Compass Rose (12 page)

The owl had suddenly swooped into the knee-high grass a stone’s throw ahead of her. When it lumbered up into the air she saw it had a mouse in its talons. After a moment she realized that her walking through the grass had been stirring up whatever was hiding there—any creature that would have been better off staying still. The owl had been using her as its spaniel. So much for her as Saint Francis.

Then she’d wondered how the owl worked this out. Perhaps one time it had seen a fox or a stray dog trot across a field and noticed the scampering away of a field mouse, chipmunk, or rabbit, or the slithering of a garter snake. The owl had seen her disturbance long before she saw the owl.

After that she stopped thinking of herself as an unobserved observer. Any patch of ground was web upon web of awareness. Even if she was crouched in the bushes with her binoculars, invisible to other humans, she was giving off body heat sensed by ticks, odors that attracted deer flies. Even the littlest flash of color attracted something—a butterfly once landed on her cheek, perhaps mistaking her bright eyes and dark nostrils for what? Something in the iris family?

So she was sensed as well as sensing—but for a while she’d kept on thinking of herself as a central-exchange operator and a slow-but-sure decoder of everything. Then, as she read and thought about a hawk’s eyesight, a dog’s nose, a bat’s sonar (which certain moths could feel and then save themselves by folding their wings and plummeting), a goose’s migration (possibly navigated by the earth’s magnetic fields—the jury was still out on that)—she gave up.

She’d spent some time in anger and frustration at what she wouldn’t ever know. Then some time in a shriven state for having presumed too much. A little comeback—she knew more than most people. But even if true, so what? And at last an easier attitude. It wasn’t her job to know everything but to know enough to let some other people know enough to wonder. Be fierce enough to keep out the vandals. Encourage the teachable—“Be not afraid, the isle is full of noises, / Sounds and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not.” At least if you’re higher on the food chain than a rabbit.

She worked back from the crumpled snow along the trail of zigzag leaps, of creeping and nibbling. Then back to the edge of the woods. The undergrowth was too thick to go through on her skis, but she followed the trail with her eye. A crisscrossing of rabbit tracks in there. Had the senior rabbits claimed the rights to the nearby food and forced junior out into the field? Were rabbits less cooperative than geese? Or was junior just a silly rabbit?

She’d ask Eddie. He knew more about animals, at least edible animals, than her colleagues. She missed running into Eddie out in the woods. She wondered—was Phoebe Fitzgerald ruining his life or was he happy making his fortune? How odd it had been to see Eddie and Phoebe walk in on her, along with Jack and Mr. Salviatti. And then Jack almost leering about her and Johnny Bienvenue. So everyone got to wonder about odd couples. Eddie surprised her. She’d known him as capable in the woods, almost tongue-tied with most people and thrown into a complete tailspin by Miss Perry, or even the mention of her name. But he’d spoken up to Jack and Mr. Salviatti with assurance, almost in asides, as he looked over the building problem. Phoebe had turned this way and that, and every male but Eddie had taken it in—the willowy sway, the pleated
skirt brushing her pretty calves, the wide eyes and slightly parted lips. This would have amused Elsie if she hadn’t noticed a flick of Phoebe’s eyes toward her, a snapshot assessment of Elsie bundled up in sweatpants.

And yet here she was on a cold winter’s day hoping that Phoebe was preening for Eddie and that Eddie was taking a step forward. Now that she was out of the wind, she was full of goodwill. No question about it, when she was moving around out here she was nicer than she was anywhere else. Unless, of course, she ran into an offender against her territory. Part of it was fresh air, sunlight, maybe endorphins. But most of all it was her eyesight ranging out, going from wide focus to narrow when her eyes lit on a detail that led to another. Another part was more elusive. Once in a great while she was released from figuring things out, from knowing or not knowing, and she felt herself displaced by a wordless humming alertness beyond well-being.

Not today. Today was okay. Low end of well-being. Too cold for more.

She set off again, a few long strides in her own tracks, then had to break trail. She was grateful for this snowfall, not just for the pleasure of ski touring but for the benefit of other animals. A foot or so beneath the snow, voles were having a fine time in their grass-lined passages and rooms, insulated from the cold wind, hidden from foxes and feral cats. Their only alarm would be as they felt the vibrations of her skis across the top of their world.

