared in tents, out of the back of vans and station wagons, push carts, and anywhere else an enterprising person materialized to supplement the town pubs, whose normal capacity could do no more than prime the proverbial pump. Not only were there half again more people, it seemed like each of the extras would put away at least half again what the normal citizens of Junction would, and that, by itself, was extraordinary.

It was a rollicking time and the actual rodeo seemed almost lost in the hubbub and swirl of events that were supposed to support it. The Parade itself was the tamest, the most civilized of the festivities. An arm wrestling contest ran the entire four days, as did sand volleyball and three-on-three basketball, all double elimination events. Thursday afternoon belonged to the motorcycle enthusiasts in the crowd and included flat track and figure eight races and hockey. Friday was the pickup pull and mud races. Saturday was polo, pushball and the demolition derby. The actual rodeo coexisted with each of the other activities, elimination rounds in the afternoon and finals at night in the brightly lit arena. Each day's events were followed by fireworks sponsored by various civic groups, each of whom tried to outdo the other so that there were three nights of increasingly spectacular shows over the town.

The final event, held Sunday morning after all the other events had finished and the carnival had packed up and moved on, almost as an afterthought, was the annual Silver Saddle Burro Race, the least civilized of the organized events. This race was run over a different trail each year. Originating at the rodeo grounds, it wound around and through the roughest, most inhospitable territory that could be found and always ended with a mad dash along Main Street and back to the rodeo grounds. Recent years saw the trail moved away from some of the most dangerous places so that more contestants reached the end riding instead of lying flat. Each man (no female had ever entered the event) rode his animal in a liquid fog, trying madly to follow the little orange and yellow flags that marked the course, never quite sure of where they were or where the trail led next, following the leader and hoping he was headed in the right direction. They rode the entire loop as one bunched group with rarely a straggler. There was jostling and punching, shouts, curses, laughs and, for the last one back, a good cry, for that animal was barbecued and served up as the main course for the final meal.

Linda Lou locked her boarding house and relocated her entire entourage, joining forces and sharing accommodations with Irma who operated in Junction year round. She profited well from the move. Casino operators, not wishing to look out over empty houses for three nights, moved most of their operation north, renting mobile homes and huge tents for the event. East Gate and its small but glittering Avenue was virtually deserted.

It was in the Silver Saddle Parade that Pat now found himself, decked out in a well pressed, grey western style suit with shiny buttons and mother of pearl snaps, and dark stitching that followed the graceful curve of the seams and accentuated his long, slim physique. The shiny grey boots had cost substantially more than he thought they were worth and he wore them only for special occasions, in fact had worn them and the suit only once before, to the Silver Saddle Parade the previous year.

He had almost been a no show, but a trio of aspirin had pushed the pain from his aching head and bruised legs far enough into the background that he finally loaded Mandy and made the trip north.

He waved to a small group of giggling high school girls, reined Mandy in a bit so there was more room between him and the convertible carrying one of the queen's court and her escort, then pulled the mare left, away from the crowd, as the rider behind bumped into him. Mandy made a complete circle, started to rear but didn't as Pat pulled gently on the reins and tightened his legs against her, then side stepped into line again beside the little chestnut and its jiggling, bleached blonde rider. She, in turn, blinked her long, dark, false eye lashes, giggled, and leaned over towards Mandy and her rider. Pat ignored the show she put on, although several spectators noticed and let out a chorus of wolf whistles and shouts.

He was searching for Jenny in the crowd. He had run across her earlier for just a few seconds. She had thanked him for the previous day, he had told her about the missing slides. He hadn't told her of his fears for himself that had grown during the dark of night into fears for her. Those had mostly subsided with the light of the new day.

He had, however, outlined his search for a likely hiding place within sight of the bunker entrance, how he had made a quick visit to every place he could think of and come up empty. They were all fairly good places but none of them met completely all the requirements he thought a good hiding place should have and none of them showed any sign of occupancy. She had started to say something but the parade master blew his whistle and Pat winked at her as he turned and left, unaware of her rising hackles when he did this.

The parade itself lasted well over two hours. Mercifully, the sun was partially hidden in some high clouds, an unusual phenomenon in Lianoma County even this late in the summer, and the heat of the last ten days was replaced with a gentle, refreshing breeze.

When at last he turned the final corner of the parade route he left the main group and rode through the relative quiet of the side streets on the west side of Junction to return to his pickup and trailer. The way he had chosen to return was a longer route, but less trafficked than the main streets over which the parade had passed. Still, it took a good 45 minutes and he was beginning to feel the pangs of hunger. The last time he had eaten was slightly before dawn when he had washed down a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a cold piece of left-over steak with several glasses of iced tea mixed with lemonade.

Mandy much preferred the sand of the parking area to the asphalt of the streets and perked up her ears as they wound their way through it. She was ready to feed and knew there would be something at the trailer. Pat was about to let her have her way and gallop through the lines of cars and busses and pickups and trailers and campers and motorcycles and every other imaginable means of transportation when he spied a dark, almost familiar head sitting in the white car parked next to his own pickup and trailer. The license was the familiar white and burnt-orange but had only three numbers and, in small letters at the bottom, OFFICIAL.

He reined in the horse, then moved to where he could see the car from the side and waited. He sat back in the saddle and searched his memory until the occupant finally turned slightly and it came to him. It was the lady that had been with Werkmann in the slide he had taken on the ranger walk. He watched for several minutes wondering if she knew him, if he should approach her about it, what to say if he did, and finally decided to just walk up and let her do any approaching that might be done. He dismounted and led Mandy towards his truck.

Four rows away, Ruthy took another sandwich from the basket in the trunk, moved around to the side of the car and pressed it into Jenny's hand. The previous one was still lying half-eaten in her other hand but she couldn't easily turn it down so she stacked it under the first and held them both. Chicken salad was not one of her favorite foods, especially when warm mayonnaise was more abundant than the chicken.

She thanked the woman, anyway, then turned her attention back to the man and his horse as Ruthy walked back around to the other side of the car and lowered herself into the back seat. Mert was sitting on the same side in the front seat and between the two of them the car, although large, took on a decided list.

Jenny leaned one arm on top of the car and watched as the lady got out and spoke to Pat. The conversation was one sided. Pat merely shook his head and stroked the neck of his horse as the woman spoke, her hands and arms going this way and that as she used them to accent her words.

Jenny was absorbed with the two of them, so much so she barely noticed the big car right itself as both Mert and Ruthy hoisted themselves out to greet the driver of another car that had stopped in front of them. She finally turned when their voices cut through into her concentration and saw a white Ford with three antennae poking out at various places, the official emblem of Lianoma County on the side and SHERIFF in big, gold letters beneath it. The officer, round bellied and red faced, was talking and they all laughed when he stopped, then worked their way around the car to where Jenny was standing.

She turned as they approached, away from Pat and the lady whose conversation had become decidedly more animated. The lady was doing most of the talking but Pat, still stroking Mandy's neck, was now interjecting an occasional comment.

When both men and Ruthy had finished their sandwiches they moved around to the trunk of their car, leaving the sheriff leaning against the fender. He moved a chew from one corner of his bottom lip to another with his tongue, then turned his head and spit.

"You staying in town?" he asked around the wad in his mouth.

She nodded and turned away from his brown teeth and receding gums. Pat and the lady were still talking. The Sheriff turned to see where she was looking.

He let out a "Harrumph," spit again, and asked, "Who's that talking to Ivers?"

"I don't know who it is." She paused, then turned to the sheriff and asked, "Do you know Mr. Ivers?"

"Paddy?" the sheriff answered. "Sure, I know him. Lives down south of Polton a little bit. Botts down to East Gate keeps telling me he's in trouble all the time, but I don't reckon he's ever done anything malicious here in Junction. Got a little wild and crazy after he got back, yep, but that was a while ago."

"You've known him some time, then?" Jenny asked.

"Sure. We both went to school here in Junction, graduated a year or two after me. Came here, I'd guess, about the time I was getting ready to go into junior high, close as I can recollect, anyway."

"Came here?" Jenny had turned and was again watching Pat and the lady.

"Yeah. I'm not sure from where. I doubt he ever told anyone, being as how he's not a real big talker. Winston says they come from Washington D.C. But you could never believe a word that boy said."

Jenny looked at him quizzically. "Winston?"

"Yeah, Winston. You know Winston?"

She shook her head.

"You do know Ivers, don't you?"

"Sure, I know him. Not well but I have spoken with him on occasion."

"Well, Winston's his little brother, ran off with his wife." He looked closely to see if that would get a rise but Jenny's composure never wavered, her face remained motionless.

"Ahh, he shouldn't have married April in the first place. He ever tell you about April?"

Jenny shook her head.

"April, she was his wife. Pretty girl in high school, built like a brick ...um, well, you know. And popular and all. Just the opposite of Paddy. I mean, he was never popular or anything like that, and it don't take much to see he'll never be no Incredible Hulk. Yep. I don't know how they ever hooked up to begin with except they did and real soon after he came here. She used to spend a lot of time down on the Larga spread.

"Larga," he repeated, as if the name should mean something to her. "That was Ivers' step daddy. Married his old lady real soon after his first wife died. I remember one time, oh, I guess it was just after they got here, a bunch of the older town kids got together and ripped Ivers' clothes all up and splashed ink all over his face and tore the pages out of all the books he was carrying. Some kind of initiation or something. School books. He had to pay for all of them. It made Walt really mad."

Mert and Ruthy had rejoined them and were listening to the Sheriff's dissertation. Mert asked, "You know Walt?"

Jenny again shook her head no and Ruthy said, "Walt was Larga's boy. He was older than Paddy and bigger. My idiot brother was one of the bullies that pulled that stunt. Pulled him right off the bus, they did. Walt found out who each of 'em were and took about three days getting back at 'em. He got the first of 'em one at a time but the last of 'em started hanging around together so he finally just walked into the drug store one day after school and dragged a couple of 'em out front. The rest came running out and Walt went completely crazy. He even knocked old Jimmy Balen down when he pulled up in his squad car and tried to break it up."

Mert added, "Got kicked out of school, he did. Larga raised holy ned about that. Didn't do no good, though. I guess Walt liked it better out 'cause he didn't go back much after that. Just stayed on the ranch or hung around town. I'm not sure he ever graduated, even. But that bunch never bothered Paddy again, especially when Walt was around. Except for one, and there's still trouble there."

"You remember Paddy's mom?" the sheriff asked, looking toward Mert.

"Sure do." Ruthy was on a roll. Her favorite conversations were of her neighbors and acquaintances. "Larga used to take cattle all the way to the yards in Sioux City. Told everybody the price there was just too good not to. I bet he spent a fortune getting all those train cars lined up every year. He'd usually stay a couple days, but the last time he was gone a couple weeks and everyone thought he probably tied one on and couldn't find his way back. But as it turned out Paddy's mom convinced him that she had his kid from a previous visit and so he got married and spent a couple weeks seeing some more of the country. Rode the trains all the way up to Maine before they started back."

Mert cut in, "I think he was probably pie-eyed when he married that one. She was a lot younger than he was, you know. Still had the two boys with her and I heard she gave another kid away. I bet she never did have a day job."

"Nope," Ruthy added, then continued in a derogatory tone, "But she always had money. Even after she married Larga she didn't stay home much."

"Larga always bragged about that Winston," it was Mert's turn again. "Always said it took a real man for someone his age to get in a knock-up. Most people weren't real sure Winston was his, but old man Larga never bothered to look real close. Shoot, they didn't even look anywhere near the same."

Mert and Ruthy left for the trunk and another sandwich, shaking their heads.

"Paddy married April right out of high school." The sheriff carried on with his story. "He really created a stir over that one, all right! She started hanging out with a different bunch her last year. You know, the in crowd, like. Paddy never fit but he still chased after her, for all the good it did. Couple times I seen him moping around at football games and such while she didn't even know he was there.

"She got pregnant and I guess maybe that's why they went and got married. Walt gave Paddy some cash and the use of his car and they took off for Capital to get her little problem taken care of, you know what I mean? April's folks about went crazy, thought she'd run away, then they tried to get him arrested for kidnaping. I don't think they ever did find out why they really went up there.

"They was real close again after that, yep, and a couple weeks into the summer they got married. Her folks didn't like that at all, told her never to expect a dime. They never did like Ivers very much, you know. They probably would have liked Botts even less, except they never knew how close they come to being grandparents to one of his kids."

"You mean, Russell was ...would have been ...?" Jenny asked, and now knew why Pat bristled at the sight of the bow legged Deputy from East Gate.

"Yeah, still brags about it. I heard him one time when he had Paddy and Walt all locked up stand there and tell Paddy, through the bars, of course, he'd never do it where Walt could get at him, tell Paddy that he was such a wimp that he, Russell, had to go and get his old lady knocked up for him."

"Well, then, why'd she run off with Winston?"

"Oh, yeah, Winston," the officer said, as if Winston were an afterthought. "I don't know that April was all that thrilled about being married to Paddy, maybe just thankful for his help and all. Who knows what goes on inside someone else's head? She liked the good life too much. You know, parties and being out where the people are and all. Paddy never cared too much for crowds. But Winston did. The more the merrier with that kid.

"And then Larga died and left the ranch to Walt. That made Winston pretty mad. He thought some of it should be his. But what really made him mad was when Walt went and left it all to Paddy. Yep, but it's best this way. Winston would have frittered it all away by now if it was his. Kept talking about some mine that was going to make him rich. Crazy, that's what Winston was. There's not a mine in that valley that was ever any good.

"As it was, Paddy had to sell off some of the place to get out from under the tax load and pay off some of the more pressing debts. But I guess he's a pretty shrewd operator, you know. It's looking about as good as it ever has and I hear he's negotiating to buy a little of it back again.

"But anyway, Winston got all bent out of shape at his brother and got back at him by running off with April. If you ask me, he did him a favor. But it really messed up Paddy, you know, getting back stateside and being all shot up and all and then have your little brother run off with your wife. I guess that might mix up just about anyone."

Mert and Ruthy had rejoined them, each with a can of beer in their hand. The Sheriff left to respond to a call that crackled in over his radio and Jenny saw that the black haired lady had left.

She excused herself and walked down to where Pat was unsaddling Mandy.

"I'm really sorry about your slides," she began.

"That's OK. I didn't expect sympathy. That was for information only, you know?"

She handed Pat the extra sandwich and a soda and Hershey bar she had taken as she left, then held Mandy's reins while he took the saddle and blanket off between bites of runny chicken salad sandwich and fastened them onto their rail in the back compartment of the long trailer. He came back with a brush and began to rub down her already glistening coat. She, in turn, nipped playfully at his posterior, skittered a bit and edged closer to the rear of the trailer, finally accomplished her goal and put her head in to get at the fresh, green hay just inside the door.

Pat removed the bridle and slapped her rump. "Get in there, you beast."

She immediately obeyed. He pushed the inside gate against her, threw another portion of the hay over to her, then exited and shut and pinned the rear gate.

"Russell said there was nothing on the quarter," she said when he had reappeared.

"What quarter?"

"The one he found ... oh, I didn't tell you. Russell and I climbed up the Timini."

"What?" Pat's head jerked up and his voice rose. "Russell? Leave East Gate? Him of the spidey legs climb the Timini? And nothing's even in season! Pray tell, fair lady, just why did the two of you climb the Timini?"

"He wanted to look."

"At what? You? The only reason Russell goes anywhere is if there's a pair of antlers or legs involved."

Jenny looked sharply at him, jutted her chin and clamped her jaw so tight her joints stood out from her face, jumped in and out as she ground her molars together.

"Sorry," Pat held up his hands to ward off her attack. "That was uncalled for. Really. It's only that I know Russell and I can't help but know what goes on around him. Sorry. So anyway, why did the two of you climb the Timini?"

"To check it out. He seemed fairly interested in the quote scene of the crime unquote," she held her hands up with two fingers extended on each. "He even found a quarter and stuck it in one of those little plastic evidence bags. But that's all he found. He said something about looking for broken teeth but we didn't find any, not that they'd be easy to see in that rocky place."

"So, did they ever nail down the time Werkmann went off the road?" he asked, wanting to get away from the subject of Russell and her alone on the Timini.

"Yeah. Some time Monday, probably early evening. You know he lives here in Junction, don't you? Has a wife, Caroline. Remember her? She was there at the fiasco last night. She was there yesterday afternoon, too. In fact, she was just leaving the office as I was going in. Boy, what a looker! But hardly in mourning."

"What do you mean, hardly in mourning?"

"Just that. She's anything but in mourning. I don't know how I know, exactly, but she's not. Let me tell you, she's a real doll. Perfect right from the top of her head to the tip of her toes. Flashy, too. Maybe a bit too flashy." Jenny snorted before continuing. "Maybe a lot too flashy. She didn't like her husband very much. I'd wager on that. And I'd also wager she'd jump on anything that was about this long and pink." She measured out a distance with her index fingers, cocked her head and added, "My guess is that pink might not even be necessary."

"You're jealous!" It was Pat's turn to snort.

"No, I'm not," she protested. "Really, that's just the impression I got of her."

He snorted again and turned this bit of information over in his mind.

"Want to know something else?" Jenny had been looking at him as close as she dared without making him suspicious, had only planned to go on with her discoveries if he seemed oblivious to the facts as she presented them.

"What's that?" he replied absent mindedly.

"The guy driving the car, this Curtiss Werkmann?"

Pat nodded his head and Jenny continued. "He's the guy on the side of the Timini."

"Naw!"

She had his full attention, now.

"Believe me, I couldn't get over it myself. I was going to come back out and look at your slides again to be sure. Kind of hard to do that now, though, huh?"

Pat nodded in agreement. "Tell me, just how did this guy get from the Timini to the Falls? Would you do that for me?"

"I really can't. But they are one and the same person. Either that or Curtiss Werkmann had a twin that got killed the same day he did. Strange, isn't it?"

"Yeah, strange is the word all right."

Pat was looking over the bed of the pickup at the Ferris wheel that rose over the rodeo grounds. He said slowly, "Some guy gets dead up on a mountain, and then turns up in his own car the next night, presumably killed in the wreck. What conclusion does that lead you to?"

"He wasn't dead the first time? He was playing possum? He walked away? The spirit moved him? Someone else moved him into his car and drove it over the edge? There's two Curtiss Werkmanns? Which one?"

