Biting the Moon (34 page)

A ruffle of wind lifted Andi's hair. Her expression never changed, except her face became more pinched and pale.

Mary was startled. “He is? But he acts like such a great outdoorsman.”

“That's right. What I can't understand is, Harry loves to hunt. I mean hunt big-time, big game: Africa, India. I've heard him talk about it. That's why I don't see him shootin' fish in a barrel.”

“Maybe it's the killing and not the hunting he likes,” said Mary.

“Yeah. Man gets a rush out of shooting an animal soon as it takes one step out of its cage—what manner o' man would that be? And
these big cats, they're almost tame. They've been ‘gentled,' so they kind of trust people. Hell, it'd be almost like if you cornered your household cat. Of course, I ain't never seen Harry Wine at it, so it could be he only goes around searching out the animals. I'm not sure what they are. He's probably partnered up with the Quicks; he's in it for his cut.

“There was one of these hunting parties—if you can call them such—of men and women both. Lord, but they had all manner of hardware: rifles, shotguns, pistols, and even at least one semiautomatic. The Quicks have these ‘guides,' probably hire them right off the boats from Papua New Guinea and Kathmandu, poor souls. And I bet
this
part of the setup's illegal as hell. Anyway—” Reuel picked up the beer again, found it empty, set the bottle back, but made no move to get himself another. “Anyway, there was maybe a dozen people in this party; they looked well-heeled. Women in their safari gear telling themselves this freak hunt was the real thing, riding along in the Jeeps that belonged to the owners out about half a mile into a huge open field. Me, I was watchin' all this through my binoculars. The guides—or helpers—had got there already in a pickup truck, and they had this big cage on its bed. I think it was a cheetah, and according to the Quicks' brochure, cheetahs cost big money, not that that's any account. Whatever cat it was, you can bet it's on the endangered list, which I figure gave this demented party even more of a rush. The scarcer it is, the more fun killin' it. Hard to believe these are the same people that buy duck stamps and go out in the blinds and freeze their—well, never mind.

“The cheetah was to be released there in this open field and was supposed to run like hell. Run to where? I'd like to see. About half a dozen acres, all fenced in, and there sure wasn't no place to serve as cover except a spindly little stand of pine trees. It could never get away.”

A long silence followed, nobody saying anything. Mary thought it was one of the most awful stories she'd ever heard. She looked at Andi, who seemed struck dumb.

Reuel looked at Andi too. “So you see, young lady, this ranch ain't even in your world, things that go on there; it's like so-called civilized people reverted to savages.”

Andi's eyes were still on him, had never really left his face in the telling of this story. Mary thought she was really considering Reuel's warning.

Andi asked, “Can I borrow your binoculars?”

•   •   •

She wanted to go to the Quick ranch immediately, but Mary argued her out of it, saying they hadn't enough daylight left. “Besides, what if it's not taking place right now? Probably it isn't.”

“Maybe it
is
,” Andi offered reasonably.

But Mary was not to be dissuaded this time; she insisted they leave it at least until the next morning. Mary was bone-tired and hungry. She suspected that Andi was running on sheer nervous energy; she had to be tired, after everything that had happened.

“Let's go eat. I'm starving. Let's go to the Coffee Shoppe.”

•   •   •

Seated in a booth, they studied the menus with a fervor that Lewis and Clark might have applied to the mapless territories beyond them.

After they'd read in silence for a few minutes, Rita came to their table, extracting her pencil from her high-piled hair and thumbing over checks in her check pad. Mary liked Rita. She liked everything about the Coffee Shoppe right down to its peeled and patched vinyl-upholstered booths. It was very homey; there was no standing on ceremony here.

“What'll it be, ladies?” Rita included them in with the dozen or so adults having their early dinner.

Mary ordered a Coffee Shoppe hamburger special.

Andi sat undecided, frowning and nibbling at the skin around her thumbnail. Then, as surely as if there'd been no decision to make, she said, “Chicken-fried steak and mashed potatoes and peas.”