By noon she reached the railroad embankment, which served as a windbreak for her when she turned northeast. No need to patrol the Great Swamp Fight site, somebody on duty there. Even from inside the building they could keep an eye on things.

At the northeast corner of the reservation there was a rise of open ground. It fell away more steeply to the east, enough shelter from the wind for a deer yard. The low ground was bordered by the Chipuxet River—shelter, water, enough vegetation by the stream for browsing. Elsie was of two minds about deer—admirable runners and astounding leapers, but now that there weren’t any natural predators, there were too many deer munching on young trees. She
wouldn’t mind more guys like Eddie—like Eddie used to be—stalking the herd with his homemade crossbow. What she didn’t like were the guys spraying buckshot or slugs that could go through a car door, too wired with buck fever to wait for a sure kill and too ignorant or lazy to track a wounded deer. The only time she’d fired her own pistol had been to put down a cripple. She’d hauled the deer out and brought it to Eddie. He dug a trench with his backhoe and buried it. Explained that unless the deer was killed quick the meat was more than likely spoiled. “Adrenaline or something. You know how when you almost have a car accident your mouth tastes funny? Like zinc. A wounded deer tastes like that. If a deer doesn’t know what hit him—if it’s just lights out—then you get some sweet meat. Course you got to hoist him on the spot, gut him, and drain the blood.” He’d said “him,” but she knew he took a doe as often as a buck. Fine with her. Even a few surviving bucks could service the does. To reduce the herd you had to kill does.

Elsie slogged up the hill, the wind at her back. She crossed to a fringe of brush and picked her way to the edge of the eastern slope. She saw trampled snow in the dell, then fluffs of vapor farther back in the scrub, and then some movement.

She’d noticed on her own—and Eddie had confirmed—that the way deer spotted a human was primarily by the movement of arms and legs. They also seemed to see something alarming in a face. Maybe just the eyes. Most wild things were alert to eyes—butterflies and fish often displayed large eyelike patterns on their wings or flanks, just enough of a fake to make a predator hesitate. Was that bite-sized prey or the head of something big and dangerous?

Elsie pulled her wool cap over her eyes, stretched tight so that she could see through it. She pushed off downhill, then tucked her arms and poles behind her and squatted. She’d done this a couple of times before, got to within twenty feet of a deer before it bolted.

She was sliding fairly slowly, the powder snow pushing up around her ankles. Two or three deer lifted their heads. With their large sideways eyes they could see in a greater arc than a human—they could even see a bit behind them—but they had little depth perception unless they focused both eyes to the front.

When she’d first skied up to a deer herd, she’d pretended it was
field research. Logged it in: deer, close observation of. Now she was having fun.

Halfway down the slope she heard a shot. She saw deer start to run, a stream of brown dotted with white tails. She heard another shot. Through the knit of her hat she saw with eerie clarity a white streak across the bark of a tree just ahead of her. She tossed herself sideways, slid on her hip and hand. She had to gasp a breath before she could shout. No idea what she said. Maybe just “Hey!” She pulled her hat up off her face. Another breath. She yelled, “Don’t shoot!” She didn’t lift her head. She was still uphill from where the shots came from. Somewhere off to her right. She pulled herself toward a tree trunk with her hands. The straps of the poles rode up her forearms, tugging her sleeves up. Her mouth tasted like zinc—Eddie was right about that. Her web belt had twisted so her holster was in the middle of her back. Her skis were anchored in the snow.

She wriggled backward so she could reach the bindings, head down, ass in the air. She was pushed onto her side as if someone had kicked her. Her right buttock stung, then hurt like hell. She pulled herself to the tree trunk. Was she behind it? Where was the gun? She tried to yell. It came out a bleat. She took a breath and yelled, “No!” She took off her gloves, reached back where it hurt. The seat of her pants was shredded. Her hand was wet. She looked at it. A smear of blood. Goddamn fool shot her. Shot her in the ass. Okay, she wasn’t dying. But the dumb son of a bitch could have killed her. Still out there with his gun. She held her breath so she could hear. Nothing. Had he heard her yell? She felt her ass again. Touched her holster. She pulled out her revolver, fired a shot into the air.