"Well, let's assume that he was dead to begin with, seeing as how the slides would have pretty much backed me up with that. OK?"

She nodded and Pat continued. "OK. So he's dead on the trail and I'm there taking pictures and someone is up on the trail above me, watching. I'm going to assume he was pushed and the person who pushed him is still up there. He watches me take off down the trail and follows, then swipes my camera and knocks me on the head and takes off. OK so far?"

She nodded again and he continued again. "OK. So now this guy's driving around in a corpse's car. That can't be good. So he comes back and picks up the body and carries it back down. He stuffs it in the car and drives it up the highway and off the cliff. Sound good to you?"

"Pretty risky," she decided. "What if you had gone to a cop that's got a more normal grip on things and he had come running back? That's what most police would have done, I'd think, gone right back with you. The Timini is the first trail inside the Park, only a few miles from East Gate. The guy would be caught red-handed. He must have thought of that, don't you think? At any rate, I wouldn't come back if I were he. I'd just drive the car off the edge and clear out. Besides, that's a long way back to the road."

"OK. So he didn't come back. The guy that whacked me was pretty light on his feet, probably had martial arts training or something. He also had a gun in his hand but didn't use it except to clobber me with. And he was pretty small, real wiry like. So how about two of them?"

She almost cut him off in mid-sentence as she said, "Fine! There's two of them, now! This is getting out of hand! And why did they do it? Robbery? Jonesy says he carried a lot of cash and it was gone but that's hardly enough to go through all this for."

They were both silent for a moment, then she continued, "So how about drugs? Grass or hash or LSD or something like that? There's a lot of money involved, and there's a lot of double crossing goes on, from what I read in the papers. No law's going to protect them so they have to protect themselves. Maybe his business is going bad and he needs the cash to prop it up. How's that?"

"Mm, probably not. They'd just leave him where he fell. Most of those guys are only around for a little while so there's no problem with the guy being left where he is. I don't think that one's it."

Jenny offered, "OK, how about a triage? Maybe he's been with someone else's wife and the guy sees them and flies off the handle? Remember the picture of this Werkmann in the crowd with the ranger? That wasn't his wife."

"Nope, not his wife, but ..."

"Umm, but I don't think so," Jenny did cut him off this time. "Too spontaneous, you know what I mean? He'd probably just leave him where he dropped again. I think the whole thing had to be planned ahead of time. If they actually moved him from one spot to another then it almost had to be pre-arranged, a rendezvous had to be set up so that he'd be at the right place at the right time. Someone had to be there with a horse or something to get the guy carried away."

"Umm, I had a visitor just before you got here," Pat was finally able to cut in.

Jenny tried not to show her interest, but could hardly keep her impatience inside.

"The Slide Lady," he continued. "She was parked right here when I got back from the parade."

It clicked in Jenny's head and she now connected the lady with the picture.

"What did she want?"

"Not much," he replied. "Just wanted to know if I knew either of the Werkmanns. She showed me some kind of badge, talked awhile, said she had seen me while they were on that ranger walk. I told her then that I recognized her and knew who she was, or at least where she had been the afternoon Werkmann went off the road. She wants to come out and chat."

Pat stopped as the squad car stopped behind the trailer. The Sheriff got out, ran his finger behind his lip and flicked his chew onto the ground, then pulled up his belt and walked up to Pat and Jenny.

"Hey there, Bert," Pat greeted the man in uniform. "What you been up to? Keeping you busy enough?"

"You bet they are, Paddy. What's new with you?"

"Not much. You heard from Russell recently?"

"Not in the last couple days. He hassling you again?"

"No. We don't cross paths unless it's absolutely unavoidable. He didn't call you about this Werkmann that went off the road in the Park?"

"Yeah, well, that's the last time I heard from him. He'd already been up to see her and stopped by on his way out of town. Guess he had a slow day or something."

"You know the guy, this Werkmann?"

"Not very well. Upper crust and all, you know. He and his missus don't mingle much with us ordinary people. About the only time I ever saw them is when they had prowlers or something and wanted me to come out and take a look. Why? You know the guy?"

"Naw. But I thought I saw him lying face down and stiff on one of the trails in the Park the day before they found him. I was trying to get that through Russell's thick head but he had a difficult time grasping the situation. That's why I wondered if you had seen him, find out if he had said anything to you about it."

The officer just shook his head.

"Hey, you know Jenny Brush, here?" Pat turned toward her. "She's one of the rangers in the Park. Nice lady. Good with the tourists. Good for the Park. Jenny, this here is Bert Glenson, the county sheriff."

Bert said hello, winked at her, turned to Pat again. "What do you mean, you saw him on the Timini the day before? Are you saying he was dead before the accident?"

Jenny's opinion of Sheriff Bert Glenson crashed and she stomped, unnoticed, around to the far side of the horse trailer.

"I don't know for sure," Pat continued, "but what I saw was a male Caucasian lying face down on a bunch of rocks at the bottom of a drop-off. By the time anybody else got back, he wasn't there anymore. Sound strange to you?"

"Yeah, it sounds strange. Like maybe he was just winded or something. You sure he was done in?"

"Yeah, pretty sure. I haven't seen many people that could get bent that way and still walk." Pat nodded, "I'm pretty sure he was past help."

"That's strange. Russell didn't do anything about it?"

"Well, he took a bunch of notes. I guess he went back to look at the place a little later. Beyond that, I don't know."

"So, what's the whole thing to you? Are you into buying airplanes now, flying over your place to check on your cattle? I guess some of the bigger spreads south of here are doing that, now."

"Hardly," Pat chuckled at the thought. "But I think he was pushed and whoever did it smacked me on the head and ran off with my camera. I had taken a couple pictures of the guy lying there and I think someone didn't like that."

"You want me to look into it for you? I could call Russell and say we got a complaint or something to that effect. But if there was a guy lying there, where is he now?"

"Yeah, right. He's the same guy that went over the edge in the Lincoln. Except I have no way to prove it now. Except to Jenny, here. She saw the slides and knows I'm not lying about this. I didn't just make it up to get attention."

"Well, I'll let Russell know you're concerned. Not much else I can do, though. It's really out of my jurisdiction, you know, being in the Park and all. They have their own way of dealing with things. I'm not sure they need our help. At least, I've never been called in on anything. Of course, no one's ever been pushed off a cliff that I know of, either."

"Yeah, I know. You don't have to say anything to Russell about it. But if anything happens that you hear about, could you give me a jingle? Just call down to the gas station and they'll get in touch with me."

"OK. Gotta go. Stay loose, OK?"

Sheriff Glenson removed his hat and got back in his car, started it and was gone with a small wave and a nod and a little puff of dirt his tires threw back.

Chapter 23

Jenny came around the front of the pickup as the officer left. She didn't wave, but rather glowered in his direction, a look totally wasted on the disappearing car and driver.

"Cheez, what a jerk. Are all officers around here as macho as these two?"

"Ah, Bert's just a good old boy. A bit on the elementary side but a pretty good person, overall." Pat turned to look at her. "What'd he do to get your goat?"

"Never mind," she snapped. Then, in a milder tone, said, "I guess you better not introduce me as a Park employee, anymore. Just say recently unemployed or still looking or free and broke or bag lady or something like that. OK?"

Pat shrugged, "Yeah." Then added, "But you've still got the job with the Capital Gazette, right?"

"Sure, for what it's worth," she paused. "You've seen one of my articles?" Another pause. "Well, I can keep writing just as long as I want and they'll keep paying me just the same. A grand total sum of zero. They know when they've got it good. Besides, the only reason I wrote anything for them was for the Park."

She changed the subject, "Hey, look, I'll get going. But first tell me why that lady's coming out to see you."

"I don't know. She was interested in Werkmann but I never did tell her I knew him, nothing about him being on the Timini before he turned up in his car or anything like that. So I really don't know."

They stood in an awkward silence for a moment before she turned to go.

"You need a ride somewhere?" he asked before she had taken even one step. "Where's your car parked? I'll get you down to it. That is, if you don't mind riding in this."

He jerked his head toward his pickup and trailer.

She turned and looked it over. The dim sun glistened off the freshly washed, metallic silver trailer. It looked to be in fairly good shape, with only a few minor dents in the slats and covered with a thin layer of fresh dust. Even the slim, double white rings on the walls of the two tires on the near side were clean.

Then she moved her gaze forward to the locomotor. This was a different story, entirely. It was an old pickup - she could see a chrome Chevrolet logo - with the driver's door, the one she could see, covered with a dull red primer, the entire bed, fenders and all, painted with grey primer, and the left front fender painted with black primer. She knew the opposite fender was also painted the same dull black. The hood was bright yellow and the rest of the body was a deep green, now dull and crazed and oxidized by the desert sun.

"I don't know about that," she said slowly. "It looks a bit unsound."

"I know it's ugly," he said quickly, "but it's not unsound. The under carriage is all custom built, boxed, reinforced, everything." He said this with more than a faint hint of pride in his voice. "The drive train's all Dodge, you know, the engine and transmission and transfer case, and I managed to fit on an AiResearch turbo without changing the hood. I had Grimm's here in Junction make the power shafts to connect everything together, turned them and balanced them so they wouldn't vibrate and all. It's really a potent combination. Might even pull a train. Would, in fact. No doubt about it if there was enough weight over the tires."

She smiled inwardly at his obvious pride in the machine, looked at it in awe as much for his benefit as anything, and said, "But the thing on the side says Chevrolet."

"Yeah, that's how it started out, all right, was a Chevrolet. A '51. Trouble with it was that little six banger it had wouldn't even hardly pull itself, let alone a trailer or anything. When Eugene rolled his Dodge, I got him to trade it to me for some old irrigation pipe, but the frame really wasn't enough to handle the size of that engine so I had to work on it some, like build a new one. The sides in the back were still pretty good but it didn't have much of a floor in it so I made a new one out of step plate, that and the floor in the cab. Heavy stuff, but that gives it a little stability. Too light in the rear, otherwise. No traction except in four wheel drive.

"When I put in that full ton rear end, I had to extend the back fenders to get them over the outside tires. There's a lot of weight gets put on the back end when I've got that goose neck full. I didn't think singles would hold it."

She looked it over with a wary eye. "So why's it so high off the ground?" She didn't like the new fad in high rise pickups she had seen in town. They all seemed, at best, useless. More to the point, she didn't like the drivers, who all acted like they had at least a small chip on their shoulders, like they needed the extra height, shine, gadgetry and noise to make up for their own lack of stature.

"It wasn't meant to be that way, and it's not really. It just seems that way if you're used to a car. But, you know, beefed up frame, extra springs, oversize tires. That's just the way it ended up. Besides, there's more clearance that way. Not that I really need it on the highway much, but it's sure nice running around the ranch with it."

He paused to reminisce and grinned, "Except for the time I nosed it into one of the gullies. Had to get a wrecker from up here in Junction to pull it out, then I had to pull him out of the sand once he got me out. What a day that was! I should have had that winch mounted on the back instead of the front!"

He watched as she walked around the truck and trailer, appraising it. She was a little surprised that anyone would take the time to create any such a thing, that anyone could take parts from all those vehicles and make something that actually ran. But after seeing his potato bunker, she decided she might have expected it.

The grand tour finished, she came around to where he was still standing by the back tire. She stopped and looked at it once again, raised an eyebrow, then turned and kicked the tire with her heel. It didn't collapse in a heap.

"Inspection complete. Passed."

"Hey, that's good. I'd hate to drive something that couldn't muster inspection! So, drive you back to your car?"

"Well, that would be fine but it's in East Gate. I'm here with Mert and Ruthy. They're parked right up there." She pointed to where she had stood watching him just a short while ago. "We're supposed to meet at the All American sometime around five or so."

"Oh, I see. OK. Well, you just want to see how it runs? I'll just take one of the roads out of town and back, show you how it is when it's moving, then drop you down town. I don't think Mandy'd mind. She likes to ride back there."

Jenny laughed. "OK. You don't have to be quite so insistent," and turned her back to walk to the other side.

Pat ran around ahead of her, opened her door, held it open and bowed low as she approached.

"The road, James," she said in her best English accent, holding her back straight and stiff, her nose in the air.

"Yes'm," he replied as she hoisted herself into the bucket seat on the passenger side.

The black Naugahyde was hot even though the desert sun was still under some thin clouds and she noticed the seats were both pleated and finished with very small, white stitches, much like the ones in the Pontiac.

He ran back around and got behind the wheel, then reached for the harness.

"Better use it," he said and explained the cross buckle to her.

She followed his lead and strapped herself in, banged her elbow on a piece of round steel that ran from the floor beside her left foot to the top of the cab over her left ear.

"Funny place for an exhaust pipe," she said, hitting it with her finger as if to flick off a fly or a cockroach.

"Roll bar," he announced, flipped a switch up, pressed the starter button, flipped up another switch. The truck roared to life and Jenny asked, "Don't you put mufflers on anything?"

"Not if I can help it. A little more efficient, less back pressure. Besides, they're expensive and they're just another thing to hang on and go wrong. That and I like the sound."

She looked around the inside of the truck. She expected a long, black shift rod with a black plastic knob on the top, like she was used to in the pickup the Park had provided for her. Instead it was short and chrome plated with Hurst stamped into the side, and went through a hole in the floor, large enough that she could see the top of the transmission and even some ground through it. The knob was black plastic, like she expected, but much bigger and it had the shift pattern stamped in white on the top. In front and a little to one side was another, shorter lever, also chrome plated, going through the same hole in the floor.

The steering wheel was smaller than she expected. Three flat, brushed aluminum spokes radiated from the center and supported a thick rim covered with Naugahyde to match the seats. The same black naugahyde also covered the top of the dashboard, the soft crown of which rolled gently back from the lightly tinted windshield, curled around and then was tucked behind a piece of flat, brushed aluminum that served as the instrument panel. A line of switches, a half dozen round gauges and a radio were all set into the plate. The green numbers and dials seemed to jump out from the black backgrounds of the gauges.

In contrast to the neatly covered dashboard and seats, the floor itself was bare and slightly rusted. Step plate, as she remembered he had called it earlier. The doors had no inserts, looked like dark, hollow pits with shiny fixtures, and the sides and top of the cab were dark steel with rough bits of glue and cloth still stuck to them.

He eased the pickup and trailer out of the line of other similar, but prettier, rigs and crept along the space between the rows. He explained the function of each switch and gauge as they rolled slowly over the packed sand.

Once out of the lot, he shifted easily through the four gears, picked a road that looked like it headed into the hills and brought it up to cruising speed, 45 MPH on the unpaved road. She had expected to hear a multitude of squeaks and groans, to have it jump from one depression in the road to the next, to have to hold herself in place. Instead, the machine was fluid and graceful as it moved along the rough road.

"Look up there," Pat pointed at a patch of green that seemed out of place in the brown of the desert that surrounded them. "What do you suppose?"

"Nice place for someone," she said.

Pat slowed the truck as they approached the driveway. Each was looking at the expanse of green partially hidden by a border of evergreens and tall bushes, the curved driveway and long, low, white stone house.

"Werkmann" he read from the mailbox and stepped on the brakes. "Is there more than one Werkmann lives around here, do you suppose?"

Jenny didn't answer, only shook her head. They sat in silence a moment, then he got out and raised the hood. Jenny joined him and they both looked unseeingly at the engine, then turned and walked back to the driveway. They crunched up the glistening, white gravel to the front door and rang the bell.

There was no answer, although they could hear a faint, slow peal of chimes each time Pat pressed the little white button. He worked the brass knocker several times. Still no answer. Disappointed, they turned to leave and were met by Caroline Werkmann coming around the corner of the attached, four car garage.

"Hello," she said.

Pat worked very hard to keep himself from staring. Jenny had been right. The lady really was one of the prettiest women he had ever met and she stood before the pair of them clad only in an oversized T-shirt that clung to her wet body. Water still dripped from her hair, her evenly tanned skin contrasted with the white, cotton shirt.

"Hello," said Pat, moving along the concrete walk toward her, Jenny behind him. "My truck just quit and I wondered if I could phone a station or something from here."

"I suppose so. Will it be a local call?" Her voice was cool and assured, welcoming but at the same time distant.

"You bet. Got any idea where a good one is? I'm not from Junction."

Caroline had paid no attention to Jenny, had only sized up the man in front of her. Now Jenny stepped from behind Pat and said, "Hello, Mrs. Werkmann."

Caroline made the connection with David Jones' office. She said "Hello," but her voice, while not noticeably different to Pat's ears, changed enough that Jenny felt it supercilious, even hostile, as if she had said, 'Hello you silly girl and just what is it you think you're doing here that I should have to bother myself with you' and then in a perfectly icy tone, at least to Jenny, "Miss Brush, isn't it?"

Jenny smiled her best smile, one she reserved for the most difficult visitors to the Park. She stayed outside while Caroline and Pat went inside, walked beside him down the driveway when he emerged not more than two minutes later.

"Did you feel it?" she asked when they had safely rounded the stone portals and were almost to the truck and trailer.

"Feel what?" Of course he felt it. Caroline Werkmann had merely laid her hand on his arm and it had been electric. He could feel every nerve in his body stand to attention, felt it surge all the way up and then back down his spine, could easily read the invitation on her face and knew he only had to respond ever so slightly and they would be an instantaneous tangle on the white rug that covered the floor. He had frozen for a second before reaching for the phone.

"Her," Jenny continued. "Caroline Werkmann. I could feel her watching us all the way out here."

"Don't be paranoid." He didn't want to talk about Mrs. Werkmann.

"Who'd you call?"

"No one. I dialed a couple places but didn't say anything. I just told her they weren't open. Here, hold these wrenches just in case she actually is watching us."

Jenny did as she was told. While Pat bent over the engine, she compared it to the one in the Park truck she drove. Correction, had driven. The level of maintenance afforded the two vehicles was worlds apart. He lifted off the shiny chrome air cleaner cover, fiddled with the wing nuts on the equally shiny, chrome plated valve covers, pushed one of the bright red spark plug wires back into its holder, banged gently on the frame with a wrench Jenny handed him, replaced the cover and then started the truck. He left it running while he got back out and shut the hood, then took off with a roar.

As they drove away, Pat let out a small laugh.

"What's that for?" Jenny asked.

"Well, Caroline Werkmann was Carol Hoges when she was in High School. Graduated a year or two ahead of me. She had quite a reputation." He chuckled again.

