3rd World Products, Book 17 (18 page)

Marie’s eyes met mine in silence for a time, then she nodded. ‘Yeah, I remember. I wanted to be anywhere but there.’

With a small grin, I said, ‘And I saved your ass that night, too, when I asked if we shouldn’t get going soon. You had us out of there in less than two minutes.’ Looking down at the bear with a small, fakey sigh, I added, ‘But it’s never too late to say thanks, y’know.’

The bear’s head came up. Seeing us, it turned and hurried away into the woods.

Marie chuckled, “Yeah, okay. Thanks. She was really going on and on. Don’t worry, I won’t do that. Hint taken.”

Nodding slightly, I replied, “Thank you.”

Chapter Thirteen

Marie seemed content to study the forest for a time, so I sipped coffee and watched her watch the woods. A few deer wandered a westward trail some distance from us; she pointed at them and glanced to see if I’d seen them. I nodded.

Another few minutes passed. Still watching the woods, she stated, “Maybe Linda was right about us being so much alike.”

“Maybe, but lots of people hate messy emotional displays.”

With a little moue-shrug, she agreed, “That, too, but we both do the things we do for our own reasons, not for the… well… adulation.”

Anyone else would have looked at me for agreement. Marie didn’t. Come to think of it, I doubt she ever had, even when we’d been discussing mission plans. She was one of those ‘Here’s what we’re gonna do’-types, and unless someone had a serious objection, that’s what usually got done.

Marie set her board in motion and we began weaving among the tree tops above a southerly trail at about twenty miles per hour . She didn’t say anything, but occasionally leaned to look at things of interest below. I followed along sipping coffee and enjoying the scenery until I spotted something odd in one of the trees.

I sent, ‘Hold one,’ to Marie and looped around a pine tree to get to another one about five trees away. Hanging from a branch a bit more than halfway up the tree was a long fabric bag. As I got closer, I saw it was the kind of bag that usually contains a set of skis and poles. Its original bright red showed through faded patches of green and black paint.

The bag had been secured to the tree by a couple of small nails through the long shoulder strap. The bottom connection had come loose and the bag now hung a bit sideways in relation to the tree’s trunk, probably the only reason it had become noticeable at a distance.

When I was within reach of the bag, I saw just how faded the paint was and how rusty the nails holding it were. A sharp yank broke the remaining head off the upper nail and freed the bag. I brought it aboard my board, laid it flat, and checked it for bugs. A few spiders escaped when I shook the bag, and when I opened it, more appeared. They mostly hopped back to the tree and I sent tendrils to sweep off those that didn’t.

Marie arrived and stood close by as she watched me unzip the bag. More spiders emerged and disembarked as I fully opened the bag. Inside it was what looked like a full archery kit; a dark green recurve bow hanging from a tab in the top of the bag, a dozen graphite arrows in a leather quiver, and a leather finger tab looped around the nock on one of the arrows. I noted the bow had been strung backward, undoubtedly for indefinite storage. When I pinched and pulled the string slightly, three of its strands separated.

Even a sturdy piece of luggage like that ski bag isn’t totally impervious to weather; the interior of the bag stunk of mold and the leather tab almost crumbled when I pulled it up the arrow shaft. The leather quiver split several inches when I lifted it.

Arrows rattled loosely, but the rest of the bag held together until I tried to lift the quiver completely free. The bottom of the quiver disintegrated and a cluster of rusty arrowheads dropped a few inches with a clatter and a thump.

Marie asked, “How long do you think it’s been out here?”

“Years. Some of the arrowheads are rusted half away. And check out the bow.”

Picking up the bow, I read the info on the forward side of it. Gold letters said, ‘
Shakespeare Wonderbow. Laminated fiber glass.
‘ On the rear in similar gold print there was a picture of a deer’s head and the words, ‘
The CASCADE Model X-29 #45
’

My core chewed that info and said the bow had been made in the sixties. I asked it to try to figure out how long the bag had been in the tree. Its answer was approximately ten years based on the condition of the bag and its contents. I asked my core to check surrounding trees for any other unnatural items. It found nothing.

I said, “It’s been hanging here for about ten years. Now it’s going home with me.”

“Do you think it’s still safe to shoot?”

