Impasse (27 page)

“What the hell did you do?”

“I packed them up and put them on her porch so she'd think he left them for her. She doesn't know I ever saw them.”

“Jesus! You're kidding.”

“Nope.”

“What did she say about the guy?”

“She said he was ‘passing through town' and looked her up. She said they met for lunch, but he got jealous when she told him that she was seeing me.”

“I take it she told him that after the cocksicle photo op.”

Stu cringed again. “I guess so.”

“And he left you a present to show you who the real man was.”

“Apparently.”

“Did you go find this asshead?”

“No. He didn't owe me anything. She was the one who impliedly promised herself to me, then made this choice.”

“So you told her she was a cheatin' bitch and she begged you to take her back?”

“Not exactly.”

“How not?”

“We didn't get into it.”

“Did she admit she favored him?”

“I didn't ask.”

“But you knew.”

“So why ask?”

“To let her know she can't walk all over you.”

“She doesn't walk all over me. The problem took care of itself, drove itself right out of town. Why perpetuate the conflict?”

“Are you kidding? You are such a pussy!”

“I'm not a pussy. I've faced down murderers and rapists. You said so yourself.”

“Another man does your girl, rubs your nose in it, and not only can't you confront him about it, you can't even face
her
.”

“Well, then, what does the great relationship therapist in the stupid fur hat suggest I do?” Stu was mad. His anger and the bourbon allowed the words to tumble out before he could stop them. “Hit her?”

Blake went silent, and for a moment Stu thought that the big man was going to take a swing at
him
. The bearded welder took a deep breath and flexed his large fingers in and out of fists to calm himself, something it looked like he'd been practicing for years. In the end he spoke in a measured voice. “You and I both handled our shit like shit. But I admitted I'd do mine over differently. And you should too.”

“I'm pretty confident my handling of my shit was superior.”

“Slightly better than terrible is still bad. At least I stood up for myself. Grow a pair, for Christ's sake.”

“I've got a successful marriage. My wife is devoted to me.
Res ipsa loquitur
.”

Blake chuckled.

“What's funny?”

“The lawyer stuff you spew. What the hell does that even mean?” His chuckles turned to machine-gun laughter, and he had trouble stopping it.

“It means, ‘The thing speaks for itself.'”

“What thing?”

“I don't know. The successful marriage thing nullifies the photo thing.”

Blake was still laughing. He slapped Stu on the back and downed the last of his third cup of whiskey.

“You have a messed-up view of the world, brother. There are insults in life that you can't reason away. You can fight, you can forgive, but you can't just absorb them. It's a poison that lodges in your manhood and permanently shrinks your balls.”

“Colorful. But life's not about the size of your balls.”

“Maybe not in the courtroom, counselor, but when two bucks go head-to-head in the field, yes, it is.”

 

CHAPTER 31

Stu woke early with a headache and a smile. He started a fire for them and took his trip to the latrine. Packing five days' worth of supplies, a pile of marten pelts, and his few remaining belongings into the Great Beyond pack took less than half an hour, then he and Blake sat down for one last game of cribbage. Stu pegged past his host with a three-card run and a “go” in the last hand to win, which brought them to even.

“A-fucking-mazing,” Blake grumbled.

They ate deer sausage and buckwheat pancakes, then Stu chopped his wood for the day and checked the water barrel. It was the first day that there wasn't a layer of ice on top.

“Guess it's time,” he said.

Blake stood in the cabin door, looking uncomfortable. “Guess so.”

Stu retrieved his pack.

Blake caught him by the shoulder. “Hey, all that stuff we said last night. Can we just forget that?”

“Sure.”

“I'm sorry I called your wife a cheating bitch. I'm sure she's very loyal now.”

Stu nodded. “She is.”

“And hey, take the hand ax. I've still got the full-size.” He handed Stu the homemade antler-handled hatchet. Then he pulled one more small fur from his own pack. “Take this, too, if you want.”

“What is it?”

“Deerskin.”

“A bag?”