"Did you know her very well?" Jenny asked, keeping her eyes straight ahead.

"Naw, not me. She never bothered with the small fish in the pond. This is all hearsay, you know. I never knew her, she never knew me. She had no idea I even knew who she was just now." His heart had just finally gotten back into its normal rhythm. Caroline had that effect on men.

"Then how do you know all this stuff if it's only hearsay?"

"Well, I guess where there's smoke, there's fire, you know? If she didn't warrant all those stories, then someone spent a lot of time making them all up. But things like that tend to make the rounds pretty fast in a small school like Junction. Everybody probably knew who was doing what with whom, when, where and how often, at least unless they were very careful about it."

"Were you and April careful?"

"Yeah, usually. But it wasn't April and I that most people knew about."

His mood darkened and Jenny was immediately sorry she had brought up the subject of his ex-wife.

Pat remained silent, turned onto another dirt track, drove a short way, and stopped the pickup. From the higher elevation they could look down and over the estate of the late Curtiss Werkmann, the estate of the very current Caroline Werkmann. The green was truly marvelous from above, and behind the oasis was a long, smooth strip of ground, with an airplane at one end standing silently by a shiny building with rounded walls and top. It could be nothing other than a hanger, its shape conforming to the general outline of wings and a fuselage.

"Werkmann Aviation," Pat mumbled to himself. "I suppose he used that strip quite a bit. That must be where he ferried them all in and out. What a setup!"

He paused, and then looked into Jenny's eyes. "Can you keep a secret?"

"Sure can," she answered quickly.

"I didn't exactly tell you the truth about the Slide Lady. Werkmann was going to be working with her on some sort of investigation or something like that. Well, I guess not exactly working with her, but telling her about how these important types from up in Capital get carried in and out, a few other things he seemed to know about. She wants to know everything I know about him. I told her that's not much but she's coming out to the ranch later on, anyway. She doesn't think he just fell, either."

"What do you know about Werkmann?" Jenny questioned him. "What do you know that he knew? What are you going to say to her?"

"Well, remember our little conversation about hunting in the Park?"

Jenny nodded.

"Werkmann already had lots of information about that. I guess that lodge the Park has up north is used by some pretty important people. You say it's a sorority that rents the cabins there?"

"That's what I've been told," Jenny shrugged.

"Well, it seems he's the one that ferried these people in and out, flies them down here from Capital, for a price, of course. They stay a couple days, do a little hunting and relaxing away from the pressures of public life and then he flies them back. From what I can gather, Slide Lady spent the last several months working her way into his good graces. I guess he ferried some things other than people as well and she finally got enough on him so that he decided to talk about the rest of the setup. That is, after she let him know about his options if he didn't."

They watched a few minutes longer, and then headed back toward town. He stopped in front of the All American a couple seconds to let Jenny out. It only took that long for the traffic behind them to get impatient and start honking.

"See you," she said as she slid out of the truck.

Pat nodded and watched her disappear in the right rear view mirror as he merged back into the flow of traffic.

Chapter 24

Pat liked to drive his creation. It pleased him to think about each separate part working together to move the whole along the road, to feel the power when he pressed on the accelerator, to dream about the unfinished body work and the paint with which it would one day be covered. He rarely drove more than 65 just so he could bask in these feelings. Today he drove slower, only 50.

He had decided he really enjoyed Jenny's company. He had let her off at the All American, driven no more than a half block, pulled to the side of the street as much as he could, and then, letting the engine idle and ignoring the honks of the other motorists, had run back and asked if she wanted to ride with him to East Gate via the ranch. They searched the crowds until they found Mert, after which they drove southeast out of town toward the gap in the mountains that separated Junction from the Polton valley.

The road through the gap was steep and, toward the top, full of curves. At that elevation the engine had to work, even though it was big and artificially aspirated. He down shifted, went through the corners at exactly the speed posted and watched a little green Datsun in his mirrors as it ran up close enough behind the trailer that it could hardly be seen, then went back and forth between both lanes of the road, all the while honking its horn. Pat merely shook his head and thought about the one Japanese car he had tried to drive. His knees had hit the steering wheel so hard he couldn't turn it.

During a short straight away it finally started around and slowly gained on the pickup and trailer, the engine, its horsepower gained from RPM rather than torque like the big Dodge, screaming. Going into the next corner it was even with the pickup and Pat was assailed with a repeated chorus of the Bronx cheer. The front seat passenger pushed his acned face out the window and shouted, "Hey, mon! Hey, you!" He grabbed at his hat as it almost came off in the wind, and then continued, "¡Sal de la carretera, pedorro!"

"What a pile of villains," Jenny had been reading Hamlet, "as foul as Vulcan's stithy!" She leaned over and punctuated her observation with a loud "Go rot!"

Pat merely saluted with his middle finger and said under his breath, "Horn blows, try the driver," eased off the accelerator to let the little car get around and then braked when it cut in dangerously close to avoid another car coming around the curve in the opposite direction.

Jenny continued her string of insults. "That bunch is capable of nothing but dumb-shows and noise!"

"Can't argue with that," Pat laughed softly and rounded a tight turn. "And there is a perfect example of Ivers' Axiom."

"Which is?" she had run out of Shakespearean steam and sunk back into her seat.

"That the collective IQ of any single location is a constant."

Jenny mulled that over in her mind until they reached the top where they pulled into the overlook and stopped. Through the telescope, which cost a dime for every slightly out of focus minute, they could see most of the valley that spread below them. The lens swept across the Datsun, already to Polton and not slowing, the paintless and sagging Victorian house that headquartered the Half Diamond, the log cabin and outbuildings at the Rising Sun.

Jenny counted three dilapidated, leaning head frames. The Utopia, the Sugarloaf, and the Elkshorn, Pat named them for her, the year each was built, a few stories of the miners who had once worked them, and the year they were abandoned, all the persons involved broke and disillusioned.

They coasted down the far side of the gap, rolled across the floor of the valley, stopped in Polton to buy gas and a soda and say a few words to Leonard, pulled mostly off the road as they met the Datsun headed the opposite direction and taking its half of the road out of the middle, drove the remaining miles of highway in silence and finally turned off the pavement and onto the dirt road that led up the side of the valley to Pat's. Here the two of them unloaded and fed Mandy, unhooked the long trailer, threw hay into the bunks for the heifers and checked another heifer that was about to calve (quite late, he told her. It either had an abnormally long gestation or had engaged in some extra-curricular activity with a bull she found on her own). They played catch with his dog, tossed sticks and a Frisbee until its long, red coat was covered with dust and it finally lay, panting, in the shade of a spindly Russian Olive. She chased Pat and the dog around the pond behind the bunker, then, out of breath, they all three flopped back in the shade of a giant cottonwood while Pat told how he had used the Cat to push up the dirt for the dam and create the depression for the little lake.

They toured the flower beds, Pat reciting the name of each and where he had dug them. They walked back and fed the now rested dog and a multitude of cats, too wild to pet but tame enough to eat and drink from the dishes he put out.

Late afternoon they took the pickup out to move cows to another pasture. The light from the sun broke up into yellows and browns as it drifted through the dust that rose above the herd. He honked the horn and whistled through his teeth as he got closer to get their attention and was met with a chorus of deep throated bawls. Once the pickup got close, they raised the noise level several decibels and began a slow move in its direction, milling about, each wanting the other to lead the way, the one in front invariably shying off to one side or the other and circling around so she wouldn't be first. Pat honked the horn several times again before one of the herd decided to haltingly break ranks and follow.

He drove a ways beside a barbed wire fence, matching his speed to theirs, and stopped just past a gate. He asked Jenny to stand in the bed and count them as they went through, then unwired and opened it. Once they saw the open gate, the herd came running up to where Pat stood and then planted their front legs and stopped in their tracks, the dust settling over them in the slight wind and a deafening cacophony of moos and bleats that drowned out Pat's shouts and pleas.

"Come on, here, boss, get your ugly carcass through here, now. Don't make me chase you, OK? I'd say please if I thought it would do any good. So please, boss, step lively now and get on through here." He punctuated his phrases with whistles but anything he said was useless in the noise so he walked back through the gate and into the pasture with the cows, turned and called again. "Just one, now. One of you come on over here and the rest'll follow. Be brave, now, take your heart in hand and step on through."

He turned his back on them and walked through the gate again, trying to lead by example. One of the nearer cows took a small step toward the gate, the one behind threw her head up and down several times, then used it to push at the rear end of the one who had stepped forward. They butted heads for a minute, then the first stopped and looked at Pat, bawled, and walked through. The rest of the herd came then, slowly at first, one at a time, and finally in a rush, their moos now given way to the heavy sound of their cloven hooves beating the ground.

Pat stood aside as they moved through, climbed the brace post so he could look over the top of the herd, intent on counting them as they passed through the gate. Jenny waited in the back of the pickup, using her hands to point to the animal she was currently counting and wondering what she'd do if they were coming at her like that. She had never worked with any livestock and thought their one goal in life was to knock her over and trample on her.

Pat got back in the pickup. "One's missing, I think," he announced as he turned and drove back the way from which the cows had come. "What kind of count did you get?"

"Well, I'm not sure. It might have been 98 or 99 or maybe even a hundred. They were moving so fast I couldn't get a good fix on them. Is there some sort of secret to it?"

"Yeah, count their legs and divide by four."

Over the first small rise was a black cow, so fat she almost waddled as she walked back away from the gate.

"Republican cow," he said as he pushed the pickup a bit faster and circled around her. He beeped the horn and the cow stopped and looked at them, then turned and walked away from the vehicle, in the general direction of the gate.

"What do you mean, Republican cow?" Jenny queried.

Pat drove first to one side and then the other, depending on which way the animal looked like she was going to break toward.

"Well, that's one that never likes to go anywhere new. They invariably turn around and go back to where they've already been. Like this one. She gets right up to an open gate where the odds are good there's better pasture on the other side, then she turns around and goes back to where she just came from, even though there's not much pasture left there."

He matched his speed to the cow's, waited patiently when she stopped, leaned out the window and talked slowly and quietly until she moved again, never getting quite close enough to make the animal run.

"I hope you're not offended when I called her a Republican. You're not political, are you?"

"Nope, but I've never pictured a cow as political, either."

"They're not."

He guided the pickup back and forth, herding her toward the gate and hoping they got there before the rest of the herd got out of sight.

"They just act like it, sometimes. Or maybe it's politicians that act like cows, sometimes."

Jenny thought about this a minute, then said, "So a Democrat cow is one that finds the gate before it opens, right?"

"I suppose so," Pat laughed. "I never thought about it. But that's good. It makes sense, doesn't it?"

Getting impatient, she asked, "So why don't you just drive up behind her and honk your horn or give her a push? That'd get her going!"

"Yeah, I suppose it would. But she'd probably start to get shy about pickups if I did that very often. That cowboy stuff doesn't work, just gets them all riled up. What you do is you draw an imaginary circle around the cow and that circle is such a size that if you get inside she moves. If you stay outside she stops and waits. Then you stay right on the border of that circle. If you want her to move a little faster, you tighten up the circle. If you want her to move slower you widen it out. Then you kind of wander back and forth, depending on the direction you want her to go. You can whistle if you want to get their attention real quick but mostly you just talk in a normal voice. That way they can use their ears as well as their eyes to get a fix on your position and they're never surprised to turn around and see you there. If you don't say anything they pretty soon forget about you and then turn around and see you and get spooked."

The cow, a purebred Angus he had purchased just recently, went through, just a little unwillingly, as Pat finished his cow-driving oration. At the last minute she turned and tried to get around the truck. Pat backed around, then honked and got her turned around toward the gate again, drove up closer than he had previously, almost nudged her, and finally she ran through.

"Then sometimes you have to show them who's really the boss," he said and turned around again and drove to the windmill to check the water tank and mineral feeder, then continued to another gate, closed it and wired it shut.

"So how many are there really?" Jenny asked, turning in her seat to look at the herd as they disappeared over a small hill until only a brown cloud of dirt and dust gave away their whereabouts.

"Gates? I never counted them for sure, but I'd reckon there's around 25 or 30 on the place."

"No, no, not gates. Cows."

"Impolite to ask that," he said. "Kind of like asking how much a person's got in the bank. But since you did, we just culled eight that didn't calve this year so that leaves 112 cows. And I've lost five calves so far this summer so there's 107. At least, at last count I'd lost five. Might be one or two more by now. They live in a dangerous world, you know. The bears and cougars around here carry rifles!"

"So where're you heading them off to now?" Jenny braced herself as they navigated a particularly bumpy spot.

"Next pasture. The place is divided into eighteen paddocks, maybe a short section each with the windmill in the big paddock in the center. They stay on each one for a day or two. That way each part gets pastured a little bit and then gets a good rest. I'm not sure that's the best way to do things but it seems as if they're a little less destructive to the plants they can eat rather than letting them roam around one big pasture. When they do that they keep pecking at the same plants all the time and eventually eat the good ones down to nubbins. Or even less. At least, that's the method behind the madness. It's all just theory, anyway, came here by way of the New Zealand sheep industry. There's only a couple of us around here do it that way. Most ranchers still keep one big pasture or rent open grazing from the government."

They drove back to the buildings and he fixed a supper, thick flank steaks grilled on a slab of steel with slots cut into it and laid over a bed of wood coals in the bottom of a 55-gallon drum cut in half the long way and propped up between two rocks, a salad of alfalfa sprouts, spinach leaves, sliced radishes and a lemon wedge, and some hard muffins dipped in olive oil and garlic. To end the meal he opened a box of instant chocolate mint pudding and poured it into a quart jar along with an equal amount of dried milk, filled it half full of refrigerated water and then shook it until it was thick.

They carried it all to the top of the bunker where they sat on a canvas, eating and waiting for the Slide Lady. They pointed out and identified birds and desert animals as they ate, watched a car go by on the highway more than four miles east and probably at least a hundred feet below them, mentioned how far one could see from the top of his bunker, way past Polton, clear to the now purple tops of the mountains on the other side of the valley, and then Pat stood straight up, spilling his knife and fork onto the ground, and turned in a 360-degree circle, surveying the top of his home.

"Right here," he announced. "They watched me from right here! I know they did. You can see everything from up here, especially the house. And I'll bet that's what they really wanted to see, was the house. They didn't expect me to be living in the bunker at all!"

He was excited and spent the next half hour scouring the top for any tell-tale signs while Jenny, after halfheartedly helping him for a few minutes, picked up the dishes, carried them into the bunker and washed them and all the other dishes that had piled up in the tubs.

Having found nothing to prove that there had ever been anyone else on top of the bunker, he returned and helped with the end of the dishes after which they moved to the living room and turned on the stereo, a Realistic pre-amp that fed a pair of old Eico power amps. The combination put out enough sound through its big, almost as tall as Jenny, tattered speakers that they might have been in Orchestra Hall. She lay on her stomach on the oval carpet in front of the fireplace. He lit a very small fire to ward off the evening chill and she moved her feet almost to the edge of it and read the titles of his record collection. Lots of Mozart, Tchaikovsky, Prokofief, Bach, Brahms and Beethoven. Some Stockhausen, Copland, Grieg, Barber, Dvorak, Buxtehude, Shostakovich, Poulenc, and some others all sandwiched by a few Bernstein and Mancini movie and TV themes at one end and three each from Booker T and the MGs and Blood, Sweat and Tears at the other end. She estimated 250 albums at the very minimum.

Pat moved about the living room, picked up a book and then put it back down, went to the outer door and listened, then shut it again. He retreated to the warmth of the fire and put on a recording of Mozart's _The Magic Flute_ , told her the story to go with the music, then stepped down into the living room and slouched in the overstuffed chair. Got up again and went out the front door, returned and fingered a steel strung guitar that sat in one corner, moved restlessly to the front door again.

Finally, after darkness had completely covered the valley, he retrieved a key ring from the kitchen, tossed it to her and told her to take the Pontiac and return to East Gate if she needed to get back. She rolled onto her side facing away from the fire, propped her head on one hand, and dangled the keys from the other.

"Have you forgotten? I'm now a lady of leisure. I come and go as I please, stay as late as I want to stay, sleep as late as I feel like sleeping. Unless you want me to leave."

"No," he replied, selected another record and started to remove it from its sleeve. "Don't leave until you want to ..."

She jumped to her feet at the blast that rattled everything but the most solid of the bunker walls.

Pat ducked as Jenny stood, fell prone on the floor, slithered on his knees and elbows toward the wall and then covered his head, eyes large, breathing ragged, every fiber tuned to his surroundings.

Jenny looked at him questioningly. "What was that?" she asked quietly in the silence that followed.

Pat took several seconds to get back to the present, shut his eyes and forced himself back under control. The recollections that came bubbling from the cauldron of his mind were not only of the year he had spent in Southeast Asia but also the few minutes he had spent huddled behind a rock while the rest of the world came tumbling down around him.

There had been an explosion before the avalanche and he was just now remembering it.

He got slowly to his feet and moved on shaky legs to the front door, turning off all the lights as he went. Jenny followed close behind.

He put a finger to his lips and whispered, "Wait here." Pointed to the oak timber that leaned against the wall behind the door. "If you think you need to, you can bar the door with that."

They could see the reflection of flames dancing on the walls of 'the porch' as they peeked around the kitchen door in the dark. He crouched low and disappeared, hurrying along the dark side of the bunker. Pausing at the bunker door, he cautiously poked his head around it, quickly the first time, then, after a brief pause, slowly eased into the opening until he could fully see.

The fire was the old frame house and it lit the entire area. He wondered if perhaps Walt had found his way home at last, knew better and felt slightly rudderless. There would be no more welcomes from the light he had always left burning. Walt was suddenly and completely no more than just a memory.

He skittered around the door and ran, still crouched, toward the windmill, paused to look around and catch his breath, then ran to a fence and, without pausing, to a stack of old feed bunks. Here he paused again before scurrying to another fence. He stayed close to the rough boards until he had gone almost completely around the house. Here he stopped and surveyed the brightly lit front yard.

The Pontiac sparkled in the light of the flames, unhurt as far as he could tell. Next to it was a small, white Plymouth. Pieces of the house were strewn about, some still burning, some already just glowing orange in the night. Pat stayed crouched for several minutes surveying the area, then darted, humped down, toward the two cars. The Plymouth had orange and white license plates with three numbers and OFFICIAL at the bottom. He stood up, waited, then crab-walked carefully toward a dark object close to the now crumbling house, shielding his face with his shirt against the heat.

