After the Plague (3 page)

The drumming in my chest suddenly slowed. I felt ashamed of myself. Felt awkward and out of place, my head windy and cavernous from all that sorrowful scotch. “Yes,” I admitted.

She took pity on me then and told me the truth. “She went to some little town with that guy from the auction last night. Said she'd be back for the plane Monday.”

Ten minutes later I was in my Chevy half ton, tooling up the highway for Fairbanks and the gravel road to Boynton. I felt an urgency bordering on the manic and my foot was like a cement block on the accelerator, because once Bud got to Boynton I knew what he was going to do. He'd ditch the car, which I wouldn't doubt he'd borrowed without the legitimate owner's consent, whoever that might be, and then he'd load up his canoe with supplies and Jordy and run down the river for his trespasser's cabin. And if that happened, Jordy wouldn't be making any plane. Not on Monday. Maybe not ever.

I tried to think about Jordy and how I was going to rescue her from all that and how grateful she'd be once she realized what kind of person she was dealing with in Bud and what his designs were, but every time I summoned her face, Bud's rose up out of some dark hole in my consciousness to blot it out. I saw him sitting at the bar that night he lost his feet, sitting there drinking steadily though I'd eighty-sixed him three times over the course of the past year and three times relented. He was on a tear,
drinking with Chiz Peltz and this Indian I'd never laid eyes on before who claimed to be a full-blooded Flathead from Montana. It was January, a few days after New Year's, and it was maybe two o'clock in the afternoon and dark beyond the windows. I was drinking too—tending bar, but helping myself to the scotch—because it was one of those days when time has no meaning and your life drags like it has brakes on it. There were maybe eight other people in the place: Ronnie Perrault and his wife, Louise, Roy Treadwell, who services snow machines and sells cordwood, Richie Oliver, and some others—I don't know where J.J. was that day, playing solitaire in his cabin, I guess, staring at the walls, who knows?

Anyway, Bud was on his tear and he started using language I don't tolerate in the bar, not anytime, and especially not when ladies are present, and I told him to can it and things got nasty. The upshot was that I had to pin the Indian to the back wall by his throat and rip Bud's parka half off him before I convinced the three of them to finish up their drinking over at The Nougat, which is where they went, looking ugly. Clarence Ford put up with them till around seven or so, and then he kicked them out and barred the door and they sat in Chiz Peltz's car with the engine running and the heater on full, passing a bottle back and forth till I don't know what hour. Of course, the car eventually ran out of gas with the three of them passed out like zombies and the overnight temperature went down to something like minus sixty, and as I said, Chiz didn't make it, and how he wound up outside my place I'll never know. We helicoptered Bud to the hospital in Fairbanks, but they couldn't save his feet. The Indian—I've never seen him since—just seemed to shake it off with the aid of a dozen cups of coffee laced with free bourbon at The Nougat.

Bud never forgave me or Clarence or anybody else in town. He was a sorehead and griper of the first degree, the sort of person who blames all his miseries on everybody but himself, and now he had Jordy, this sweet dreamy English teacher who probably thought Alaska was all
Northern Exposure
and charmingly eccentric people saying witty things to each other. I knew Bud. I knew how
he would have portrayed that ratty illegal tumbledown cabin to her and how he would have told her it was just a hop, skip and jump down the river and not the twelve miles it actually was—and what was she going to do when she found out? Catch a cab?

These were my thoughts as I passed through Fairbanks, headed southeast on the Alaska Highway, and finally turned north for Boynton. It was late in the afternoon and I still had a hundred and eighty miles of gravel road to traverse before I even hit Boynton, let alone caught up with Bud—I could only hope he'd stopped off at The Nougat for his usual fix of vodka, but the chances of that were slim because he'd want to hustle Jordy down the river before she got a good idea of who he was and what was going on. And that was another thing: I just didn't understand her. Just didn't. He'd put in the highest bid and she was a good sport, okay—but to drive all night with that slime? To put up with his bullshit for all those crippling hours, maybe even fall for it? Poor Jordy. Poor, poor Jordy.

I pulled into Boynton in record time, foot to the floor all the way, and skidded to a halt in the gravel lot out front of my store. There were only three other cars there, each as familiar as my own, and Ronnie Perrault, who I'd asked to help out for the weekend, was presiding over a very quiet bar (half the men in town had gone to Anchorage for the big event, thanks to Peter and his unflagging salesmanship). “Ronnie,” I said, coming into the bar to the strains of Lyle Lovett singing “Mack the Knife” like he was half dead, “you seen Bud?”