“A hat.”

“Oh, like yours.”

“Well, yeah. It's the only kind I know how to make.”

“You made me a hat?” Stu took it and turned it over in his hands. He recognized the coarse fur. “This is from the deer I shot.”

“Sorry. I made it before you called mine ‘stupid.' If you don't want it, no big deal. It's not a Valentine's gift or nothing'.”

“I'm touched.”

“Aww, shut up. Just take the damn hat or don't. I don't care one way or the other.”

“Thank you.” Stu knew what he had to do. He slid the hat over his head and pulled it down around his ears. “Tell me one thing,” Stu said.

“How you look?”

“I know how I look. Tell me why you don't trap wolves.”

Blake put a pine needle toothpick in his mouth and slid it around with his tongue for a bit. “Most animals I trap know the game,” he said finally. “They run and hide and you try to catch them. But not wolves. They still think they're an apex predator. Their pack has an alpha male that thinks he's apex-apex. He shows his dominance by being tough, and he's the only one who breeds with the female. He takes challenges head on. It's a simple system, one I can understand and respect.

“I used to trap them until I caught this big black alpha. A proud animal all rippled with muscle. I found scars from all his victories under that valuable fur when I skinned him. Defeat wasn't the problem for this guy. He would have been ready for that. He would have faced it, looked it right in the eye, and accepted it, even if it meant his life. But he couldn't stare down a hidden, spring-loaded alloy metal contraption that clamped onto his leg. After it grabbed him, he just limped around it, confused, until he died. When I found him, there was a big circle of red, like a bloody snow angel. The sad thing wasn't that he lost; it was that he didn't understand how to fight.”

*   *   *

It took Stu three days to hike back to the grizzly research site. He immediately saw that the camp had been cleared. Someone had come and recovered Thomas's belongings.
A grieving colleague blaming him- or herself and probably wondering if the bear ate the camera, too.
The only thing left was the bloodstained Kubota. The tractor had been pushed upright, but it still sat at the river's edge like a huge red gravestone. Whoever had found Thomas hadn't had the means to airlift it away, or hadn't wanted to. The river gurgled like a baby, the sun was warm on his skin, and it was hard to imagine the sudden violence that had erupted there.

Stu swore he hadn't lingered, but he might have. Time got away from him sometimes in the wilderness now; he no longer felt the need to check his phone for the time every few minutes—nor could he, because it was long dead. And he found himself just standing beside the water, listening, seeing, feeling. He felt uneasy, then he saw the bear appear at the tree line about one hundred yards away. It stood and sniffed, then dropped to all fours and started in his direction.

Shit!

There was no mistaking its intention. It didn't hesitate or amble his way like a curious woodland creature, but came straight at him, low and steady like the massive predator it was. It had a large hump on its back—a grizzly.

Thomas's grizzly.

Stu actually felt his balls tighten and crawl up into his lower belly.

It's just doing what bears do,
he thought ridiculously.
Nothing personal.

But it
wasn't
just doing what bears did. It had decided to expand its palate and consider Thomas food. It had decided to respect Stu no more than a fish.
Fuck you humans,
it was saying.

The nearest trees in the opposite direction were hundreds of yards away, and
Edwin's
had been quite clear that trying to outrun a bear was like trying to outrun an NFL lineman—they looked big and slow, but they were faster than any normal human being. Stu groaned. There was only one place to hide. He edged back and stepped into the Kubota. It hadn't saved Thomas, but it could save him. The thick Plexiglas would hold if he could just secure the door. He was able to wrestle it into place, and jamming the wedge-shaped hatchet into the crack near the broken hinge seemed a promising idea. But if the bear got through, there would be little time to shoot, and if it didn't die instantly, it might not matter. Besides, the son of a bitch was challenging him.

I'm not going to be dragged out of this cage.