“You got it,” sang Rita, who turned on her rubber-soled heels and walked over to the big open slot between counter and kitchen where they put in the food orders.

Mary turned the little metal sleeves of the jukebox selections, thinking maybe she'd play “Mexicali Rose” again. “I wonder if Reuel maybe is still in love with that girl.” Then she blushed, hoping she didn't sound childishly sentimental.

“I guess he could be. It's really a sad story. It's an
awful
story. To think someone could be that cold-blooded as to run off with another man and even take your money—” Andi stopped talking suddenly. She was facing the door, looking that way. “Speak of cold-blooded, look who just walked in.”

Mary turned to see Harry Wine stopped at a booth close to the door, leaning down, talking to the couple there. They all looked very serious, the man in the booth putting his hand on Harry's arm in what looked like a sympathetic gesture, the woman shaking and shaking her head. The couple seemed to be trying to console Harry.

They were six booths away from the door, and Harry stopped at every one of them—or, rather, was stopped—as the townspeople expressed sympathy, sympathy for
him,
Harry, not for poor Floyd Atkins. It was almost as if Harry had been the victim; it was as if these people had lined up here in these booths for the express purpose of seeing and consoling Harry Wine.

“It's like he was the pope. It's like he was giving out blessings and benedictions or something,” said Mary. She watched, and so did Andi, her face masklike, delicate and pale as a bisque doll. Harry went to the counter then and leaned across it to talk to one of the waitresses who was running a dish towel over a plate, drying it, and seemed stuck in the act of drying it, the towel going around and around, as if she would dry it through eternity, as long as Harry was talking to her.

“It's like they've forgotten about Floyd,” Mary said.

He did not immediately see them, or did not appear to. Mary wondered if that wasn't calculated too. Finally, he turned their way, one forearm still across the counter (and the waitress still wiping that plate), and saw them, and seemed surprised. Surprised and chagrined. He gave them a tentative smile.

“He
knows
we suspect him. At least, he knows we don't like him,” Mary said.

“No, he doesn't. Men like him think it's impossible for someone not to like him. Unless he's got some kind of grudge feud going, and even there he's sure he's right.”

“Like with Reuel, you mean?”

Rita was there, putting down their dinners. Steam rose from mashed potatoes that looked soft and velvety. “Wish I'd ordered some,” said Mary, taking her knife to cut up the burger.

“Here, have some of mine.” Andi turned the plate.

“No, no, that's okay.”

“No, go on.”

In this small argument over mashed potatoes, neither of them noticed that Harry Wine was standing over them.

“Hi. Listen, are you two all right?”

Noncommittally, Andi said, “Don't we look all right?”

Harry seemed trying to hold down a smile. “You'd be all right in a wagon train with the Indians circling. I was thinking more of Mary, here.”

Mary chewed her hamburger, swallowed, and said, “Why? Because I'm just a kid?” She was extremely annoyed at being set apart like this.

He dug his hands in his pockets and looked apologetic, almost sheepish. “Well. I'm sorry.”

For an instant, Mary understood it, his hold on people. For it was very hard to match up what you
knew
about Harry with the way he could make you feel. But if you took away what you knew about him (and hardly anyone around here seemed to know a damned thing, or if they did they tucked it far back on some shelf in their minds and forgot it), then you were sunk, for then he had his hold on you good and tight. But for them it was almost as if Andi's horrible experience had furnished them with some kind of shield against him. And he still didn't know about Andi.

He was looking as if Andi should invite him to sit down, but said, “You're staring. Or glaring. I can never tell what's behind those eyes of yours.” He smiled.

She didn't. Nor did her glance waver. Not at first. Not until she'd apparently decided he wasn't worth explaining to, and she shrugged and bit into the other half of her burger.

Harry stood there for another minute, then said he'd see them later and left.

Mary felt as if a terrible load had fallen away from her. She sighed.

Andi looked at her and smiled, conspiratorially, as if their plan had worked out.

Mary wasn't even sure what it had been.

•   •   •

Later, when they were each lying in their big beds, Andi asked, “What're you thinking?”