Ronnie was hunched lovingly over a cigarette and a Meyers and Coke, holding hands with Louise. He was wearing a Seattle Mariners cap backwards on his head, and his eyes were distant, the eyes of a man in rum nirvana. Howard Walpole, seventy years old and with a bad back and runny eyes, was at the far end of the bar, and Roy Treadwell and Richie Oliver were playing cards at the table by the stove. Ronnie was slow, barely flowing, like the grenadine in the back pantry that hardly gets any heat. “I thought,” he said, chewing over the words, “I thought you wasn't going to be back till Tuesday?”

“Hey, Neddy,” Doug shouted, squeezing out the diminutive until it was like a screech, “how many you bring back?”

“Bud,” I repeated, addressing the room at large. “Anybody seen Bud?”

Well, they had to think about that. They were all pretty hazy, while the cat's away the mice will play, but it was Howard who came out of it first. “Sure,” he said, “I seen him,” and he leaned so far forward over his drink I thought he was going to fall into it, “early this morning, in a brand-new Toyota Land Cruiser, which I don't know where he got, and he had a woman with him.” And then, as if remembering some distant bit of trivia: “How was that flesh bazaar, anyway? You married yet?”

Louise snickered, Ronnie guffawed, but I was in no mood. “Where'd he go?” I said, hopeful, always hopeful, but I already knew the answer.

Howard did something with his leg, a twitch he'd developed to ease the pain in his back. “I didn't talk to him,” he said. “But I think he was going downriver.”

The river wasn't too rough this time of year, but it was still moving at a pretty good clip, and I have to admit I'm not exactly an ace with the canoe. I'm too big for anything that small—give me a runabout with an Evinrude engine any day—and I always feel awkward and top-heavy. But there I was, moving along with the current, thinking one thing and one thing only: Jordy. It would be a bitch coming back up, but there'd be two of us paddling, and I kept focusing on how grateful she was going to be for getting her out of there, more grateful than if I'd bid a thousand dollars for her and took her out for steak three nights in a row. But then the strangest thing happened: the sky went gray and it began to snow.

It just doesn't snow that early in the year, not ever, or hardly ever. But there it was. The wind came up the channel of the river and threw these dry little pellets of ice in my face and I realized how stupid I'd been. I was already a couple miles downriver from town, and though I had a light parka and mittens with me, a chunk of cheese, loaf of bread, couple Cokes, that sort of thing, I really
hadn't planned on any weather. It was a surprise, a real surprise. Of course, at that point I was sure it was only a squall, something to whiten the ground for a day and then melt off, but I still felt stupid out there on the river without any real protection, and I began to wonder how Jordy would see it, the way she was worried about all the names for snow and how sick at heart she must have been just about then with Bud's shithole of a cabin and no escape and the snow coming down like a life sentence, and I leaned into the paddle.

It was after dark when I came round the bend and saw the lights of the cabin off through the scrim of snow. I was wearing my parka and mittens now, and I must have looked like a snowman propped up in the white envelope of the canoe and I could feel the ice forming in my beard where the breath froze coming out of my nostrils. I smelled woodsmoke and watched the soft tumbling sky. Was I angry? Not really. Not yet. I'd hardly thought about what I was doing up to this point—it all just seemed so obvious. The son of a bitch had gotten her, whether it was under false pretenses or not, and Jordy, sweet Jordy with Emily Brontë tucked under her arm, couldn't have imagined in her wildest dreams what she was getting into. No one would have blamed me. For all intents and purposes, Bud had abducted her. He had.

Still, when I actually got there, when I could smell the smoke and see the lamps burning, I felt shy suddenly. I couldn't just burst in and announce that I'd come to rescue her, could I? And I could hardly pretend I just happened to be in the neighborhood … plus, that was Bud in there, and he was as purely nasty as a rattlesnake with a hand clamped round the back of its head. There was no way he was going to like this, no matter how you looked at it.

So what I did was pull the canoe up on the bank about a hundred yards from the cabin, the scrape of the gravel masked by the snow, and crept up on the place, as stealthy as a big man can be—I didn't want to alert Bud's dog and blow the whole thing. But that was just it, I realized, tiptoeing through the snow like an ice statue come to life—what thing would I blow? I didn't have a plan. Not even a clue.