Stu kicked the door back open and stepped out. He shed his pack and walked into the river, setting his feet shoulder-width apart and snugging the .30-06 to his shoulder. The bear was galloping toward him now, like a horse. Fifty yards, then forty. Stu cocked the rifle and flipped off the safety. The scope was of no use against the charging animal. He aimed down the barrel. The gun's report echoed across the field. The bear kept coming. It was in the river, plowing water. Stu stood his ground and fired again. The bear stood midstream and uttered a low growl. They stared at each other.

“Come on!” Stu shouted.

He fired once more, ten yards away, a clear shot at the middle of the bear's chest. The bullet hit with a meaty slap, and the huge animal went to all fours, injured but still coming.

Stu decided he was dead. Another short charge through the water, and the grizzly would tear him limb from limb.

Like Thomas.

But the spring runoff was heavy, and when the bear reached midstream, the water crept above its legs into its torso. It faltered, and on its first misstep the strong current took ahold of it. The weakening grizzly tumbled and was swept downstream. Shot three times and dying, the bear surrendered to the river.

Stu watched it float away.
I won!
He felt a surge of adrenaline unlike any he'd ever felt before. It was a simple sensation—the primordial thrill of continuing to live. He stood victorious at the river's edge, and his balls resumed their customary position outside of his body.

 

CHAPTER 32

The bush pilot at Fur Lake was a pro with a four-seat Maule and a flight plan.
Unlike that idiot Ivan, who's about to get one hell of a suing
. He took Stu on in exchange for the furs Blake had given him, asked him to unload his weapon per company policy, stowed his gear, and welcomed him aboard his clean, well-maintained aircraft. It even had a professional logo painted on the side:
BEST BUSH
.

Stu curled up in his seat. He was tired from his five-day hike, but it was a good tired, the sort a guy might feel after a healthy workout, and a cushioned upright seat felt luxurious. He smiled big and relaxed as the buzzing engine lifted them up out of Fur Lake; it was the most comfortable place he'd slept in months.

He woke up over Fairbanks.

The landing lake used by Best Bush was the same lake used by Yukon Air Tours, and the pilot agreed to taxi over to the Yukon dock and drop Stu off.

He would confront Ivan, Stu had decided. It was best to catch witnesses unaware, before they knew a lawsuit was brewing. They were more likely to apologize and admit fault. Stu considered several theories of liability as they made their landing, and he quickly scribbled a list of questions designed to pin down Ivan's explanation. If he were lucky, he would be able to plug in his cell phone and record the conversation.

Stu climbed out onto the dock with his pack and Ivan's .30-06, and he gave his competent pilot a teary-eyed thank-you, which puzzled the man greatly because Stu had hardly spoken a word to him the entire trip.

Then he was walking up the hill into the forest of creepy Old Man Winter faces. Ivan must have heard the plane taxi to the dock, because the wood-carving pot pilot was out of the house and walking down the hill toward him. Stu waved and Ivan waved back, obviously not recognizing him. Stu realized he looked different—thirty pounds lighter with long hair and a beard. He smirked.

I look like one of his carvings in a stupid fur cap.

“Hey, dude, can I help you?” Ivan called out.

“Hello, Ivan. We need to talk.”

Ivan stopped in his tracks. “Whoa!”

Stu wasn't sure what Ivan was going to do—he looked like he was going to throw up. He just stared at Stu for a time, thinking, or at least trying to. Stu looked at his list of questions and took a deep breath, willing himself to sound reasonable despite his anger.

“Ivan, you understand that you were supposed to come and get me last fall, correct?”

“You're alive.”

“Yes. I am. Thank you. But you were supposed to come back to get me, right?” Stu didn't wait for Ivan to process what was happening. Instead he tried to lure him into admitting fault by minimizing Ivan's negligence, a technique he'd learned working with the cops. “Maybe you just mixed up the days. Totally understandable. Is that what happened?”

“I went back. You weren't there. I thought you were dead.”

“You have a flight log we can look at to see when you went, don't you?

“I can fix this.”

“I'm sure you can, but we need to figure out what happened first. Do you mind if we go inside where I can plug in my phone?”