When he got close, he could identify the mound as the still body of the black haired lady in the slide, lying on her side, more or less, her front side charred and smoking, her back side cool and still recognizable.

The fear that now gripped his body was different from the fear he had known in Viet Nam. The killing there had been impersonal, part of a job he had been sent to do to an unknown, faceless population who harbored the same intentions toward him. It had almost seemed fair, sanctioned and part of an overall plan with definite goals, the participants bound together by an experience no person could know or even begin to appreciate until they themselves had been through the same horror and fear.

The reality of his present situation now thrust itself upon him with crystal clarity. The black haired lady had been innocent, now lay still on the packed dirt because her life had crossed his. He had become the quarry and knew neither the identity of his stalker nor the rules of the hunt. His disadvantage was unequivocal. Some unknown person was carrying out a personal vendetta because of something he had no control over.

Jenny had ignored his instructions, had walked slowly around the house in the opposite direction from which he had furtively run, and stood by the two cars. She watched as he turned away from the body and got sick, didn't approach but lowered her eyes and let nature take its course, waiting for him to clear his system and get himself under control again. When he backed away from the house, she could hear the wail of a fire truck coming up from the valley, put her arms around his shaking body and tried to comfort him, was horrified to see the empty look in his eyes, greater than she had ever noticed it before.

She squeezed and stroked and waited and watched his face as it regained its color, his eyes as they began once again to move.

He looked down at Jenny standing in the firelight and knew she was also part of the hunt, just because she had the misfortune to know him. There was no way to change that. Their course had been set and they were running with the wind, pall mall downhill, through a maze from which there was no hope of escape. He felt helpless and trapped, hated the feeling but didn't know how to change it.

The circling light on the lone fire truck bounced off the cars where they stood and they were bathed in its glaring lights. An old man came puffing up and asked if they were OK.

She responded that they were both unharmed but there was someone lying on the ground that had not been as fortunate.

Pat by this time had regained almost all of his composure and he stood up straight, releasing Jenny's hands as he did so. He cleared his throat and said, "There's nothing you can do for her, Milt."

"What exactly happened?" the old fire fighter asked.

"Blew up," they both answered in unison.

Milt said he could see that, had, in fact, heard that in and could see that all the way from Polton. He returned to the old red truck and used the radio to call for an ambulance and to tell the Junction and East Gate fire districts that everything here was under control, at least for the moment, and thanks anyway.

Pat and Jenny opened the doors to the Pontiac and sat, waited while the house burned in front of them, watched a pair of white coats from the ambulance company inspect, then wrap and carry away the body. Milt and another fireman waited in their truck, talked occasionally, drank coffee from a Thermos and watched the house bum to a glowing pile of coals.

Neither Pat nor Jenny noticed them. He was still badly shaken by the explosion. She was worried about the blank look that had been in his face, a look from which he still had not completely recovered. It scared her, sickened and angered her that any person should have gone through anything so traumatic that it would leave its indelible mark even this many years later. She wanted to do something, anything to help get him back to where they had been an hour earlier - had it been only an hour? - but he had erected a wall around himself, seemed so distant.

She became unsure of herself, fell silent, sat back in the neatly stitched seat and watched the flames through the windshield as they diminished, mesmerized by the bright red and yellow dancing fingers of light that stood out so stark against the surrounding darkness. She reached over and took his hand, held it for a few minutes until he drew away.

Pat left, came back a few minutes later and shoved the key ring at her.

"Go home," the tone of his voice didn't invite argument.

She left, more than ever aware of the potential power of the sleek car, the road ahead swimming in her silent, angry tears.

Chapter 25

Pat's emotions were raw. He was morose, thoroughly depressed and full of despair. He shunned the comfort of his galvanized whirlpool bath, tossed instead in a sometimes half-waking, sometimes half-sleeping sweat in the darkness, tossed about until he was all wound up in the old sleeping bag and thin blanket.

Walt walked through his dreams, stepped through the ashes and extended his hands in a beckoning gesture, pleading for a friend, any friend, just someone to understand him. His face was unhappy and lonely. His mouth worked at silent words. Then he turned and walked around the blackened perimeter before repeating his mute plea.

He dreamed of better times, of cattle drives and roundups, roping, branding, dehorning, castrating, midnight rides and saloon fights. They chased mustangs across the valley floor and white-tails through the timber. All before Liz left and sent Walt into the depression that finally killed him.

Half-awake, he remembered the times he had stood outside the old house talking to a Walt that wasn't there, letting out all his problems and talking them over, carrying on a one-sided conversation. He knew it was irrational but he invariably felt relieved and not so alone in the world.

He arose at dawn for morning chores. Sometime during the night the two firemen had drunk the last of their coffee, taken their old truck and left. Danny was already there and both went through the morning ritual without speaking, glancing only occasionally at the destruction of the old house.

They each caught and bridled a horse. Pat loosely held Mandy's reins, absently watched Danny saddle the Appaloosa and then, in a voice just barely more than a whisper, said he didn't feel much like working. Danny nodded, unsaddled the horse and left. Pat slipped the bridle over Mandy's head and let it fall to the ground. He slapped her rump with no enthusiasm, climbed out of the corral and walked to a rocky outcropping. There he stared gloomily at the remains of Walt's house.

His dog pushed her muzzle into his hand, got no response, whimpered, then trotted off a short way, followed her tail round and round a half dozen times, and settled down, her tail banging against the ground occasionally, her eyes always on the unmoving figure of her master.

Three vehicles drove in while he stood there. First, Russell Botts in his white Lianoma County Ford. He poked about in the rubble but didn't say a word to Pat, didn't lift a hand or even nod to acknowledge his presence. A bit later, Bert Glenson arrived in his white Lianoma County Sheriff's Ford. He glanced in Pat's direction, joined Russell and talked quietly a few minutes, then also poked around in the charred remains. Jenny Brush followed the Sheriff's car up the road from the highway, carefully guiding the Pontiac back to its owner.

She walked over and stood beside Pat. He didn't turn to acknowledge her presence.

Neither spoke. She stood there and watched the two police officers poke about the ruins, not quite knowing what to do, whether to stay or leave, talk or remain silent. Finally, she walked over to the dog and squatted down to pat its head.

Bert whistled to get Russell's attention, stood beside the pile of concrete blocks that had once served as the front steps and retrieved a piece of blackened steel. Russell joined him, stooped and looked, engaged in some animated conversation, then turned and whistled and shouted, "Hey, Brush, get over here."

She started to shout back that she was no longer under his orders, but didn't and walked over to the pair of officers.

"Whaddaya see?" Russell asked when she had joined them, pointing into the rubble with a poker he had picked up.

"A propane bottle," she answered, standing outside the perimeter of the ashes so she wouldn't soil her hiking boots.

"See this?" Russell held up a twisted, curled piece on the end of a pencil he had taken from his pocket. The sun glanced off the once shiny metal, still brilliant under its coating of black.

She nodded.

"This place was booby trapped! Ain't that so, Bert?"

"Yeah, that's what it looks like to me."

She made no comment, offered no excuse or explanation and asked for none, stood looking silently and without moving at the pair.

"Did you know the lady that was here last night?" the Sheriff asked, still hunkered over and looking into the ashes.

"No."

"Name was Kate Davison," Russell offered.

"I've never met the lady."

Jenny peeked over the officer's shoulder and could see Pat still standing in the same spot by the rocky outcropping. He hadn't so much as moved a muscle, was looking with empty eyes into the distance somewhere as if he were the only person on the ranch, the only person in the whole valley, maybe in the whole county.

"He talk to her?" Bert jerked his head toward Pat without turning around.

Jenny shrugged, not wanting to tell a lie, not wanting to tell the truth.

"She was DCI."

Jenny shrugged again.

"Division of Criminal Investigation," the officer said as he got up and stepped over to Jenny.

"Booby trapped the house, he did, and then told her to come out here so he could talk to her. He killed her, all right. Just as sure as I'm standing here, he killed her."

He stepped around Jenny, walked past the pile of concrete blocks and around the still smoking ruins in Pat's direction. Jenny followed, then Russell.

"I was here the whole time. He didn't booby trap anything," Jenny said to the officer's back.

"You're a good alibi, but he'll have to do better'n that," Bert said without turning around.

The officer walked up to within 30 paces of Pat and drew his pistol from its holster. Jenny stopped dead in her tracks and Russell bumped into her. She looked at Pat's face but it didn't move, didn't acknowledge that anyone was speaking to him, didn't flinch or even blink as Bert brought his weapon up and pointed it at him.

"Just a minute, Bert," Russell said from behind Jenny.

"Shut up." Bert released the safety and brought his left hand up under the grip to steady it, raised it ever so slightly so that it was pointed at Pat's chest, directly at his heart.

Jenny's eyes got very wide. She could see the muscles twitch in his arm. She heard Russell start to say something. Then she screamed and banged both clenched fists on the back of the officer's shirt with all of the pent up frustration and anger she could muster.

The pistol report rang in her ears, the cordite irritated her nose and stung her eyes. Russell grabbed both her hands and looked at the other officer open mouthed.

"Warning shot," Bert said. "That was to keep from having a big fight on our hands. Just wanted to scare him so he'd come easy, Missy."

"You were not," Jenny screamed. "You just shot him. He was just standing there and you shot him." She wriggled and twisted trying to get loose from Russell's grip.

"You shot him," she turned and shouted into Russell's face.

"Damn," Bert said, looked at the jumble of rocks and headed for his squad car.

Russell lost control of Jenny's hands and she turned toward where she was sure she would see Pat lying in a heap on the ground. There was nothing there. A slight wind whispered by and a robber jay scolded from an evergreen but there was nothing lying on the sand in front of the rocks. She was silent with disbelief.

Russell stood rooted in the same spot, watched her run and stare, then climb up onto the rocks, slipping and grabbing and wailing in a hysteria.

Bert stood by his squad car, talking into the radio. "He's gone. We forced an altercation, just like you said. But he's gone up into the hills somewheres."

The radio crackled back, "Then go get him. And Bert ..."

"What."

"... don't miss this time."

Bert tossed the handset back onto the seat and walked quickly toward the rocks. "You heard 'em," he said as he passed Russell, still standing in the same spot. "Let's go get him."

"What'd you do that for?" Russell asked, still trying to make sense of the sudden turn of events.

"Shut up and let's go get him, Deputy." The sheriff emphasized the last word.

"Come on, Bert, we can't do that. He hasn't done anything,"

"He booby trapped the house, didn't he? He murdered old lady Davison, didn't he? He skipped off, didn't he? I only fired a warning the first time. I say we waste him this time. I'm not taking any chances. It's him or us, now."

Bert poked his finger into Russell's shirt for emphasis, then grabbed his arm and turned him toward the rocks.

"You go up that side," he pointed with his right arm, the pistol once again in his hand. "I'll go up this side. This pile ain't that big. Be just like hunting a jackrabbit."

"I can't do that, Bert."

"Get it together, Botts. Go up that side and I'll cover this side. Ain't no one ever going to know. Who's she gonna tell?" He raised his eyes to where Jenny was still climbing on the rocks. "Me? You? That bitch over there sure can't do anything."

Bert turned and started toward the left side of the outcropping. Russell finally walked, reluctantly, toward the other side of the rock pile, his pistol still in its elaborately decorated holster at his side, the ugly black nightstick swinging from the other.

Jenny was a hundred feet ahead of them, leaping and running with no regard for her own safety. Anger masked the pain of the scrapes and cuts on her hands and legs. She finally sat down and hung her head, clasped her hands behind it and lifted her hair up and off her neck. Bert and Russell both came panting up to her.

"He's gone," Russell rasped.

"This time." Bert was in no better shape than Russell. "But I'll get him. You better take the lady and keep her out of harm's way."

"For chrissake, Bert. She's not going anywhere that we can't find her again. She works in the Park and I can go get her anytime."

Bert shook his head. "Not anymore, she don't. She got fired." He turned to Jenny. "Didn't you, Sweetie?"

She clamped her jaw tight, breathing hard through her nose so that a little string of mucous popped out and then back in, squeezed the moisture from her eyes, and stared straight ahead. She clenched at the rock she sat on until her knuckles were white.

"Better you take her back to East Gate. Keep her out of the way until we can take care of things here."

Russell just stood there, trying to catch his breath.

"Go on now, Russell. Take the lady back to East Gate and keep an eye on her. I'll tidy up here."

Russell took her arm. Jenny stood and, after jerking her arm out of his grip, moved down the slope with the Deputy following.

"This way," he said when she sat down and slid off the last rock.

He took her elbow, she jerked away again, he took it again, firmly, and guided her toward his squad car, opened the passenger's door for her, then went around and got in, locked all the doors with the switch on the dashboard, and left.

Jenny turned around, banged her knee on the shotgun sitting on the transmission housing and fastened firmly to the dashboard, and looked back through the mesh between the front and back seats. She could see Sheriff Glenson disappear around the doors and into the darkness of the bunker. She wished they'd fall off on him.

Chapter 26

Jenny ignored the sniggers of Kyle and Davy. She felt terrible, heavy and spaced out and not completely under control.

Russell had let her out at her apartment and told her to stay put. "Don't go wandering off anywhere," he had said, his voice almost but not quite threatening.

She tried. She wandered aimlessly from one room of her apartment to the other, tried to read and tried to listen to the radio, finally gave up, got in her Nova and drove to Crossroad.

She walked behind the counter and past the lower offices, up the stairs, and into the mess, as Jones called it. In reality, it was just a room with a dozen or so lockers around the outside and a large table in the center where staff could gather during lunch or break.

They could keep their funky old hat, she thought to herself, but she had been required to buy several uniforms when she started, five shirts, three shorts and two trousers, a jacket and a backpack and she intended to leave with all of them. Most of her uniforms were at home in her apartment but she kept a shirt and trousers stored here in case she needed to change. She also kept her coat and hat here as well as her backpack, crammed with a water bottle, first aid kit, flashlight, Swiss army knife, and several other things she had been instructed to always carry with her.

The door to her locker was already open when she entered. She didn't notice, reached inside and took out the hat, put it on her head one last time while she filled the backpack with her belongings and draped it over one shoulder, then put the hat back inside and shut the locker door slowly and silently. She went back out into the hall, walked past the landing and on to David Jones' office. There she peeked in to tell his secretary good bye.

Suzanne motioned her in and gave her a squeeze. "Good-bye, honey," she sniffed. "You got a raw deal."

Jenny smiled at her, then put her arms around and patted the shorter lady, looked over her shoulder as she said, "Nobody said life had to be fair."

Her eyes rested on a pair of suitcases, olive green with canvas sides and leather corners. The one she could see completely had a small black insignia stenciled in the center, an eagle, its head and beak in profile, looking to the right, its wings spread, and a pair of what looked like arrow quivers crossed on its breast.

Jenny's heart skipped a beat. It was virtually identical to the insignia on the lighter they had found on the Timini. She was staring at it when the door to Mr. Jones' office opened and he stepped out.

She smiled as Suzanne pulled away and patted her on the arm.

David Jones followed her gaze to the bags, sniffed his nose, straightened his back and smiled at the two women.

He took a step and offered his hand. She took it.

"Good bye, Miss Brush. I am truly grateful for the good times while you were here. If you need a recommendation, don't hesitate to ask. Mrs. Lemp writes an excellent letter. And if you ever pass through again, please stop in and see us."

"Thank you, Mr. Jones," Jenny smiled her best smile, but could feel it quiver as her nerves sent pulses racing up and down her body, shivers over which she had no control. "I appreciate that. I'll probably need a good recommendation," she added, in a tone not quite as flip as she had intended. "I'll need a job pretty quick or I'm going to have to go on welfare."

She turned and left, Mrs. Lemp sat back behind her desk, and David Jones ground his teeth and stared at the door through which Jenny had just gone for just a second, then turned on his heel and went back into his office.

The buzzer on his desk telephone sounded almost immediately. He picked up the receiver and, without listening, hissed, "Not now, dammit," and replaced the receiver.

It seemed to Jenny as if it took hours to get past all the well-wishers and good-byers and out to her car. She started it and looked up at the Park director's office. He was standing close to one side of the window, looking down at her. She wheeled out of the parking space and waved at him, not gaily but resolutely, to show him she harbored no ill feelings.

At the stop sign, she started to turn south toward East Gate, then pushed in the clutch and let the car roll back into the parking lot. She gripped the steering wheel tightly, squeezed her eyes shut and clenched her jaw, then turned and headed across the dam, north through the Park toward Junction.

Chapter 27

Jenny Brush

She read the name on the little brass name tag before pinning it on her uniform shirt, then stuffed her jeans and shirt into the backpack and threw it on the back seat. She walked around the front of her car and lifted one side of the orange and silver boards, moved them enough that she thought she could get the car through. There was nothing on any of the notices tacked up in the mess that said anything about this road being under repair. The sign in front of her car, however, read

NO ACCESS

ROAD CLOSED

She got back in and checked herself in the visor mirror, then put the little car in gear and drove the last several miles through the evergreens to the cabins. No hat but that couldn't be helped. No one would notice anyway, would they?

The cabins looked deserted. There were four of them and a small utility building to match, built in a semicircle in a clearing in the timber, all facing the graveled parking lot. They were solid looking log buildings with green trim around the high windows and rolls of green asphalt fastened with lathe strips over the roofs and porches.

The dust settled around her as she braked to a halt and turned the engine off. The only sound to break the silence was the generator in the utility building. She took a deep breath, got out, and knocked at the door to the first cabin.

"Yeah," came a deep voice from inside. "Just leave it there. I'll get it later."

Jenny summoned all her courage and knocked again while she said, "Park service. Ranger Brush."

"What the ..." she heard from inside, as well as rustles and whispers, then "Hang on a minute."

She turned her back to the door and stepped away, looked at the other three cabins. There was a blue utility van and a red pickup parked between the two lodges on this side of the road, otherwise no vehicles could be seen. The windows of every cabin were dark, every door closed, no smoke from any of the chimneys, no sound except the generator and, now, some birds.

