Biting the Moon (25 page)

“Andi!” she whispered, and then lurched forward, as if she meant to go and help whoever was the source of the cry.

But Andi pulled her back. “No!” Her face looked as if it had turned to stone. “It's over; that's all.”

How do you know?
Mary wanted to scream, but stayed quiet.

Just then a screen door snapped open and shut and a man came out and ran down the steps and got into the Jeep. It accelerated and drove down the road, away from them.

All Mary could see was dark hair and a blue shirt.

“It's Harry Wine,” said Andi.

“Could you see him?”

“I can smell him. Let's go.”

•   •   •

The Jeep they had just seen driving away from the Swann house was parked in front of the store. In the parking lot were several other cars that belonged (Mary assumed) to the clutch of people gathered near them.

Andi opened the trunk and pulled out their backpacks, shoving one strap of hers over her left shoulder. Mary shifted her own backpack to her shoulder and they walked toward the group, two women and three men, only five besides Mary and Andi. It was hard to believe that any of these people were in the advanced category, much less expert. They ranged in age from what looked like around thirty to sixty. Only the youngest of the men, bearded, sinewy-thin, well muscled in his upper arms, might have been a candidate for expert.

It was one of the older men who was holding forth. He was a tall, heavy man with a belly draped over his belt and a loud voice, and he appeared to be educating the others in the finer points of rafting. He was comparing the Salmon River with some river in Texas. His accent marked him as a Texan, anyway. The rather flashily dressed woman (sequins and satin flowers on a sweatshirt?) was surely his wife. Mary cast her husband in the role of the one who would be uniformly disliked and would, consequently, give the others a topic for conversation when they wound up the day on the “secluded inlet” described in the brochure. He was already annoying the two men and the youngish woman who did not belong to either; it was easy to see she wasn't married, at least not to anyone here. The youngest fellow, permanently tanned, gave Mary the fleeting impression women would come in a poor second to good white water. He looked river bred. Because of his dark glasses, she couldn't read his expression. He introduced himself as
“Graham.” The other older man seemed quiet; he hung back from the group of four either out of disinterest or shyness. He did not introduce himself.

The Texan, naturally, had to make a banal comment on the girls' youth: “Hell, you girls look still wet behind the ears.”

“We aren't,” said Andi, and turned away, dropping the two words like cement at his feet.

Harry Wine came out of his outfitting store carrying a steaming mug of coffee, stopping to talk to two young men, both blond and muscular, who looked enough alike to be twins. Mary recognized them as two of the employees who were working in the store yesterday. They hung back as Harry moved forward. Harry stopped a couple of times to drink from the mug and wave to the party.

Mary supposed she couldn't help but be prejudiced against Harry Wine, but she thought something in his movements struck her as showy. It was as if he were modeling the handsome jacket he wore—soft, butter leather—together with the rest of him. She wondered if he always wore blue; the flannel shirt beneath the leather jacket was a vibrant shade of it. His stops to sip from the mug were more like poses. Mary felt it wasn't vanity so much that motivated him as a love of the theatrical: of invention, fabrication, deceit. When he was within a few feet of them, the docile crew waiting on the captain, he swept the hand holding the mug back in an arc to empty the dregs of his coffee on the cold breeze.

It did him no good (in Mary's estimation) that he was so brazenly handsome. She felt herself flushing at these thoughts, as if he'd caught her unawares. Even the smile he gave them all, one that lingered on the faces of Andi and Mary, looked knowing, a mind-reading look.

“Morning, folks. If you haven't done it already, let me introduce everyone, and then I'll tell you the kind of float you can expect the next four days.” He smiled and began running down names. The youngish woman was Lorraine and the shy older man was Floyd. Harry Wine had gripped Floyd's shoulder and welcomed him back “again”; he had apparently been coming here for three or four years. She was right about the Texan and his wife, the Mixxes, Bill and Honey. Graham's last name was Bennett.