In the end, I did the obvious: snuck up to the window and peered in. I couldn't see much at first, the window all smeared with grime, but I gingerly rubbed the pane with the wet heel of my mitten, and things came into focus. The stove in the corner was going, a mouth of flame with the door flung open wide for the fireplace effect. Next to the stove was a table with a bottle of wine on it and two glasses, one of them half full, and I saw the dog then—a malamute-looking thing—asleep underneath it. There was some homemade furniture—a sort of couch with an old single mattress thrown over it, a couple of crude chairs of bent aspen with the bark still on it. Four or five white plastic buckets of water were lined up against the wall, which was festooned with the usual backcountry junk: snowshoes, traps, hides, the mangy stuffed head of a caribou Bud must have picked up at a fire sale someplace. But I didn't see Bud. Or Jordy. And then I realized they must be in the back room—the bedroom—and that made me feel strange, choked up in the pit of my throat as if somebody was trying to strangle me.

It was snowing pretty steadily, six inches on the ground at least, and it muffled my footsteps as I worked my way around the cabin to the back window. The night was absolute, the sky so close it was breathing for me, in and out, in and out, and the snow held everything in the grip of silence. A candle was burning in the back window—I could tell it was a candle from the way the light wavered even before I got there—and I heard the music then, violins all playing in unison, the sort of thing I wouldn't have expected from a lowlife like Bud, and voices, a low, intimate murmur of voices. That almost stopped me right there, that whispery blur of Jordy's voice and the deeper resonance of Bud's, and for a moment everything hung in the balance. A part of me wanted to back away from that window, creep back to the canoe, and forget all about it. But I didn't. I couldn't. I'd seen her first—I'd squeezed her hand and given her the corsage and admired the hand-lettered nametag—and it wasn't right. The murmur of those voices rose up in my head like a scream, and there was nothing more to think about.

My shoulder hit the back door just above the latch and blew the thing off the hinges like it was a toy, and there I was, breathing hard and white to the eyebrows. I saw them in the bed together and heard this little birdlike cry from Jordy and a curse from Bud, and then the dog came hurtling in from the front room as if he'd been launched from a cannon. (And I should say here that I like dogs and that I've never lifted a finger to hurt any dog I've ever owned, but I had to put this one down. I didn't have any choice.) I caught him as he left the floor and slammed him into the wall behind me till he collapsed in a heap. Jordy was screaming now, actually screaming, and you would have thought that I was the bad guy, but I tried to calm her, her arms bare and the comforter pulled up over her breasts and Bud's plastic feet set there like slippers on the floor, telling her a mile a minute that I'd protect her, it was all right, and I'd see that Bud was prosecuted to the fullest extent, the fullest extent, but then Bud was fumbling under the mattress for something like the snake he was, and I took hold of his puny slip of a wrist with the blue-black .38 Special in it and just squeezed till his other hand came up and I caught that one and squeezed it too.

Jordy made a bolt for the other room and I could see she was naked, and I knew right then he must have raped her because there was no way she'd ever consent to anything with a slime like that, not Jordy, not my Jordy, and the thought of what Bud had done to her made me angry. The gun was on the floor now and I kicked it under the bed and let go of Bud's wrists and shut up his stream of curses and vile foul language with a quick stab to the bridge of his nose, and it was almost like a reflex. He went limp under the force of that blow and I was upset, I admit it, I was furious over what he'd done to that girl, and it just seemed like the most natural thing in the world to reach out and put a little pressure on his throat till the raw-looking stumps of his legs lay still on the blanket.

That was when I became aware of the music again, the violins swelling up and out of a black plastic boombox on the shelf till they filled the room and the wind blew through the doorway
and the splintered door groaned on its broken latch. Jordy, I was thinking, Jordy needs me, needs me to get her out of this, and I went into the front room to tell her about the snow and how it was coming down out of season and what that meant. She was crouched in the corner across from the stove and her face was wet and she was shivering. Her sweater was clutched up around her neck, and she'd got one leg of her jeans on, but the other leg was bare, sculpted bare and white all the way from her little painted toenails to the curve of her thigh and beyond. It was a hard moment. And I tried to explain to her, I did. “Look outside,” I said. “Look out there into the night. You see that?”