She turned around again as the door opened. A wide man in dark, pin striped slacks and a white shirt stood there, one side of his suspenders twisted and his hair freshly slicked back. She tried to surreptitiously look around him at the interior of the cabin. All she could see was a bare wood floor partly covered with a thin carpet, the edge of a bed and, at the back, an open door through which she could see the trunks of the trees that grew almost over the roof of the cabin.

Jenny smiled. The man scowled.

"Mr. Wernicke?" She had no idea what to say, the name just popped into her head.

He shook his head no.

"Which cabin is Mr. Wernicke in, please?"

He shrugged and said in a deep baritone voice, "No Wernicke here."

"I'm sorry," Jenny absolutely beamed at him, "but I'm supposed to see Mr. Wernicke."

"Where's Clee?"

"Betty?" Jenny didn't know Ranger Clee very well, had only met her twice and thought she was stuck up both times. A dyed red-head with all the looks but no wits about her. "I'm afraid she has the flu. I'm filling in today. Could you please tell me where I can find Mr. Wernicke?"

"I told you, there's no Wernicke here."

He looked closer at her name tag, finally reached for it and pulled it up with her blouse so he could see it better.

"Brush, is it?"

He stood back and looked her up and down.

"When you're done with Wernicke, come on back here."

"Just tell me where he is and I'll do that," she answered, smiling again.

"There's no Wernicke here. Give me a few minutes to get cleaned up, will you? Just wait here a few minutes."

"I'm sorry, sir. I was told to see Mr. Wernicke. Is that your name?"

He shook his head.

"Sam?"

He grinned and shook his head again.

"Bob? David? George? Bill?"

He kept grinning and shaking his head. "Nope."

Jenny raised an eyebrow. "Rumpelstiltskin?"

"Ha, ha, ha," the man in the doorway grabbed both suspenders and stretched them out in front of his stomach. "Try Vincent."

"Is that really your name, Vincent?"

"Yeah, that's really me. Come on in, little lady. You can get to know Vince a lot better."

"Can't," she said. "Mr. Jones might get awfully mad if I don't find Mr. Wernicke."

"Lucky bastard. Tell Jones I need you. Tell him I need you bad, would you?" he said, stepped outside and yelled, "Wernicke. Hey Wernicke."

There was no answer from any of the other cabins and Vince shook his head. "Like I said, no Wernicke here. You make sure you tell Jones that I want to get to know you better. You do that, now, you hear?"

"I will," she assured him. "I surely will. Um, mind if I check?" She started to back away.

"Suit yourself, little lady. And come on back here when you don't find him. Maybe we can get you headed in the right direction."

Jenny turned away, jumped as Vince caressed her posterior, and walked across the road to another cabin. There was no response to her knock, nor was there at the third cabin. She crossed the road again, passed the vehicles, noticed a pair of rifles in the window of the pickup, and knocked at the last cabin.

"Ranger Brush, Mr. Wernicke."

The door opened and a swarthy man dressed in green camouflaged fatigue pants and an olive drab, sleeveless undershirt looked out at her. In his hand was a rifle, held in the middle of the barrel with a thick, blue, lint-free cleaning cloth. His hair was dark and thick, cut short, and grew down so low across the front that his forehead was almost nonexistent, like his hairline and eyebrows were growing toward each other and would soon mate. His arms and shoulders, his chest, anywhere else that was left uncovered also sprouted an abundance of dark, curly hair.

"Whaddaya want?" he growled.

He tried to make his voice lower than it was, raised the rifle in front of him as if to ward off an unpleasant apparition, then continued to slowly rub the already spotless barrel and stock.

"Mr. Wernicke?" she asked.

"Not me. You talk to Roggins?"

"Just Mr. Wernicke, if you don't mind."

The man shook his head and stood placidly in the door, feet spread, the muscles in his thick arms and shoulders moving as he stroked the rifle slowly up and down with the cleaning cloth, moved under the scope and around the trigger.

Jenny threw her arms up in the air with a silly smile and backed off the porch. She could see through his spread legs into the room. The part she could see was a mess! Glasses and paper plates and pizza boxes littered the floor, as well as the bed covers and some more of his clothes, all camouflaged.

Jenny walked back to her car, smiled broadly and spread her arms and hands in a helpless gesture as the first man appeared and tried again to summon her inside in his deep, orator's voice. She backed out and followed the road past the cabins, drove for several miles, then stopped and got out the Park map from the glove box, found the road she was on, and traced it from the highway. The map showed no road past the cabins.

She folded it thoughtfully and laid it on the seat beside her, then put the car in low gear and continued. This road was in good shape for not existing, much better than the road, now closed, connecting the cabins with the Park Highway. Even without the ACCESS DENIED sign, few people would probably attempt to follow it, so rough and rutted was the surface.

The trees and underbrush were very close to the road but not so close they interfered with her little car. She guessed that even a big car could get through with no problem. Freshly graded, it was in remarkably good shape. The Park roads with which she was familiar were almost always full of washboards and bumps at the best and complete washouts at the worst.

Several times she saw other tracks cut back into the trees, trails actually, but wide enough for a vehicle to go on. She stopped at several and looked but could see nothing. They all curved too soon and the dense trees blocked out much of the light.

Thirteen miles, according to the car's odometer, when she suddenly left the trees and broke out onto the barren top of the mountain. The road now zigged and zagged up the steep incline. Rocks had been moved out of the way and pushed to each side.

Seventeen miles to the summit. She stopped and got out by one of several lone trees, each with its branches clustered on one side and sticking straight out like remnants of a flag blowing in the brisk wind. Several small bushes clustered around each of their bases, tiny dark islands in the alien landscape.

The wind was cold in spite of the full sun that beamed down on her. Reaching into her pack, she retrieved a pair of field glasses, steadied them against the top of the car, and looked back in the direction from which she had just come. Only a carpet of dark trees was visible with rocks sticking out here and there above them.

She leaned over and steadied the glasses against the opened door, looked down toward where she might be going. In the distance she could see Junction, the rodeo grounds, the highway in and out of town, a myriad of tracks across the desert that surrounded it.

She stowed her glasses, got back in and drove down the opposite side. The road was bumpier here, but still passable. The air warmed as she lost altitude, but no trees appeared. Tinker's Maze Park was strange. Air currents rushed down its valley and dropped their life-giving loads of water, leaving the other side of the mountain dry and scorched, its people scratching for a meager existence.

The road forked. One went down, the other took off diagonally. She stopped and got her glasses out again but could see no advantage to taking either road. She guessed both probably ended in Junction. She glanced both ways, then removed her uniform and stuffed the shirt and slacks into her backpack, pulled on the blue jeans and shirt she had been wearing when she first turned onto the road to the cabins.

Several more times the road forked. At each she took the straightest way down, now bumping over larger rocks and detouring around boulders and creosote bushes and yuccas. The talus slope was treacherous and more than once her car threatened to slide off the narrow track. She bumped over a graded hump and onto what appeared to be a more traveled road, followed it north, then west, then north again, then west past the luxuriant Werkmann estate and finally into Junction.

"Interesting," she thought, and drove past the carnival and the rodeo grounds, down the one way street that served as half of the business district and onto the highway south out of town.

Chapter 28

Jenny hesitated as she drove her Nova off the highway and onto the long dirt road that led up from the valley floor. What if Deputy Botts or, worse yet, Sheriff Glenson were camped in Pat's yard? She decided not to chance meeting either of them, left her car out of sight from the road in an arroyo about two miles from the house, and then hiked the rest of the way, trying to judge which gulch would be the best to follow. She would climb out of one to get her bearings, walk a ways and then slide down into another. An hour later she stood against one side of the broad ravine by the pond.

She climbed the side as silently as she could, careful about where to put her feet and arms, and slowly raised her head so she could see over the edge. Pat's car and truck were both parked in their same spot along with Danny's Oldsmobile, all facing the cold pile of ashes. Only a brick chimney, oddly red above the debris, stood to define what had once been. The Slide Lady's little white car had evidently been either towed or driven away.

For twenty minutes she watched every movement in her field of vision; birds, cattle, horses, cats, even a coyote went trotting through the ranch yard, not looking left or right and acting as if it didn't have a care in the world. Jenny could see Danny in the distance forking hay into the bunks for the heifers, Pat's dog at his heel, nose to the ground, sniffing and occasionally barking. It chased a rabbit out from its hiding place, little puffs of dust rising behind it as it flew across the trampled dirt to the sanctuary of a twisted pile of used barbed wire. The dog pawed at the pile momentarily, then stood back and just barked, maybe aware that this one had bested her.

Danny finished feeding the calves, went into a little outbuilding and put out a couple dishes of food and some water for the cats, then returned to his car, clicked his fingers and the dog bounded up into the seat and sat, as they left, staring straight ahead out of the passenger side windshield. They looked like man and wife through the rear window of the disappearing car.

Jenny waited until the dust had settled, counted to one thousand, then sprinted around the man-made hill and into the gloom of the bunker, only slowing to catch her breath when she finally reached the heavy front door.

It opened when she pushed on it, swung silently inward. She stood still and listened, could hear only her heart beating in her ears, took a step inside and closed the door, felt along the wall and flipped on the light switch. Everything seemed normal.

She shut the door behind her and thought about placing the bar across it for security. She looked all along the wall but the piece of oak was nowhere to be seen.

"Pat," she called, only loud enough to be heard inside.

There was no answer. She walked around the room on the bricks, carefully, as noiselessly as possible. She stopped and checked the wood packing boxes. Most of the food was gone. She opened the refrigerator. A jar of ketchup and one of mustard were all that were left.

She followed around the wall to the passageway leading from the kitchen to the living room, extinguished the lights behind her and flipped on the living room lights as she went through.

Everything here seemed in order, too, only silent, lonely and eerie. She tip-toed up the stairs to the alcove, looked into the bathroom, passed the fireplace and stereo, looked at the shelf that housed his knife collection. There was nothing to show that it had ever been anything more than empty.

She descended the few wide stairs back down to the living room, paced around, then sat in the overstuffed chair and looked at the ceiling. A few minutes later she got up and walked to the bottom of the stairs against the granite wall behind the bathroom. She flipped off the living room light, reached forward and felt for the hard, stone stairs, gingerly placed a foot on each new riser as she ascended, strained her eyes in the darkness, her ears in the silence.

She gained the top, turned on the light and looked around. Half his clothes were gone from the wood boxes there, the sleeping bag was no longer on top of its stack of boxes. Just the thin mattress and a threadbare blanket remained. She sat on the boxes and fingered the blanket, pulling it through one hand into the other, leaned back against the cold, sandstone wall.

His pictures hung on the wall, still like she remembered them. She went over and ran a finger around the one nearest the sheepherder stove, a large sepia colored print of a horse standing near the edge of a butte rising from a flat horizon and lit by a single shaft of sunlight that burst through the thick layer of clouds. It wasn't Mandy and she wondered if it were his or someone else's.

The wood wall upon which it hung was rough and splintery, not sanded or coated or otherwise finished. She let her finger run lightly along the wall, leaned slightly to compensate for its unvertical tilt as she moved to the next picture, stood looking at it silently for a minute, then turned the comer and walked slowly along the back wall to stare at the next one. A true black and white and larger than the first, it showed a sequence of rounded, seemingly barren mountain tops extending into a light haze that accentuated the depth of the picture. In the foreground stood a tree, short and twisted, a lone sentinel guarding the passageway to infinity. The picture's frame was wood, unfinished, charred and deeply grained with a deep brown nail hole like a beauty mark in the upper right side. She traced lightly around the frame with her finger, moved off it and up and around the frame of the little door at the rear of the room against which the picture hung, then moved to the next.

She looked at it, leaving her finger on the bottom of its frame, then slowly traced back the way she had come, back across the door frame to the hasp. The ancient padlock was missing, nowhere to be seen, and the hasp was not seated in its keeper.

Her heart skipped a beat while she grabbed the cold iron and pulled. The door swung away from the wall as silently as the front door had swung. He had evidently oiled every hinge in the place recently. She expected to see a dark hole, an entrance to a cave or a black hole or stairs or an exit of some kind. She was met instead with another wall, rough, darkly aged, horizontal boards, imprecise in their fit. Small, black gaps appeared here and there along each of their edges. Her eyes followed one crack from the center of the wall outward. It extended past the edge of the frame. She put both hands on them, could feel cool air escaping out into the room she was in, and pushed but nothing happened.

She swore softly under her breath, turned off the light and descended the stairs in the darkness, turned on the living room lights, and then the stereo. _The Magic Flute_ was still on the turntable and she moved the needle over to the outside track, remembered Pat sitting beside her on the carpet in front of the fire as he interpreted the libretto for her, remembered the feeling brought on by the impenetrable walls that surrounded and protected her, the little fire that warmed her, the gentle voice that soothed her. She sniffed and shivered and grabbed both arms across her chest. A fire would feel good, she thought, descended the stairs from the alcove, sank back into the dog-eared chair, and tried to conjure up the warm, secure feeling of the previous evening.

It didn't even seem like a minute, but time had passed, she knew. The needle had reached the inner track and was bumping against the label. It skewered back with a thump and scratch through the speakers, then traced over to the center again, repeating the process over and over.

She opened her eyes, and then let out a stifled scream. Sheriff Bert Glenson was standing in front of her, hands on his hips, looking down at her. He put a meaty hand on the top of her head as she tried to stand and pushed her back into the chair. "Just wait there."

"What do you mean, just wait here?" she asked, then threw her legs over the arm, rolled in a half somersault backwards and came up on the balls of her feet.

The officer was astonished, opened his eyes wide and almost laughed at the absurdity of her move.

"Nice trick," he said. "But just where do you think you're going to run?"

"You may shoot me, but you won't shoot me while I'm sitting," she said defiantly.

"No one's gonna shoot you, lady."

"You shot Pat. You'll shoot me, too."

"I didn't shoot your boyfriend, missy. He high tailed it. I want to know where he is and you're gonna tell me." He rattled a pair of shiny silver handcuffs as he said this.

"No, I won't."

She stepped back toward the wall, looked desperately around the room for a place to run or for something with which to defend herself.

Bert smiled and began to walk slowly and steadily toward her.

"Just tell me where he went and we can all go home and get some sleep tonight. He's hiding in here, ain't he? You been in here long enough to talk to him."

"You've been spying on me," she said softly, bumped her back against the hard stone of the wall.

"Damn right! That's my job. You ought to go up on top of this cave sometime. You could see clear from one end of the valley to the other. Just a little word of advice. Next time you go sneaking around somewhere, look up. I seen every ditch you followed. For chrissake lady, I could almost have reached down and grabbed you when you was watching that creepy old guy that took off with Paddy's dog."

Jenny stepped sideways, her back against the wall. Bert continued his steady walk, staying directly in front of her. Suddenly his hand shot out and grabbed hers. She let out a short cry and tried to draw back. He hadn't put the cuffs on her yet but his grip was too firm for her to get loose. She pulled back as hard as she could, looked at Bert's smiling face, her mind suddenly calm and calculating. She raised one leg and came down on his instep as hard as she could with the hard sole of her hiking boot.

The expression on his face changed and he loosened his grip just ever so slightly. She tried to bring her knee up into his groin but he brought his knees together and blocked it. She brought her free hand up to scratch his face but he grabbed it with his free hand, leaned his body into hers and pinned her against the wall.

His breath stunk as he grunted in her face, "Not smart, lady. Not smart at all."

He grabbed her shirt front and jerked back, pulling her with him, then pushed her hard into the wall, pulled her away again and pushed her back again, as hard as he could, then leaned his full weight on her once again.

Her head clunked against the rock and her breath came out with a sudden whoosh. Her eyes lost their focus and she could see no more than his twisted face in front of her. She wanted to spit in his face but her mouth was dry and no air came from her lungs. She struggled for breath, tried in vain to draw in even the smallest bit of air but failed. Her abdomen worked in and out, trying desperately to find some kind of rhythm and make her lungs work again. She no longer thought of anything except air, cool, clean air. The weight against her chest didn't let up and she uselessly pushed with decreasing strength, trying to shove the officer away. Her legs weakened and she sank downwards, but his weight never left, just pressed harder against her, seemed to be forcing her into the floor bricks.

Finally she was able to emit a little sob, a sliver of air slid down her throat and into her lungs, then another tiny bit, and another until she was breathing again. Her vision returned and her chest heaved with the effort of restoring oxygen to all the different parts of her body. She rejoiced in just the simple pleasure of being able to breathe, almost giggled in its joyful simplicity, almost forgot Bert's 240 pounds that was still lying on her, but had suddenly ceased to move.

She opened her eyes. She opened them very wide. Pat was standing over them. He hadn't said a word, had just materialized with a heavy, shiny hunting knife in one hand and the razor-sharp cavalry sword held at arm's length in the other. He had pressed the sword point into Bert's lower back, halfway between the side and the spine.

"Get up, Bert," he said, very quietly.

Bert made a move and Pat pressed a little harder.

"Very slowly and very smoothly, stand your sorry ass up."

Bert did so, craned his neck to look over his shoulder and could see the glint of both knives, the tight crease of Pat's mouth and eyes, could see the sinewy cords of muscle ripple up and down the arms as Pat followed him with the sword, never moving the point from his kidneys, the tip pressed just to the point of drawing blood.

"Let the belt off, Bert. One handed. Unbuckle it and get it to the floor."

Jenny started to get up and he spoke sharply to her. "Just stay right there. Don't get up yet." His eyes never left the bulky sheriff.

The officer's belt fell with a clunk onto the wood floor. Jenny moved it when Pat told her to, slid it with her as she crawled backwards, then stood up and carried it to the other side of the room with her and dropped it in a seat, exactly as instructed. She could hear Bert's quick, ragged breathing. Pat was silent, concentrated on the man in front of him, stood motionless as if contemplating what to do now.

"Turn around very slowly," he said, quietly and almost under his breath.

Bert did so. His eyes followed and almost crossed as the tip of the sword came up and finally rested just under his chin. He tried to back up but the wall prevented him. He moved his eyes to Pat's face, looked into the angry eyes and flaring nostrils.

"What am I going to do with you, Bert?"

The officer offered no suggestions.

"You're in a bad spot. You know that, don't you Bert? Was it you that came in here and took my slides? Was it you that sent the mountain down on me? Was it you that set the house off?"

Bert was shaking his head as much as he dared as Pat ticked off the list of accusations.

Pat pressed a little harder with the sword.