“Probably. It was strung backward to keep the limbs straight and it was hanging on that tab inside the bag. No weight on the lower limb. It just needs cleaning and a new string, I think.”

There were spider egg-balls in the quiver. I took the arrows out of it, checked the quiver’s tiny side pocket and found it empty, and hung the quiver upside down on a broken tree branch. Tossing the finger tab into the woods to rot in peace, I turned my board south again.

Marie resumed the lead, cruising among the trees at a slightly faster pace than before. I followed as I used fields to clean the arrows. The fletchings were loose on some of them. A few peeled off, but left faint lines on the shafts. I could easily re-glue them properly.

All the arrowheads were broadheads except three, which were steel target tips. Good. I could take one to a shop and match it up. The string would be no problem; I had a roll of phone company-issue waxed cord used for fishing phone lines through walls. Six or eight strands of that would be stronger than any typical commercial bowstrings.

Detouring toward a big-box store on SR-50, I set the bow and arrows on the roof, took one of the target tips off an arrow, and went to the store’s sporting goods department. A few minutes later I had two dozen similar tips and some fletching glue and we continued to the house.

At the kitchen table, I gave the bow and arrows a wipe with spray cleanser and started repairing fletchings. Marie watched for a time, then excused herself and headed for the bathroom. A dozen arrows had been repaired and placed with their fletched ends hanging off the table before she returned. She picked one up and seemed to check my work, then set it down and picked up the bow.

“Ed, there has to be some kind of story behind leaving a bow like this in a tree for ten years.”

I glanced up from gluing feathers and replied, “Yup. Prob’ly so.”

“What are you going to do with it?”

“Shoot it, ma’am. That’s what you do with a bow.”

She held it to rest the lower limb tip on the floor and measured it against her body. “It seems pretty short, doesn’t it?”

“It’s a bush bow. Maybe four feet long. Doesn’t matter; whoever owned it was about my size.”

“How do you figure that?”

“Draw length. Shorter arms use shorter arrows. These arrows are thirty-two inches. Figure sleeve length plus two.”

Looking in the store bag and around the table, Marie asked, “You didn’t buy a new string?”

“Nope. Commercial strings are made to wear out in a season. I have some stuff that’ll last damned near forever.”

I retrieved the waxed cord from the garage and removed the string from the bow. Leaving a foot or so of cord hanging, I ran the cord from bow-tip to bow-tip eight times, then cut the cord free of the roll. Holding the top end of the cord loop on a fingertip, I made a simple knot with a one-inch loop and fitted it over the bow-tip.

Straightening and smoothing the lines of cord, I made a similar loop at the other end and strung the bow as if for shooting. The cord pulled tight, then stretched until the bow was almost slack again.

Marie chuckled and I said, “All part of the process, ma’am.”

Having taken most of the stretch out of the cord, I unstrung the bow. Wrapping waxed cord a dozen times around four fingers, I cut the roll free, then cut the top and bottom of the loop. That gave me two bundles of straight bits of cord, each about four inches long.

Unstringing the bow, I selected a point two hand-widths down from the end of the string and made a simple knot. While the knot was still open, I inserted one bundle of the short cords, then pulled the string tight and re-strung the bow.

Once that adjustment had settled properly, I did the same to the other end of the bowstring. When I restrung it, the bow was arched perfectly and the string had bundles of cord near each end. Marie grinningly reached to flick the top bundle of string bits with a finger.

“What are these about?”

“Silencers, ma’am. They kill the ‘
twang
‘ sound.”

Lifting an eyebrow at me, she murmured, “Uh, huh.”

Putting up a screen, I located an archery shop on the net and showed her bowstring silencers. There were rubber balls, plastic disks, and wads of heavy yarn.

Marie read the descriptions and chuckled, “Okay, I believe you. Now what? Got a hay bale in the back yard?”

“Nope. I’ll leave the bow strung for a day or so to make sure all the stretch is gone, then string it backward and hang it in a closet until I find a place to shoot it.”

Noddingly indicating the table, she asked, “What about the arrows? Are you going to carry them loose?”

“Nope. Back in a minute.”