“Well, I was thinking about those descriptions you read in stories and novels about all the stuff it says one character sees in another character's face or eyes. Like:
Rebecca looked into the banked fires of the prince's eyes and saw revealed in their cold green depths naked fear
.”

Andi giggled.

“The thing is, I always wondered how anybody's eyes could be read that much. Unless he's got a bulletin board in there with all those details. But some of it, maybe you can.” Mary rolled over and propped her head on her hand.

“Is that why you were staring at Harry?”

“Yes.”

“What'd you see?”

“Naked fear.”

“
Good
. Good night.”

“ 'Night.”

The car was pulled into scrub and old trees a hundred yards from the Double Q Ranch. Andi and Mary were poring over the map Reuel had drawn for them of the area, most of which was taken up by the ranch itself, some 150 acres, heavily wooded at its boundaries.

There were several old overgrown trails leading into the ranch or crossing that area. “That looks like this one,” said Andi, thumbnail-indenting one of the faint lines as she gestured toward a fire-blackened stump and rotting leaves.

“What are we looking for? Do we know what we're looking for?” Mary's tone was querulous as they got out of the car and shut the doors. She wasn't looking forward to this; she knew they'd be seen. Seen and shot, probably. Notices were posted; they must have passed a half dozen of them as they made their way through a tangle of fallen limbs, matted leaves, chokecherry, and rabbitbrush. Eventually, this thinned out and they came to a clearing and a dirt road. From there they could just see the house in the distance, big and white.

Several rough roads, hardly wide enough for one vehicle, bisected the Double Q Ranch. When they were farther along, nearer to the house (but not so near their entrance could be seen), they saw a row of cages. Mary counted six of them, some around nine by eleven or twelve feet, large for a cage but not for the animals in them. Outside on each barred fence hung a sign. They crept close enough to see:
COUGAR. BENGAL TIGER. PANTHER. WATERBUCK. BIGHORN SHEEP.
This cage was empty, as was the sixth cage, its occupant undefined.

Even a bighorn sheep. Mary remembered the huge canyon and the mountain sheep, strung upward on those sheer cliffs beyond the reach of men. And they'd been brought down to this. She tried to say something but couldn't; her tongue felt stuck to the roof of her mouth. There was not even the frustrated pacing of the cats that one would expect to see. They lay down, curled beside the small enclosure in each cage in which they slept or hid. The tiger yawned. There was no danger in them.

Except for the cougar's rising and circling to change his position, none of them moved when Andi went up to the cages, wound her fingers around the wire netting, and rested her head against the fence. It was the panther, its coat like the glassy black water of the river, that seemed to engage her the most, although it did nothing but lie with its head on its paws like a big house cat.

Mary heard a car engine. Looking up the road that ran past these cages, she saw an open car filled with people. Two cars, Jeeps. “We've got to get out!” she whispered fiercely.

Andi looked around, surprised, as Mary moved in a crouch, swiftly, behind the cages to the other end, to the panther's cage. They dashed across the road and were soon hidden from view by the thick overgrowth along the road and by the trees within.

Mary could hear them more clearly now. One man's voice was raised, apparently making a joke, for there was answering laughter. Drunken laughter, it sounded like; the voices were raucous.

Just inside the rim of trees, she and Andi lay flat on the ground. They were perhaps forty or fifty feet away when the party tumbled out of the Jeeps. Maybe ten “hunters” altogether, and the ranch employees, three so-called guides. Reuel was right about the customers' dress. Waxed jackets, camouflage pants, caps, and, of course, guns—shotguns
and rifles. One of them, a bearded fat man with a belly who could never have lasted on an authentic hunt, raised a pistol and shot into the air. The big cats were startled, the cougar retreating into his shelter, the tiger amazingly quiet, rising and lying back down in a corner. Only the panther sparked into life, backed up, and made a sound in his throat, so deep it was barely discernible, hardly a growl.

The fat man's voice came back to them on the wind, hard to grasp, as if the wind itself wanted to erase the sound: “. . . thought these here . . . gentled down . . . hey! I'm talkin' to
you
!”