"I come in here and took your pictures, OK?" The words spilled from the Sheriff. "But I didn't jimmy the house, I swear I didn't. Honest, that was Chewy and Luis. I didn't tell them to, neither. You gotta believe me. I knew you didn't live there no more. If I told them to do it I would have had them to set this place up, not the house. It was supposed to get you, not Davison. Nobody knew you was talking to her, honest."

Pat listened silently, didn't move when Jenny said, in an astonished tone as if she couldn't believe she were really saying it, "Jones set it up, didn't he?" She paused just a second, and then continued in a rush as if the words couldn't wait to come out, "He told you to come here and get the pictures of Mr. Werkmann. He told you there were six of them and that they'd be slides. I know he did. He took Werkmann's body off the Trail, too, didn't he? And he dropped his lighter when he picked it up, too, didn't he? I'd bet that lighter's not in Russell's office anymore, either, is it?"

"I don't know, honest I don't."

"He put Mr. Werkmann in his own car, didn't he? Then he drove it up the highway and let it go off the edge. Why'd he do that? Because he didn't want anyone to find out about his little setup at the cabins? Who's up there that's so important?"

Bert repeated, "I don't know. You gotta believe me, I don't know," then added, "They just call me when there's something needs done, something they don't want to do."

"Who calls you? Jones?" Pat broke his silence.

"Sometimes."

"Who else?"

Bert didn't answer. He stood silently and looked at Pat, his mouth shut tight as if to prevent anything more from escaping.

The sound of an approaching vehicle drifted in through the still open front door.

"Move," Pat commanded.

"Where?"

Pat jerked his head to the right. "Follow the wall and up the steps. Turn the light on up there, Jenny, quick."

She ran up the stairs and turned on the bedroom light, then ran back down and walked behind Pat as he pushed the deputy ahead of him with the sword. They all three warily climbed the stairs. She turned the living room lights off behind them.

Halfway across the upper room, she could see the little back door standing open, a black hole gaping behind it. They had almost traversed the room when a voice sounded from below.

"Bert? Hey, Bert! You in there?"

"Douse the light," Pat whispered to Jenny, then turned and prodded the hapless Sheriff ahead of him into the darkness, shining a flashlight ahead of him as he went.

Jenny joined them, walked slowly and carefully on her tip toes toward the light and stepped through into the cavity. A breeze blew the lighter ends of her hair and brought goose bumps to her arms. She pulled the door closed behind her, following Pat's instructions, and then pushed the old board barrier against it. She took the four pins he held out to her and dropped two into holes in the floor, then dropped the other two into receivers at the top.

Pat switched off the flashlight and the three of them stood silent and motionless, listening intently to the voices that drifted in to them. They were muffled. Jenny could tell when they stepped into the living room by the sudden increase in volume, couldn't make out the words as they talked excitedly in Spanish. She expected to hear them come up the stairs but they didn't. Their voices grew fainter, instead, and finally stopped as they left.

Chapter 29

Pat motioned with his head for Bert to move forward. The Sheriff turned around and followed the light, ever aware of the sharp point prodding him along. Jenny followed at a distance as instructed. Pat assured him that his skin was no match for the steel in the sword, that any sudden movement or stupid gesture might just cause him to maybe press just a little too hard. Bert walked smoothly and cautiously, very evenly so that even his head didn't bounce back and forth as was his usual habit.

Jenny could see they were in a mine shaft. Old tree trunks and branches still stood, all of their bark not yet peeled off, to brace against the boards used for shoring. The walls that she could see were rounded and rough but the floor was flat, well worn, and the footing good.

Twice they passed smaller openings that led off the one they were following, cavities that hid their secrets in the darkness. They could have continued straight, but Pat stopped and motioned the officer into a third side passage. He obeyed and turned.

This passage was not straight like the one they had just left, but bent sharply left after no more than ten paces, then curved gently right before making a sharp right turn. They stopped and Pat commanded Bert to hold his right arm out behind. He snapped on one side of the Sheriffs own handcuffs.

"Now put both arms around that pole. That's right, now move around it so you face me. Remember, slowly and carefully."

Pat snapped on the second handcuff and backed away.

"Don't try pulling too hard. This pole holds up a lot. I don't think you could ever run fast enough if you yank it out. You understand that, Bert?"

Bert looked up and nodded, then watched, wide-eyed, as Pat and Jenny left.

The darkness was like nothing he had ever experienced before. Total and complete, his eyes could make out nothing once the yellow reflections of the little light vanished. It was almost claustrophobic, choking him the darkness was so absolute.

The echoes got farther and farther away, and after they had completely disappeared, he tugged gently at the cuffs. The old beam groaned and a few little pebbles rained down on his head. He pulled his head and neck in like a turtle, then hurriedly pushed his hands forward again and slid them down as he sat, cross legged and solemn, his brow furrowed in concentration like he was worshiping the post goddess.

He remained almost motionless, his eyes wide in the dark, for the better part of an hour. Then little moans began to escape from his throat and he started to rock gently back and forth.

"Ivers?" he called softly. "Paddy, give me a light, would you? It's dark in here."

Nothing answered. Even his own echoes disappeared quickly.

"For God's sake, Ivers. I need something to see with." He said it a little louder, then screamed, "Paaadyyy," and stood up.

Bert jerked at the cuffs, desperate in the darkness, sobbing and moaning, pleading for a light. He stamped his feet, his fingers splayed out straight from his palms, trying desperately to find a way out of his predicament. He jerked hard and the rotten beam broke in half. Rocks and sand rained down and he covered his head with both hands. His knees buckled and he sank to the ground, whimpering.

It took him a minute to realize that he was still alive, not crushed under tons of rock. He stood on shaky legs, took a faltering step forward, crashed into the broken pole, changed direction and took another, continued until he cracked his knee into the rock wall.

He brought his hands up and felt as far as he could, then started following the wall, slowly and bent as far forward as he could, still moaning and sniffling. He followed it back out the twisty corridor, turned at the main passageway, still groping in the darkness. He found the false wall and removed the four pins, pulled it out and stepped through.

He almost fell going down the stairs, tiptoed across the shiny maple floor of the living room, walked across the kitchen, and opened the outer door. The sun was just setting. He had never known a joy greater than the light that assaulted his dilated pupils.

Chapter 30

They left Bert and went farther into the mine, Pat pointing out obstacles with the small flashlight he held. They passed several more dark holes that led off from the passageway they followed, and when it ended in a jumble of rock and debris, they turned left into another small, dark passageway. It went straight but not far. The walls weren't shored, the floor not flat and smooth like the rest of the mine they had been in so far but dipped up and down unexpectedly and was strewn with rocks of varying sizes. They skirted a dark hole in the floor as they entered a small chamber. Like the end of the main passageway, the walls and edges of the floor did not meet at a distinct point, but blended into each other with a mantle of loose rocks. Jenny surmised, correctly, that this part of the mine was unfinished and they had gone as far as they could go.

Pat shined the light on a ledge that ran along one side. All his belongings he had brought from the bunker were lined up on it. He lit a kerosene lantern and they sat quietly, side by side, on the heavy sleeping bag. He unfolded the top of an already opened box of sugared breakfast cereal and they each took a handful and munched on the slightly soggy pieces.

"What are we going to do with Bert?"

"Leave him there, I suppose," Pat answered. "He sure can't go anywhere."

"I wish we had his gun."

"No." He paused to swallow and then spoke slowly, choosing his words carefully. "A gun usually ends up hurting the person who carries it. Besides, killing another person isn't something I could do right now. It's immoral. Unethical. The only time it might ever be tenable is in self-defense. If it ever comes to the point you really have to kill someone, it's best if you have to look right in their eyes from up close so you have no choice but to understand the meaning of what you're about to do."

He threw another few pieces of cereal into his mouth and then talked around them. "Even killing a deer or a bear, or even a bird, or a cow, even, you should only do it for food and never just because it's there or for the sport of it - which is a misnomer, incidentally. Sport implies that both sides know and abide by some given set of rules.

"When you have a gun in your hands, you have to think much harder than when you don't. It's too easy to just point and pull the trigger. And if you do kill, you should have no choice but to see it so you know that you have just taken something priceless, even from the dumbest of animals.

"I like the idea of praying to the spirit of the animal after a kill, to honor it, maybe even going so far as to share in the last breath. That's an Ind... a Native American custom, I think. People that have gotten too far away from the natural world don't understand this and that's why they have guns. Maybe not why they have them, but why they use them like they do. A gun makes shooting another living creature very impersonal, too easy, almost like shooting tin cans."

"But you don't have to shoot anybody," Jenny protested. "Just point the gun at them and look threatening."

"Yeah, well, it's probably better never to point a gun unless you fully intend to use it. Even the best bluff doesn't always work, and when it doesn't you either have to back down or use the weapon. Most people don't back down very easily. It hurts their ego and they have to figure out some other way to save face, so they just go ahead and pull the trigger."

Jenny washed down the dry cereal with some water, sat back and thought quietly, imagined how the man sitting next to her had grown and matured, about the experiences and things around him that must have shaped his personal philosophy. She appreciated it, wished her own life philosophy were as clear and focused.

This man, his warm arm just touching hers, gentle with his animals, artistic, creative. She found it hard to imagine him killing anyone, even in a war. But she was sure he had. Too many people had told her otherwise. It had taken its toll on him. She could see that in his eyes when his cow had died, when she had returned his camera, the night of the Slide Lady. Jenny shivered at her thoughts.

"Cold?" Pat asked.

"How could I be cold?" She looked expectantly up at him but he merely tossed back another handful of cereal.

"You know a Vince Roggins?" she asked after a minute.

"Yeah. Know of him, at least. He's in the legislature, represents some district up north. Why?"

"I met him this afternoon."

"Oh? Where?"

"He's in one of the cabins in the north end of the Park."

"How did you happen to be up there?"

"Well, Russell dropped me off at my place and told me to stay put. I just couldn't stay home, you know. I think he knew that as well as I did. He probably just drove around the corner and then radioed to Bert where I was going. Anyway, I went to gather my things from my locker in the Park and when I left there I turned this way instead of that. I just stopped by to see what was happening. Curiosity, I guess."

"Did he say anything?"

"Not much. Lecherous old coot, though. He was in one cabin and this guy in Army clothes was in another. They had two trucks there, a pickup and something like a really tall but kind of short station wagon. The guy in the Army clothes was polishing up a gun."

"Rifle or pistol?"

"Rifle. Long, black, with a telescope thing on it. And there were two more in the back window of the pickup. Not as pretty, more bluish and with regular wood handles on them. And I think one was a shotgun rather than a rifle. Rifles don't have two barrels, do they?"

Pat shook his head.

"Did the guy in fatigues say anything?"

"Not too much at all. He just stood there and looked mean. Kept polishing on that gun he had."

They heard Bert scream, a soft, distant sound, more echo than voice. Both of them jumped, and then shook their heads. Pat said he'd never get free from the post and they both settled back against the wall.

The mine was chilly and Jenny got under the sleeping bag instead of sitting on it. Pat got up when she did and adjusted the lantern a little brighter. A little smoke was beginning to come out of the chimney and he opened the tank lid and tested the fuel depth with a pocket knife, then poured what was left in the can of kerosene into it.

"How did you get in here?" she asked. "I mean, how'd you disappear when Bert shot at you?"

"I came in through the door. It wasn't really too hard, you know. Just slipped in while the three of you were climbing around up on that rock pile. You went right past me and Russell and Bert went around before they started to climb. I was crouched down under a big rock not 10 paces away from where I was standing when Bert fired. Oh, and thanks, by the way."

"For what?"

"For beating on Bert. He would have nailed me if you hadn't done that. If he missed the first time, he sure would have got me the second time. But you were beating on him and he had to turn around to defend himself. You're pretty feisty, thank heaven! Gave me plenty of time to disappear."

"If you came in the bunker, then why didn't you just bar the door?"

"Because they would have known I was in here. If they came in and couldn't find me, there was a good chance they'd leave thinking I was somewhere else."

"But it didn't work that way."

"Nope. Good old Bert decided to stick around."

"And dumb old me decided to stick my nose in again."

"Too bad Bert saw you come in. Was he inside or out?"

"I guess he was waiting up on top of your bunker. You can see a long ways from up there, huh? I left my car down the road some and he watched me come all the way up here and then caught me when I came in. How did you know I was there?"

"I didn't. I just came back for more batteries. Two D cells won't last very long without getting pretty dim. Then you have to wait while they get some of their charge back before you can use them again."

"You brought that sword so you could get batteries?"

"Oh, that. No. I hid all that stuff beneath my bed. I didn't want Russell or Bert or anyone running off with them. It just happened to be handy that way."

"Well, I'm glad it was handy. I still wish we had brought his gun along, though."

Pat took the flashlight and disappeared down the corridor leading back into the main shaft. She could hear his footsteps echo against the hard walls, get softer, then louder again as he returned.

He switched the flashlight off and perched, cross legged, on a big rock on the opposite wall, his chin propped in his hands and his fingers up over his eyes.

"Where do we go next?" he asked, quietly, not necessarily to Jenny.

Chapter 31

Sheriff Bert Glenson walked out of the dark interior of the bunker and into the last light of day, walked past the burned house, past the horse corral, and finally past three old, faded red railroad box cars and a similarly faded caboose, all without wheels and resting on the ground. Behind the last of these was his Ford, parked close to it and hidden from the rest of the ranch. He opened the glove box, took out a small key and removed the handcuffs. He stood rubbing his wrists for a minute, then replaced the key and pulled out a flashlight, a cap and some fuse. He walked around and opened the trunk. Inside was a wooden box. He lifted off the lid, rummaged around in the shavings and took out a red, waxy tube.

He strode purposefully back to the bunker, up the stairs and through the little door in the back of Pat's bedroom. He switched the flash light on only momentarily to get his bearings, then switched it off and groped his way forward as far as he dared, then turned on the flashlight again and repeated the process until he stood at the third passageway.

He tried to peer ahead in the darkness, wanted to go farther but didn't know what was there nor where Pat and Jenny had gone. He stopped and knelt down, placed the dynamite between two rocks close against the wall and under some shoring, pressed the cap and fuse into place, then struck a match. The first one went out in the breeze that blew through the mine shaft, as did the second one. He turned to shield the match with his body and lit the fuse with the third. He watched it just a moment, then turned and retreated as rapidly as he dared.

He heard the muffled explosion as he reached his car again. Smiling, he picked up the radio and switched frequencies. "Those two won't give us any more trouble."

"Good," responded the muffled, tinny reply. "Go on home now. Good job."

Chapter 32

Pat and Jenny were both jolted with the blast. It was far enough away that it didn't physically harm them except their hearing. Their minds were rendered momentarily useless by the concussion. They lay against the walls, automatically covered their heads to protect themselves from the stones that broke loose from the ceiling and wondered what had happened, unable to comprehend the sudden silence. The lamp continued to burn and they eventually focused on its light and began to move, slowly and unsure of themselves.

Pat staggered toward the entrance/exit of their little chamber. Dust was finding its way there from the blast. He coughed, walked back and extinguished the lantern, then switched on the flashlight.

Jenny was by now standing, shaking her head and banging one side with her palm trying to clear her ear. Pat took her arm and shook his head at her, trying to protect her from hurting herself. He couldn't make her understand what had happened but he was able to at least make her quit hitting herself.

She wouldn't stay when he left to see what had happened and followed against his wishes. The dust was beginning to settle but even so the little light had a hard time piercing what was left. They went slowly and finally saw the debris that now completely blocked their exit.

Pat shined the light up and around the collapsed shaft, then sat down and turned it off.

"I think we're in real trouble," he said in the blackness.

"How good are your supplies?" she asked after a minute.

"Enough food for a week for both of us. But there's only enough water for a couple days."

"If we bring it up here, do you suppose we could dig out? Those rocks look like they're mostly small enough to move."

"I doubt it. But we'd better try. Probably better not waste too much time either."

"Oh, God, what about Bert?" she asked quietly.

Pat shook his head and replied, just as quietly, "He's done for. This is right where he would have been."

"Well," Jenny stood up, "say a little prayer for him, then, but we better get moving."

Pat stood up, too, switched on the light and moved away from the blockage.

"I'm sorry I got you into this," he said, not stopping to turn around and look at her while he said it.

"Don't worry about it. I got myself here as much as you did."

They returned without saying anything more to the far chamber and gathered up as much as they could carry, then retraced their steps back to the pile. They cleared a place and piled it up, then started to work, methodically pulling out rocks and rolling them back and away from the pile.

An hour passed, then another, slower hour. The easiest pieces had been removed. Their hands were cut and bruised and each rock was harder to move, larger in size, wedged tighter and the remaining ones were only more so. The lantern was a feeble light at best, casting shadows around which it was hard to see. Finally Pat turned it off, sank back and muttered, "Hopeless."

Jenny, too, sat back and rested her back against the stones. She had been getting slower with each rock she moved, more pessimistic, convinced now that their chances of working through the pile were slim, if indeed there were any chance at all.

"We'll never make it through here," he said, trying not to sound too dejected.

He found the flashlight, stood up, turned it on and held it as high as the ceiling would allow and inspected closely the edges of the pile where they met the wall. One hand held the flashlight, the other felt for any draft around the edges. Up one side, across the top of the pile, down the other, across the floor, then back up the first side.

"Still think we can dig through these rocks?" he asked.

"No. I don't think so at all."

"There's one more chance. But it's maybe even more risky and if we go we may never make it back here."

"What's that?"

"That hole in the floor back there. They broke into a cave when they were digging this place. I've never been very far in it but we could try it a ways and see where it goes."

They didn't bother discussing it. Jenny just nodded and they returned to the hole in the floor and Pat shined the light down into it. The bottom was about fifteen feet down and covered with rock litter from when the bottom of the mine had collapsed through the ceiling of the cave. They gathered what they thought were their most essential supplies to the edge, then tied a thick rope around a boulder and tossed the free end down.

"Well, here goes," he said. "Toss me all the stuff when I get down there. Think you can get down OK?"

She gave him the thumbs up sign. He tied off a large rope, lowered the lantern down on a smaller rope and then disappeared over the edge. It wasn't even a minute when he relit the lantern. She heard his "OK" and started to toss their things down to him. The last was the flashlight, leaving her in complete darkness except for the dim light from the hole on the ceiling above her.