Harry went on. “Today, we'll be driving to Stanley and from there to Boundary Creek. We'll stop for a late lunch somewhere on the river, around two. I figure we can get to Pistol Creek, maybe a little farther this evening, around six or seven, when we'll stop for the night. Tomorrow will be longer; there's long stretches of flat water. I plan for us to get to Tappan Rapids. Third night, Big Creek or maybe as far as Redside Rapids. The Main Salmon and Cache Bar we should hit end of the fourth afternoon. Ordinarily, it's a five-, six-day trip, but that allows for quite a bit of stopping, little side trips. Me, I'd rather be on the river than off it, allowing plenty of time for sleeping and eating that I hope we'll all do well. Anyway, that's a schedule for everything going the way we intend. But our intentions aren't necessarily the river's. You know how things can change quick on the river; water level can change overnight. Our put-in's considered class-two water, but if the water's down—and in June it sometimes is—it's a boulder garden and you've got to be careful of the eddies. When we hit Sulphur Slide we're into class three, and by the time we get to Velvet Falls we're seeing four. Velvet creeps up on you—”

Mary didn't know what he was talking about, though she could sense danger in it and just wished he'd shut up. People loved to rant about their vocations.

“—which is why it's called velvet. We usually scout it. You know pretty much what to watch out for. You've done a lot of rafting—”

Mary squinted off into the pines.

“—and know everything can change in an hour—in minutes, really. I've done the Middle Fork a hundred times and I can still be surprised.” Harry turned, waved his arm in a gesture for the two blond men to join them. They didn't move from their positions at the fence; they just waved. He laughed and told the rafting party that his boys were shy, which Mary was sure was a lie; you could tell just looking at them. They'd been staring at the women, certainly at Andi, sizing them up, probably making comments. “This is Randy and Ron, good rafters, good cooks, good scouts when we need scouting.”

Randy and Ron left the fence and proceeded to a gray van.

“We'll put in at Boundary Creek, like I said; it's around a three-, three-and-a-half-hour drive to Stanley, then another thirty miles to
the put-in. So we'll get there early afternoon, noon, if we leave now. That'll give us a half day on the river, but I figure the drive is worth it. The Middle Fork's better white water than the Main Salmon. And there aren't as many permits issued, so there aren't as many people. This time of year the traffic is fairly light anyway. Randy's van can take several of you besides Ron and Randy. I'll be going in the equipment truck, and I can take—”

Before he finished the sentence, Andi's hand flashed up, as she kicked Mary's shoe in a signal to get her to raise her hand too.

“—two of you. Hey, okay, you girls can ride with me, be a pleasure. I just want to warn you'all as I'm sure you're used to being warned: pay attention, don't assume anything. Today and early tomorrow we'll see big drops, rocks, standing waves. Just because one part of the river rated a two or two-plus yesterday doesn't mean it's the same river today.”

Mixx interrupted. With a show of scorn he said, “I was hoping to see some class-four water at least. Compared to what I've seen on the Payette or the Selway, the Salmon's a pretty easy run. I should think you wouldn't need to scout it, experienced a man as you are.”

Mary rolled her eyes, turned away. There were some men always had to challenge other men; it was the way they were made. Had to prove something even when no one ever suggested there was something to prove.

Harry Wine probably never even bothered defending his expertise when it came to men like Bill Mixx; he could eat Mixx for breakfast. His eyes grew a little steely, a little more gray in the blue, though. On the other hand, he couldn't have people in his rafting party taking chances just to prove what kind of men they were. “No river is just one river. It can change in an hour. When you get wrapped around a rock at Haystack, you'll wish you scouted. Salmon's not your most dangerous river, but it's not for amateurs.”

Mary stared right back when his eyes came to rest on her face.

Harry Wine smiled at her. Then he said, “Okay, everybody, we ready?”

They all made noises of readiness and broke up into two groups. Harry motioned Mary and Andi to follow him to the truck, loaded to bursting with equipment and camping gear. The front seat would have
been tight for three, but behind the driver's side was a jump seat. With a look at Mary that assumed understanding, Andi opened the door and pushed the front seatback forward so Mary could climb in behind. Mary climbed in and pulled down the seat. She rather liked being the person behind the person behind the wheel.

Harry Wine asked her if she was okay back there, and Mary assured him she was. He started the engine and backed up; the van would follow them.

Andi sat still, never taking her eyes from the road for several miles. She was waiting (thought Mary) for him to start talking, see the direction the talk took. When they left the dirt road for the tarmac, he said, “You sure travel a lot. Alone.”