Another trip to the garage turned up a chunk of black leather I’d planned to use to make a motorcycle seat cover. I’d opted instead for a woven fabric throw rug that would breathe better and could be washed and dried. Folding the leather once, I penciled a line to cut, used a narrow field to cut it, and then used the field to punch a line of small holes along the edges.

Marie asked, “Will I be able to do that?”

“Depends on how well you get to know your PFM.”

“You’re assuming they’ll really hire me.”

Looking up from poking holes, I nodded. “Yup. Sure am.”

One of my spare black bootlaces lashed the edges and bottom together and provided a small loop at the top and bottom. I connected an old guitar strap to the loops, put a few arrows in the quiver, and tried it on. A couple of adjustments later, I was able to pull an arrow over my right shoulder smoothly.

Taking off the quiver, I said, “All set,” and laid it on the table.

As I gathered the rusted arrowheads and tossed them in the trash, Marie asked, “Why didn’t you get some of those today?”

Sipping coffee, I replied, “I don’t hunt animals.”

Eyeing me for a moment, Marie chuckled, “Interesting that you made that distinction.”

She seemed to find that humorous, but did her comment require any sort of response? I decided not and just gathered the bow and arrows to install them in the hall closet. When I returned to the table, I put up a screen to display how I and others used our boards.

Marie watched for a while with only a few comments, then tapped the ‘pause’ icon and turned to me.

“Ed, Tanya showed me some old pictures you located for her. I recognized them; places and people and all that. She said there were other pictures, but she didn’t have them. Why not?”

“Nothing nefarious, ma’am. Some of the training centers are still in use. Some of the pix were of us and the others, some weren’t. I didn’t have anyone’s consent, so I didn’t share them.”

“Do you still have them?”

“I didn’t save copies, but I can retrieve them again.”

“Would you show them to me?”

Shrugging, I said, “Sure. You’re in some of them and you knew everybody else in them. I’ll set up a feed and you can look through them while I check email.”

“You don’t want to see them?”

Giving her an askance look, I said, “I’ve already seen them.”

Studying her nails as she spoke, she said, “Yes, of course. But… what if I have questions?”

“About what?”

She continued studying her fingertips as she murmured, “Oh, I don’t know. Just… things.”

Uh, huh. She wanted me there while she rooted through them. Why? The Marie I remembered would have wanted to review everything in private before going over any details. Hm. And the Marie I remembered had been a controlling harridan. This one seemed a bit more human. She wanted company for this trip down memory lane.

“Yeah. Okay.”

I took a seat at the table and she took the chair to my left. That might sound like old-fashioned manners, but it actually had more to do with the fact she was observant; she’d noticed I usually used my right hand to manipulate screens.

First up were the pictures I’d given Tanya. They made a good starting point and allowed me to observe Marie’s reactions. She seemed to enjoy them in a melancholy manner; her eyes sometimes brimmed with unshed tears, but there was a small smile under them most of the time. Good ‘nuff, then. On with the show.

Some of the pix I hadn’t showed Tanya seemed to reach Marie in a deeper manner. Her smile widened or narrowed according to who or what was on the screen and she hit the ‘pause’ icon once to retrieve some tissues from her purse.

I’d expected the kind of chat you might have while looking through old pictures, but she remained silent throughout the show. I didn’t try to guess what was going through her head and only spoke to point out time frames and locations that weren’t readily obvious.

When the last picture in the collection appeared, I said, “That’s it. If any more turn up, I’ll let you know.”

Not taking her eyes off the pic of Mike and herself clowning around on the pond pier at camp three, Marie nodded.

“Thanks. Now I know why you didn’t show these to Tanya.”

In my best Texas drawl, I replied, “Yup. You wuz actin’ like a brazen hussy with a man other than her dear ol’ daddy. She might’a had an opinion about that.”

Marie gave me a droll expression and, “Just say ‘
you’re welcome, Marie
‘, and leave it at that, please.”

“Ah. Yes’m.” Clearing my throat gently, I stated clearly and firmly, “You’re-welcome-Marie.”

That got me a wry smirk and, “Jerk.”

Turning her gaze back to the screen, Marie gazed at the picture for another few moments, then tapped the ‘off’ icon and said, “It’s almost five o’clock. Where do you want to eat?”