She grabbed the rope, turned around, and backed her feet over the hole, rested on her stomach and let her legs drop in, then her torso and finally, holding on with trembling arms, she let herself down a few inches, then a few inches more. Hand over hand she slowly lowered herself until after what seemed to her to be at least a thousand feet and several hours she felt him grab her foot, heard him say to just keep letting herself on down. The muscles in her biceps and forearms were on fire from holding on so tightly, and before she reached the bottom she let go the rope. Pat tried to catch her and they both went down in a heap.

"Sorry," she muttered, rolled off him and stood up.

She had fallen on a particularly bad bruise on one of his legs and he had to bite his tongue to keep from saying anything, instead just sat up and rubbed the leg. When the pain subsided, he stood up and held the lamp high. There was no floor, no ceiling, no walls, just an almost completely round cell of brown rock with debris fallen down to the bottom.

They scrutinized the pile of supplies, decided to leave most of them and come back if they were needed. Pat tied the sleeping bag under his backpack and hoisted it up onto his shoulders.

Jenny took the canteen and flashlight. They both stuffed their pockets with as much jerky as they could, then Pat took the lantern, led the way up the slope and exited through the only natural way in or out of the chamber. Jenny scrambled along behind.

The cave was narrow but high, not difficult, although it did incline up at a fair angle and they had to stop to regain their breath several times. An hour later they entered another larger chamber. He announced that this was as far as he had ever come.

They both looked as he held the lantern high. Two black holes could be seen opposite from the one they had just entered, one short and rounded, the other higher but quite narrow.

"That way," Jenny said, now out of breath more from anxiety than exertion.

She had pointed to the smaller, wider passage.

Pat put out the lantern and set it down, then shrugged out of the backpack. The passageway was too small for it. He took the flashlight and inched into the hole. Almost immediately it split. Pat shined the flashlight both ways, then chose the left one since it was bigger.

The going was rough, up over humps in the floor and sliding around and through tiny openings. Both scraped skin and tore their clothes. The flashlight was their only beacon in the darkness and its beam was losing some of its power. Pat moved on his elbows and knees, was reminded of the obstacle course in basic training. The ceiling finally got a little higher and they stopped and sat back, breathing hard. He shined the light around and they could see that the way split again.

He switched it off and they sat in the darkness until they were both breathing almost normally again. Jenny reasoned that since they had taken the left way before they should do so again. Her mother had once told her the only sure way to get through a maze was to choose a direction and stick to it. Pat didn't argue and a few minutes later crawled into the left tunnel, moving once again on his elbows and knees.

They hadn't gone far when they emerged into another bigger and higher part of the cave. Jenny scrambled in behind him, glad to be able to finally stand up. Pat shined the almost dead flashlight around the walls of the room, then stopped it and he sank down. In the now decidedly yellow beam were his backpack and the lantern.

"Ready to go back?" he asked, quietly, the discouragement now heavy in his voice.

"No way! Just because we know where back leads doesn't mean that's the way out. In fact, it's just the opposite! That way is most definitely, most assuredly blocked! That way is no exit! If I'm going to die, I'm going to die going forward!"

With that she started toward the tall, thin way out of the room.

"Just a minute," he said. "We're both tired. If you're not, then I, at least, am. Just sit down a minute and we'll let the flashlight rejuvenate itself awhile."

He lit the lantern and they both sat and slowly chewed jerky and dried fruit. As he chewed, Pat scooted down until just his head was propped up against the wall. His eyes drooped and, suddenly and against his wishes, he dropped off to sleep.

Jenny became aware of his deep, regular breathing, stopped chewing and looked at him, a tender look that she would have thought impossible just a few short days ago. She got up and untied the sleeping bag, which was just as heavy as she had imagined it to be, unrolled and unzipped it, spread it out and covered him up. She brought the backpack and lantern over closer, looked around to be sure of her bearings, then covered herself with the other half and extinguished the lantern.

Chapter 33

A high place in the floor poked through her dreams and into her back. As was her way, she awakened slowly, drifting up through layers of sleep as her mind gathered speed. Pat had rolled over and his forehead now lay against her shoulder. She took his hand from her breast and moved it to her stomach, then folded her hands over it, lay very still and thought about the last several days. What a change in direction her life had taken!

She had never been in mortal danger before but the thought of dying in the cave didn't seem to make her thoughts any less clear. Had sworn off members of the opposite sex and here she was lying beside one, for the second time. Had planned to save enough while working at the Park to make it to another city and another job but next to minimum wages had left her next to broke as well as unemployed. She wondered if anyone at the Park, or anywhere, would wonder where she was. No one would probably notice until the landlady came by for the next month's rent.

His breathing stopped for a second, and then he exhaled a long breath and rolled onto his back. "What time is it?"

"Don't know. I don't have on my watch."

Their voices echoed off the walls before silence surrounded them again, as deep as the dark.

He stretched. "Did I snore this time?"

"No, I don't think you did. You were very quiet. And you were very warm. Why is it you're all the time saving me from freezing? That's three times in three days, if my count is right."

"Well, I guess I just happen to be there at the right time. And I'm happy to be of some use to you. Very happy."

Silence again. "You still feel like going on or do you want to go back and try the pile again?"

"Didn't I make myself clear before? I'm not like that Republican cow. I'd rather not go back to where I've already been."

Pat smiled in the dark. A feisty lady and he liked that. Her tone left him feeling almost rejuvenated. "I don't think that other hole is big enough to get the pack and all through. We'll have to leave it here."

"Then there'll be that much less to carry. Besides, it'll still be here if we have to come back."

Fifteen minutes later, fortified with more jerky and dried fruit, they squeezed through the narrow opening. Pat led with the lantern. Jenny followed with the flashlight and canteen.

There was no real floor. The walls were each just slightly bowed and came together at the bottom and top in a narrow V. Their steps were a series of slips off of and jams between the rock. The way led first left, then right, but always slightly upward. The ceiling got lower and the walls narrower until Pat could barely fit through. Then he discovered they had begun to tilt. He hadn't noticed when, exactly, but he was leaning on his back against the wall more than standing on his feet. He tried to turn over so he would be on his stomach but his shoulders were too wide.

He finally called a halt, panting and sweating with exertion. They both relaxed against the narrow walls, leaned their heads back, closed their eyes and rested. A few minutes later they were again inching their way forward. The walls continued to tilt even more until finally the walls were almost horizontal rather than almost vertical.

Several times Pat tried to turn over, each time unsuccessfully, and each time he had to stop and squeeze his eyes shut to get his nerves back under control, to force the closed in feeling out of his mind. It was much harder, it seemed to him, to crawl along on his back than on his stomach. His knees banged against the top as he bent his legs to push forward. He couldn't see and his head collided repeatedly against rocks or the wall when it decided to narrow up suddenly or to turn one way or the other. He had to pull the lantern along beside him rather than push it ahead.

Twice Jenny told him they had passed other little places that took off from the one they were following. Each time Pat responded that he could go no way other than forward unless she wanted to grab one of his legs and pull him back.

He continued to push forward. The floor was level for a ways, then it tilted left, then back level, then right. Pat had by now closed his eyes entirely and concentrated on raising each knee only high enough to move but not so high as to smash it again. They were getting bruises on the bruises and stiffening up on him.

Move his legs and push, move his legs and push, once again, then rest for one cycle before starting over. He concentrated on anything else he could think of - Mandy, his cows, the dog and the cats, the Pontiac and his pickup, how to explain why he missed the load of calves that were supposed to be delivered to the dude ranch tomorrow. Today? Was today Saturday or was it tomorrow? He didn't know. And Jenny. Always his thoughts returned to her. Why hadn't he met her earlier in his life? Why did he feel this way after knowing her only a few short days? Why did he always feel like such a klutz when she was near?

He pushed away from some sharp rocks under his left shoulder, moved his left arm out to help push himself along. There was nothing there to push against. He moved the arm up and down, banged it against the ceiling but felt nothing when he moved it down.

"What's this?" he called to Jenny. "There's something on my left side, a hole or something. Can you shine your flashlight into it?"

She crawled ahead as he moved as far away as possible to make room for her.

"Another room," she said, shining her light down the hole. "It looks like we could probably sit up in it. Want to go down?"

"I can't see down it at all. What's it like?"

"Just rocks. They're loose right here, go down at maybe a 45-degree angle, maybe a little steeper. The top's solid, it looks like, and the walls are pretty solid. I'll shinny down and see what it's like."

With that she disappeared down the hole, didn't hear, or at least didn't heed, his protestations of danger. A minute later he heard her call back.

"Come on down. It's pretty good sized. I can stand up in it and that feels just really good."

"I can't see when I'm on my back like this," he called back. "If I get close to it can I turn over?"

He heard her climb back up the rocks, felt her take his hand and pull him toward the opening.

"Come on down. If you get turned sideways a little I think you can get over onto your stomach."

She pulled and he pushed. His arm went into the hole, then his head and shoulders.

"Leave the lantern," she told him. "I'll go back up for it after you're down here."

He still couldn't turn over. She held his head and guided him down the rock pile on his back until his waist was through, then helped him finally turn over. He pushed against a rock and tried to stand up but it gave way and he landed on his face, curled up sideways and rolled and bumped the last couple of feet.

"I'm just so graceful!" he remarked, then spit blood and put his hand to his mouth to be sure all his teeth were still intact.

The sweat was drying fast in the breeze that blew through the chamber and he was getting chilled. Jenny retrieved the lantern and they both looked around in the failing light. Finally he poked the lantern into each little crack and crevice. Each time he shook his head. Jenny joined him, adding the focused beam of the flashlight to the more diffused light of the lantern.

On their second time around she exclaimed, "Look at this!"

Pat looked back and saw some faint, white marks. He held the lantern close and they could see scratches in the crude form of a four legged animal with skinny legs, a tail that ended in a lump and a huge head and shoulders.

"Pictograph?" Jenny wondered out loud.

"Jeez!" Pat exclaimed. "It is, isn't it?"

They walked around the little room again and found more of the scratchings, so faint they could hardly be seen. There was a half circle with radiating lines, a double zigzag line, another creature similar to the first, a stick figure. Upon this closer inspection they found the whole room had been filled with drawings, some white like the first they had seen, others black, and still others in somber shades of red and brown. They went around twice more, then again, looking at all of them.

"You know what this means?" Pat asked.

"No," Jenny answered, too tired to say a whole lot more.

"This means there's been people here once upon a time. And if there were people here, there's got to be a way out."

"But that's the only way," Jenny pointed to the small passageway from which they had entered.

"Then they either came in from there or we're missing it somewhere."

They redoubled their efforts and poked the lantern into every dark split, shone the light on the walls and ceiling, around the floor, searching in vain for another way out. They finally gave up, sat on a rock and looked back at the black hole from which they had emerged. Pat opened the cap on the reservoir of the dimming lantern and stuck his knife inside.

"Really low," he said as he folded the blade back and dropped it into his pocket again.

"But look at the smoke," Jenny said.

He did. A faint white curl left the chimney and, carried by the breeze, disappeared as it wandered towards the hole through which they had entered. Pat moved the lantern, following the reverse trail of the smoke. It led to a large boulder and he squeezed behind it as far as he could.

"It's here," he said, excitement in his voice once again.

He crawled on his stomach through a small fissure and into another passage. He could hear Jenny behind him, could smell the fresh air, could see the flame dance as the breeze moved by.

"I think we did it," he exclaimed as he dropped head first from the opening and onto the hard, packed floor of a cavity in the side of the mountain. "I think we did it!"

He waited until Jenny had dropped through, then grabbed and hugged her. They both walked to the edge, carefully avoiding the broken glass and rusty cans. He extinguished the lantern as they looked out over the valley. They could see the lights of Polton in the distance, the blinking wing lights of an airplane passing overhead, and finally the stars, faint in the first grey light of the new day.

He tilted his head back, took a very deep breath and held it, savored the freshness of the air, then squeezed her hand.
Chapter 34

Early morning was the one time everything was quiet at the Junction rodeo. The exhaust noise from the pickup rattled off the darkened windows and bolted doors. Pat flew out of town and up the dirt road, followed by a cloud of dust. Jenny guided him through turns and intersections, off the traveled road behind the Werkmann residence, onto the track that led up the side of the mountain and then down the other and into the Park.

He braked hard in front of the farthest cabin, the one Jenny had tried first, got out and ran up and banged on the door, tried the handle, then stepped back and kicked at it with the bottom of his foot, did a Steve McQueen as he would have called it when he was a kid. Splinters flew as the screws holding the lock came out of the wood. Pat stepped in with Jenny close behind. Two people moved in the bed, surprised by the sudden noise.

"Get up, Vince," he said.

Two heads squinted against the light that poured in through the door. One ducked down and disappeared from sight. The other, instead of moving lower under the covers, pulled them up under his chin.

"Who're you?" came the voice from the visible head.

Jenny's brow furrowed. She didn't recognize the voice. It certainly wasn't the sonorous baritone that had greeted her the day before.

"Where's Vincent?" Jenny asked.

The visible one stood up, taking the top cover with him and wrapped it around his body so that one shoulder was exposed, toga fashion.

He said, "I'm not he," and disappeared into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

The face fell into place for her. It seemed much paler wrapped in the baby blue blanket than peeking over the olive drab T-shirt, less menacing without the rifle.

"He was in the other cabin yesterday," she explained to Pat.

The toilet flushed and the man came back into the room, now covered with a long, deep red, satin robe with large lapels, his face freshly washed and his hair combed. One hand he kept in the robe's pocket as he started toward the door.

"Just stay right there," Pat warned. "I want to see Vincent."

"He's not up, yet," the robed man answered and nodded at the bed. "But he's right there if you care to wake him. Now, may I leave?"

"Are you in the wrong cabin?" Jenny asked, looking from the bed to the man.

"Just for the moment." He looked from Jenny to Pat. "Will you step aside or is this going to get ugly?"

"Depends on you," Pat responded slowly, enunciating his words very carefully around his split lip that was by now swollen enough to make his speech difficult to understand. "And I won't step aside. I want some answers and I want them right now. You can remain standing there or you can sit in the chair and be comfortable. But either way, you will answer me."

He had sized up the man in front of him and hoped he would sit. The man was quite a bit shorter but heavier, stocky and probably stronger and he walked with an athletic grace. Each man stood looking at the other, not more than three paces apart, staring fixedly into the others face, neither wanting to be the one to back down. Several seconds passed with only their breathing to break the silence, and then the swarthy one snorted and moved to the chair. He tucked his feet under him and wrapped another blanket that he picked off the floor by the bed around his waist, adjusted it over his legs and slowly smoothed out the wrinkles.

"I know you," he said, looking up Jenny. "I've seen your picture." He thought a moment, then a look of recognition came over his face and he said, "The Gazette. You're the broad that writes in the Herald-Gazette, aren't you?"

Jenny shrugged. "Maybe."

The man shook out a cigarette from a pack on the table, lit it with a small, silver lighter, inhaled and held his breath a minute, then exhaled noisily. As he did this the other figure got up and lurched toward the bathroom, a blanket completely covering his head.

Jenny stepped to the table and picked up the lighter the man had just put down. It was identical to the one found beside the Timini. She showed it to Pat.

"This yours?" Pat asked the man.

"Of course it is."

"How'd Jones get it?"

"He didn't," the man laughed, took a long drag on his cigarette, inhaled deeply and blew the smoke up in the air, then continued, "Jones has his own. He doesn't need mine."

"Park service?" Pat held the lighter up toward the man so he could see the insignia.

The man shook his head. "Of course not."

"Then what?"

"National Guard."

"You're in the Guard? Jones's in the Guard?"

"Sure. How do you think I know him?"

"You set this all up?"

"Don't be ridiculous! I'm just one of his guides. Jones sets it up. He's the one has all the connections, knows all those Capital lawyers. He's the one that flies 'em all in, all those senators and judges and the rest of the big-wigs. I'm just here for the show. You know, point out the good places, make sure they don't get lost or get too close to the civilians. I just get them out to where the game is and then get rid of it once they bag it."

The bathroom door opened and Vincent stood there, now dressed as Jenny had seen him the day before except he now wore the jacket to match the slacks.

"Who're you?" he asked in his deep, resonant voice.

"Ivers," Pat extended his hand.

Vincent didn't take it, instead lowered his eyebrows and growled.

Vincent turned to Jenny and stammered, "Brush? What the ..."

The man sitting exhaled and said, "Newspaper lady, Herald-Gazette."

Vince swore. "Not that goddam Capital rag! Just what the hell are you doing here? I thought you were a Park ranger, not some goddam nosy reporter."

He glanced at Pat, and then turned back to Jenny. "Who sent you here? Was it Ungley?"

Vince stood defiantly watching first Jenny, then Pat.

"How many times, Roggins?" Jenny asked. "How many times have you and Jones had people up here this month? Do you set it up for him?"

"Screw you!" he shot back. "Screw you and your stupid, liberal, commie, pinko paper! Now get outta my cabin before I call a real ranger."

He turned and stomped heavily to the small counter at the back of the cabin, got a glass out of the cupboard and held it up to the light from the window, twisted it back and forth while he looked through it, poured it mostly full of Jack Daniels. He stood with his back to the rest of the room looking at it a minute, then tipped his head back and swallowed half of it.

"Is the place provided or do you pay for it?" Pat asked.

"Provided," he answered, the bravado gone from his voice. "You want pictures, too?"

"We can probably spare you that embarrassment, can't we Mr. Ivers?" Jenny said.

"Screw you, the whole lot of you," Roggins said, took another swallow and said softly, more to himself than anyone else there, "I'm done, aren't I?"

"Depends," Pat said back to him. "Depends on what you do now. It's bad if you're the star of the show when it folds. What you need is a supporting cast, the bigger the better. If there's others, you could probably hide in the middle somewhere. I doubt if most people would ever know."

"They'll know. They always know. Nobody cares about the good things I do. All they ever care about are the screw ups. I don't ever get any credit, just the blame." He finished his drink and poured another. "Politics, hmpf! Great life, huh?"

"It could be," Jenny said. "How long have you been coming up here, Senator?"

"A year, year and a half maybe. But just sometimes. I've only been up here occasionally. It's not like I come up here all the time. Not like Justus or Erway or Gallowing. For chrissake, they're up here every other week, it seems. Leave the old lady and the kids at home, you know, bring one of the secretaries, and I use that term loosely." He glanced momentarily at the man sitting in the chair. "Why did you have to find me? They're up here a lot more than I am. Why couldn't you find them instead?"