“But I'm not alone; I'm with Mary.”

“I mean without family or a group. You know.”

When he turned his head to look at Andi, his dark profile looked almost stamped into the gold light that surrounded it. They were traveling south, the Salmon River on their right at the bottom of a canyon. Mary was reminded of the stretch of road they were on after leaving Jules at Peaceable Kingdom. For a while her mind stayed on the dog and that vet, Dr. Krueger, whom she didn't trust but wasn't sure why.

The morning sun was brilliant. Mary's thoughts turned again to Harry Wine, talking, teasing, and laughing in the front seat. He might be the second most handsome man she'd ever seen. The first was that British Scotland Yard policeman who'd been in Santa Fe two years back. He'd been so nice, the nicest of men—except, maybe, for Dr. Anders. But whether Harry Wine was or was not Daddy, Mary would have bet anyone that he was not a nice man.

In answer to a question he had asked—and he had been asking a lot of questions—Andi said, “Driving around. Different places.” She paused and turned to look at him. “Colorado: Cripple Creek. Other places. Like Santa Fe.”

Mary stopped her musings about men and tried to signal Andi.
This is not smart; this is definitely not smart.
Harry's head didn't move, nor, as far as Mary could tell, sitting behind him, did his muscles tense at the mention of Cripple Creek.

If Andi noticed Mary's distress signals, she ignored them. She kept her eyes on Harry's face and asked, “Ever been there?”

“Where? Cripple Creek? Yeah, sure. But there's better gambling at the casinos on the reservations.”

Nervous, Mary clamped her hand on the back of his seat, brushing against the hard muscle of his shoulder. She felt burned, pulled her hand away. Closing her eyes, she tried to get into Harry Wine's head. What might be going through it, assuming he was Daddy?

Here's this same girl sitting beside me I kidnapped from—

Where? From where?

—I abducted, and she fucking doesn't even know it. She hitched a ride with me four months ago and sure as hell didn't know who I was, so if she didn't know then—well, she must not know now. Amnesia. It must be, from the trauma, like the shrinks say. Yeah, I'd sure call what happened trauma. (Laughs.) She can't even remember her own name—

What is it? What?

—and if she did know who she was, you can damned well bet she'd be back with her fucking family now, not roaming around the country with this kid—

Who can be trouble, believe it.

—going on float trips. Was she telling the truth about her experience? Maybe, but probably not. Something funny about her. Except, what if she
does
remember? What if it's all an act? What in hell does she think she's doing? What's she got in mind? No kid could play things this cool. She would be one cool customer, if that's the case. That question about Cripple Creek. . . . Oh, for God's sakes, Harry, you're letting these two spook you. Let's say—let's just say, just for the sake of argument—this Andi does know I'm the one she's after. But four fucking months later? Does that make sense? Where in hell's she been for four months? Listen, let's just say she knows me. If that's the case, she's too fucking cool to let on, except in whatever way she wants to. Like the comments about Santa Fe and Cripple Creek. So I won't get very far finding out from her. But this other one, Mary, she sure as hell knows what's going on. So maybe if I get her—

“You all right back there?”

Mary lurched in her seat, eyes wide open. “What? Yeah; yes, I'm fine.”

His head was half turned, in profile again. “Thought maybe you'd gone to sleep.”

“On this road? Hardly.” Mary thought that was a pretty cool answer. Maybe she was taking on something of Andi's presence of mind. She sure hoped so, because she didn't know how she'd react if Harry Wine set about trying to get information out of her. But if he wasn't Daddy . . . ? Mary put her head in her hands; she wasn't thinking clearly.

Talk, most of it Harry's, had come to her muzzled, words indistinguishable. Now she took it in, Harry describing what he thought were the most challenging sections of river. He talked about the Middle Fork until they pulled into a truck stop not far from Stanley. Mary was glad the van wasn't directly behind them because she didn't really want to get into some sort of useless conversation with the others. They had Cokes while Harry filled the tank. Andi looked dreamily off toward the Bitterroot Mountains and made no reply while Mary told her to stop getting so dangerously close to the truth. Or what she thought was the truth.