"Do you call or does someone call you?"

"I just call MacElroy and everything gets set up, no problem. Flies me into Werkmann's, stocks the cabin, gets a guide if I want it, other companions if I want them."

"Is that your pickup?" Jenny asked.

"Which one?"

"The Ford. Or do you drive the Chevy?"

He shook his head. "They're always just here. Trucks, food, booze, guns, cabins, women." He looked down again at the man sitting in the chair. "A guide. I don't have to do a thing. It could be a nice setup."

"Who else comes up here? Does MacElroy come? Does he ever stay up here?"

The senator glanced over at Pat. "MacElroy's a she. Where've you been all your life? Congresswoman!" His words were beginning to slur. He had now finished two big glasses of the Jack Daniels and had started on another but the contempt in his voice was clear. "Why the hell'd they ever start letting the women in? All they do is bitch and moan and stir up trouble. Bunch of damned bleeding hearts! You try to follow some kind of budget and they turn right around and spend what you know you're not gonna get. They love spics and niggers and mothers with too many kids and kids with no daddy and daddies with no place to go home to. That's what they spend it on, their time and our money. They got committees for pregnant kids and committees for dirty winos and committees for tottering old ladies and committees for ... shit!"

He threw the glass in the sink. It was plastic and bounced back out and went spinning across the floor.

"Write your goddam story. Put my picture in it. You want all the sordid details? Then you go talk to Jones. Or go back to Capital and catch MacElroy or better yet Longen. Yeah, you go talk to Longen, that SOB snob! Mr. High'n'Mighty'd give you an earful. They'll know all you want to know. More'n you'd ever want to know! But you won't get it out of them as easy as you did outta me. They're tough and they're up there high enough you won't touch 'em. Now get your smart ass outta here, hot shot! G'wan. Get out. All of you!"

He punctuated his last sentence with a broad swipe of his arm, knocking bottles and glasses and kitchenware onto the linoleum with a clatter. He took a clumsy step across the litter.

"Get out of here, I say!" His arms and hands waved wildly as he stumbled toward them. "Leave, vamoose, bug off! I don't want you around no more! Clear out, all of you! Just leave me alone!"

He turned and sat dejectedly on the bed with his back to them. The man in the robe was the first to move. He got up and walked around Pat, out the door and back to his cabin. Pat left right behind him and stood, waiting, in front of his pickup. Jenny walked over and put her hand on the senator's shoulder.

"Will you be all right, Senator Roggins? Can we give you a ride somewhere? Let someone know so they can come pick you up?"

"Thank you, Brush, but no." He shook his head slowly. "You're not going in my direction but thank you anyway."

She squeezed his shoulder and left, pulling the door shut as well as she could behind her.

"Well," she demanded when they were both standing beside the pickup.

Pat made no response, looked back at the cabin, then opened the door and got in. Jenny did the same and they backed away from the woodpile they were headed toward and onto the road. The ROAD CLOSED barricade was still as Jenny had left it the previous day and they went past without stopping.

Pat didn't stop at the asphalt, turned south toward Crossroad, the tires protesting as he worked his way through the gears.

As he did this, State Senator Vincent Roggins walked dizzily to the pickup and back, shuffling his feet and with stooped shoulders. He left the door open and spent a little time cleaning the debris from the floor. When he thought it looked presentable, he brushed the creases from his pants and inspected his jacket, standing in front of a mirror and carefully fastening each button. He brushed a piece of lint from his lapel, pulled the white handkerchief a little higher up in the breast pocket and patted it, smoothed his hair back with the palm of both hands, walked to the kitchen and downed two more full glasses of Jack Daniels, lay back on the bed and fluffed several pillows under his head so he was comfortable. He rested the shotgun on his chest, the muzzle under his chin, squeezed one lone drop from the corner of his eye, reached down and, just barely able to reach it, pushed both triggers.

Chapter 35

Pat braked hard to a stop in the no parking zone behind a white Porsche. Normally he would have stopped and admired the car, but today he strode past it with never a glance and into the Park headquarters building. He ignored the handful of visitors, didn't look out over the lake through the big, floor-to-ceiling windows, brushed past a surprised Ranger Kyle and the closed doors of the downstairs offices. He took the stairs two at a time, ignored Suzanne Lemp busily working her IBM, and pushed open the door to David Jones' office.

Caroline Werkmann jumped off his desk where she had been sitting and almost into the Park director's lap. She recovered as she turned and pulled at the hem of her skirt, smoothed it down the back and across the front. David Jones looked up from his chair.

"You did it, didn't you?" Pat said to the man, ignored the woman as she brushed a lock of hair back from her face. "You pushed Werkmann off the cliff. You swiped my camera and knocked me in the head, didn't you? You came back up the utility's service road and gathered him up and put him in his own car and then pushed it over the edge. You blew the mountain down on me when you saw I was catching on. Or did you send out for Botts or Glenson to do that for you? You sent them to rig my house, Bert told me that. Did you know the DCI was coming or was that just a lucky break?"

"You're crazy! I did no such thing!" the director protested, now standing.

Pat ignored him. "I just left Senator Roggins. He has a very interesting story to tell. I'm sure he'd be glad to take you with him when he goes down."

David Jones edged around the desk. Pat reached down and took the lighter lying beside the little silver ash tray.

"How'd you get this back from Russell?" Pat looked at it. "Just like the one Roggins' guide has. National Guard, I think he said it was. When's your next weekend, Jones? Will MacElroy be there or does she stay in Capital? Or how about Longen? Maybe he'll be there. Or maybe it's better if the two of you never see each other, no one gets suspicious that way, do they?"

Pat took a step toward the director, holding out the lighter in his hand, and was surprised when Jones grabbed his arm, stepped under it and snapped it down. All the memories came flooding back and Pat reacted without thinking, didn't try to pull his arm back but rolled forward and past the man, reversing the advantage as he did. He twisted and came back up immediately on his feet. Jones reached again, but this time Pat feinted, then grabbed the arm of the director, pulled it forward so Jones moved as Pat stepped to the side, still held the wrist as he brought his free forearm down heavy on the shoulder joint, pulled his opponent's arm back as he did so, separating the ball from the socket.

Air escaped from Jones' mouth but he found no voice. Pain halted his thought process and his vision screened over with a web of tiny red lines. He grabbed at the shoulder with his free hand, saw the floor come up and smash suddenly into his face. He became aware of the pain in his legs and back, followed immediately by the pain in his nose and forehead. His mouth filled with the salty taste of his own blood and he covered his head with the arm he could still move.

Pat straightened when he saw the man had no more fight left in him. He clenched his teeth and both hands, exhaled and stepped back.

Caroline Werkmann, on the other hand, slipped off both shoes, lifted her skirt to free her legs, twirled, and kicked Pat in his spine, just above the tail bone. His legs lost all sensation and he went to his knees. She twirled again as he twisted his head to look at her.

It seemed as if the world had gone into slow motion. He could see her smooth, shapely legs as she balanced on one, twirled and brought the other solidly into the side of his head. The colors in the room went negative as her foot connected with his temple. The ceiling light was black, the floor white, the person in front of him black as it bounced back a step. He grabbed the edge of the desk to keep from falling and looked up. He could feel the grass, rough and cold, beneath him, could see the glint of something as it moved in the moonlight, felt the pain as it connected with his head. He could see the beautiful legs of Caroline Werkmann as they disappeared around the Lincoln, heard the Road Maggot lurch to life, sank back as they all disappeared into the night.

He was thinking in the past, didn't see Caroline Werkmann grab the little ivory-handled pistol from her purse lying on the desk, point it toward him, and pull the trigger. He was aware of but didn't really feel the little piece of lead as it shattered his collarbone, ricocheted up and away from his head. Thinking she had kicked him again, he brought both hands up in front of his face to ward off another blow. The second shot entered his forearm, went easily through muscle and sinew and came to rest against the bone, close to his elbow. He lost his balance and fell on his side between the desk and the visitor's chair, now dimly aware of his plight as he looked up and into the muzzle of the weapon held firmly in both her hands. He didn't have even the strength to cover his face this time.

The third and last shot went wide as Jenny grabbed her arm and forced it up. An animal hiss escaped the beautiful lips of Caroline Werkmann and she backed away and lifted her skirt again, ready to spin and deliver a blow on the woman in front of her.

It never reached its target. Suzanne Lemp jumped on her back and wrapped her arms around her neck. Caroline lost her balance and fell under the added weight. By this time two rangers had come up the stairs to see what all the commotion was. They responded immediately to the authoritative voice of the secretary, pinned Caroline's flailing arms to the floor where she sulked and started to cry. They both ignored her.

Pat winced and cried out. Jenny had bumped his arm as she fell to her hands and knees beside him. He twisted his head painfully to the side. Jenny's face was all he could see. It looked like a 28-mm fisheye lens had caught her and splayed her face all over the nerves that connected to the back of his eyeballs. The vision clouded in from the sides, grew smaller and smaller until only her mouth was in light. Then that, too, faded out.

Chapter 36

Jenny parked her Nova between the pickup and the Pontiac. She looked around and could see Pat standing by a board fence, staring intently into one of the pens. He didn't hear her as she walked up.

"Hi," she said. "Why don't you get a phone? It's a long way around here from East Gate."

Pat looked away from the pen long enough to say, "Because I'd rather talk to you in person than over the phone."

"Guess what?"

He didn't respond, remembered the cool, smooth, surprisingly strong hand that held his during the days he was in hospital.

She continued, "Russell's moving up to Junction, seeing as how he's the acting sheriff of Lianoma County. Billy's taken over as deputy in East Gate."

Pat face contorted into a wry smile, but he made no remark.

"He says that just because he's the sheriff, that doesn't mean you can come around with some cock and bull story just any time you want."

He nodded and she looked at him, as if expecting a reply. He gave none.

"I think he's trying, Pat. You might do the same."

"Might," he finally responded, without looking at her. "What do you suppose they'll do with Bert?"

"I don't know. They're going to move him up to Capital, I guess. MacElroy and Longen both hit the papers big time but they're slick and they've been in politics long enough to learn how to insulate themselves. This will all blow over before the next election and in the end it won't even be a blip. Too bad about Roggins, though, huh?"

"Yeah. He shouldn't have done that." Pat looked at the ground and shook his head. "He just ... shouldn't have done that. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. An hour later and ... just ... no reason ..." his voice trailed off.

She put her hands in her jeans pockets and noticed the lost look cross his face, a look with which she was now becoming too familiar. "They've already taken Caroline up to Capital, you know, along with those two guys that showed up here when we went into the mine. Chewy and Luis, I think they are?"

Pat nodded.

"Caroline never said a word," Jenny continued. "She just pouted and cried whenever there was a man in the room. She put on a real show, I'll tell you! But those other two made up for anything she didn't say. You know that she's the one that pushed her husband off the cliff, don't you?"

"I figured she did." Pat stepped back down off the fence, leaned against it and looked at her, put his free arm into the pocket of his faded denim jacket. "She's the one took my camera, too. But I didn't put it together until it was too late to do much about it. She's one tough cookie. All soft and mushy on the outside but she's hard as nails inside!"

Their eyes met and they both immediately looked down at the ground. Pat started to arrange some pebbles into a circle with the toe of his untied sneaker.

"Jones didn't do it," she looked back up at Pat.

"Do what?"

"Not much of anything, actually. I mean, he set up the cabins and all, got Werkmann to fly in all those political types, all those other big wheels. But he didn't do any of that stuff that went on the last few days. That was all sweet Caroline's doing. I mean, like, he and Caroline were lovers and all, but the only thing he did was go and pick up Werkmann's body and then help push the car off the road. It was all Caroline's idea. She didn't like her husband much. If memory serves, I told you that once, didn't I? Caroline was pulling his string. She had him jumping like a puppet. She had everybody around her jumping. She has that effect on men. It was all her idea, really. She had Bert and Chewy and Luis do the heavy stuff. Chewy and Luis blew up the mountain and your house. Bert blew up the mine."

She looked away, down into the valley, at Polton in the distance. The wind had a definite bite to it. She had been told that weather blew in fast and there was almost no time between seasons, but so far her summer had been spent in stifling heat.

She turned back around and stepped up onto the bottom board so she could see over. "So. What's up?"

Danny was in the pen with the late heifer, the one Jenny understood to have found a bull on her own. She didn't believe Pat's story about a twelve-month gestation. The heifer was on her side, her tail straight out from her spine. The top rear leg was hoisted up and her head was back and turned but still a good foot off the ground. She stayed this way a minute, then relaxed, stood up, and sniffed the ground.

Jenny could see shiny red strands smeared along each flank where her tail swished back and forth. The heifer sniffed some more, then walked her tail end around. Her nose stayed in about the same spot and she continued to sniff at the ground, blowing the coarse dirt around whenever she exhaled.

She lay down in the same position and her body tensed again. Relaxed, then tensed, relaxed, then tensed. The head of a black, shiny, steaming calf appeared. The cow lifted her head to look and then grunted several more times. The front legs appeared and several minutes later the back end came slithering out and landed on the ground with a little puff of dust and a swish of fluid.

The heifer stood up, part of the navel cord still hanging from under her tail. She turned around and licked her calf, licked from the shoulders toward the head, licked its belly and tail, pushed the little squirming body around in the sand as she passed her long, rough tongue up and down. It started to look not so dark as the hair became less matted. The coat became more red and white, the typical markings of a Hereford.

Jenny stood down off the fence and clapped her hands, then turned and looked at Pat as he also stood down. His denim jacket hung over one shoulder and his face was again colored an ugly yellow and green. It occurred to her that Caroline had been particularly hard on his face.

"Why'd you want to call?" he asked.

"I guess I just wanted to say good bye. There's no work in East Gate so I guess I'll pack up and go back to Texas."

He looked at her in silence for a minute, and then turned away. She had tried to read his face but it had remained expressionless. Not even his nose had quivered and she wondered if he had breathed or not.

"You sure?" he very studiously remained intent on the cow and her calf.

"No. But I've got to start somewhere. Texas is as good as anywhere."

She waited expectantly. Pat stood silently looking into the pen. The new calf had gotten its back legs spread wide, pushed up on them and now stood swaying back and forth, unsteady, the front legs still tucked under and its chin resting on the ground. It fell over and Jenny let out a little, "Oh."

"You call the paper?"

"Yeah. Not much chance, there. Cub reporter wages won't even pay for a single room, let alone have anything left over to eat on."

"The school in Junction?"

"Nothing this year except substitute. They thought that would be one, maybe two days a week, but not always. Not enough."

"How much does it take for you to live on?" Pat asked, still not looking at her.

"Not a lot. I need food and a place to stay, gas money. I can do without TV but I do need enough to take in a movie or two, maybe eat a hamburger once in a while, maybe buy an occasional book. "

"P. D. James or Agatha Christie?"

They both smiled.

"You work by the hour or by the week?" he continued after another pause.

"Whatever I can find. Waitress, maybe. They make good tips in the right places. But East Gate's all but closing down for the winter. There's nothing there until next year and I'd starve before then. I hardly have enough put away to pay another month's rent so I've got to get somewhere real fast and get some kind of job lined up."

"You like horses? Cows? How about bookwork, you good at arithmetic?"

"Sure. Well, I guess. I don't know much about either horses or cows but from what I've seen they're OK."

"I'd hire you on here," he said, slowly and quietly. "Danny's good help but I think I'm going to need more. I could set you up in that old caboose or one of the box cars, put in a stove and whatever else you want."

He had turned away from the pen, said this while looking down at the ground. He again pushed pebbles around with the toe of his sneaker.

"Is that what you really want?" she asked.

His face changed colors and he turned back to the pen. The calf was now standing unsteadily. The cow looked anxiously at her offspring, licked its back and it fell over again, its long legs jutting awkwardly out from its body. It lay on its side and panted, then rolled onto its belly and started the whole procedure again.

Pat laid his free arm along the top fence board and leaned his chin on it. Jenny stood up on the bottom board again and looked into his face.

"Is that really what you want?" she repeated.

He shrugged and the top of his head moved up instead of his jaw going down as he said, "Maybe for a while. You might try it anyway. Those box cars get pretty cold when the snows come and the wind starts howling down the valley."

They were silent. Pat watched the cow and Jenny watched him. He finally looked away, his face changing colors again, and touched the scar that divided his eyebrow. She put her finger under his chin and turned his head toward her, then ran her own finger along the separated eyebrow.

"Don't be ashamed of it," she said.

"It's so ugly."

"It's not ugly at all. It gives you character. That's more than most people can even hope for, is character. You have more than anyone I've ever met in my life."

He looked at her, then laid his hand over hers as it rested on the rough boards. His words tumbled out, "I'd put in a window, one in the kitchen and another in the living room. Two in the living room, even. I'd buy chairs and a couch and tables and lamps and a real bed. I'd redo the porch. Take that old wood cook stove out and put in electric or propane. I'd put in a furnace. I'd rebuild the house. I'd even move to town. Just tell me what you want."

"I just want you the way you are. Don't change the bunker, don't change the ranch. But most of all, don't you change."

His face broke into a lopsided grin and he winced as his lip cracked open again. "That's too easy."

The calf was now standing and had taken one uncertain step. The cow watched and waited patiently as it took a second step, then another. It bumped its nose into her side, nuzzled in behind her front leg, banged its head up and down two times, then stuck out its tongue and began searching in earnest for its first meal.

###

**About the Author:**

I raise corn, soybeans, alfalfa and cattle on a family farm in SW Iowa. During the winter, when there's less to do, I write. This is the first time I've published anything, it may be the last.

While at University in Iowa City I dropped below the hours required to be a full-time student and very soon got a letter that started out with "Greetings from the President of the United States." Rather than get drafted into the Army, I chose to enlist in the Air Force and, during those four years, spent a year in Viet Nam. Even though Patrick Ivers is a Viet Nam veteran, he is in no way autobiographical. He is, rather, a mash-up of other veterans I've known since then.

The inspiration for Jenny was my daughter, who volunteered for a summer at a county park near here, then worked for two summers at a Colorado state park. Even though she was the inspiration, Jenny is strictly fictional.

The times that cattle enter into the story are very close to several episodes that actually happened during the 40-plus years that I've been farming.