A man’s voice shouted. “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!”

She yelled, “Don’t
you
shoot!”

Now that she heard where he was, she pulled herself to her knees. She peered around the tree trunk. Whoever it was was lying in the snow, waving an orange glove. She holstered her revolver. Even that bit of twisting hurt. Trying to ski hurt. She put her weight on her left ski and poled herself toward the man. The more it hurt the angrier she got. The anger didn’t make it hurt less but helped her keep moving.

She stopped five feet away from him. She said, “You shot me.”
The man lifted his head. He put his hand on his shotgun. Probably just trying to get to his feet. She didn’t care. She put her ski tip on his wrist. She said, “Don’t touch your gun.” She moved her ski. “Just get up.”

“All right, all right. Jesus.”

Her hat was leaking melted snow down her face. She took it off.

He said, “You’re a girl.”

“It gets better,” she said. “I’m a Natural Resources officer. That’s game warden to you.” She opened her jacket to show the badge on her shirt.

“I didn’t mean to … I saw deer.”

“Deer season’s over. I’m taking you in.” Where was this B-movie dialogue coming from?

He said, “Are you hurt? Where’d you get hit? Maybe you should get to a hospital.”

She picked up his shotgun. Pump-action. She ejected two rounds. Double-aught buckshot. When she picked them out of the snow she felt woozy. She rubbed snow on her face. She said, “You got a car? Where’s it at?” He pointed back along the trail of his boot prints. She said, “Any more shells? Turn your pockets inside out.” He held out a handful of shells. “Drop them.” He hesitated. She said, “Now.” She put her hand on her holster.

“Jesus, lady. I’m peaceful. I’m going peaceful.”

She gave him his empty shotgun and pointed with her ski pole.

It was slow going. Even stepping in his boot prints, he was slogging. She was barely keeping up. When they reached his pickup she told him to put the gun in the bed. She put her skis in, and one pole. She used the other pole to limp to the passenger door. The door was locked. She felt dizzy again, leaned her forehead on the window.

The next thing she knew she was blinking at the sky. She lifted her head. She wondered why she had a ski pole in her hand.
Oh, yeah
.

The truck was gone. She lay flat again until she felt how cold she was.

E
lsie limped to the hardtop in the tracks of the guy’s pickup. She was wet from the snow she’d lain in and melted. No cars for a long time. Then a pickup. Relief. Then fear that it was the guy coming back. She checked her holster. But maybe he’d gone for help. What color was his pickup? She couldn’t remember, she was useless, she hadn’t even asked for the guy’s ID. And the son of a bitch stole her skis.

It wasn’t the guy. This pickup had an ATV strapped down in the bed. It was the retired navy CPO and his two buddies, shoulder to shoulder in the cab. She asked if he would drive her to her car. He asked what happened. “I got shot in the hip.”

“Then we’ll go to the hospital. You guys ride in the bed. First we help her in.”

When they got to South County Hospital he draped her arm around his shoulder and walked her to the front desk. He said, “Gunshot wound. Where do I put her?” He waved away a wheelchair. “She can’t sit down; look where she’s hit, for God’s sake. And get her warm.”

The front-desk nurse looked cross. Elsie said, “Hey, he’s been great.”

He said, “I’ll phone Natural Resources. Your boss’ll be wondering. I’ll give him my number so you can let me know how it goes.”

“Thanks, chief.”

The nurse took her ski pole and helped her to an examination room. Elsie felt light-headed but this time with an odd lilt of cheerfulness. She said, “He’s retired navy, used to giving orders. Something to be said for those old guys with their big solid bellies. Shall I take my pants off?”

“Wait for the doctor. Just lay down on your front. It’ll just be a minute.”

“Wait,” Elsie said. “Could you call my sister? Ask her to pick up Rose. Don’t say I’ve been shot. Just a little accident. Rose gets frantic about now and Mary gets too busy. Wait. I know I’m babbling. Okay. My sister Sally. Sally Aldrich. I’ll write her number on your clipboard.” The nurse looked cross again. Elsie said, “I’m sorry. Okay. There is one other thing. Please ask Sally not to tell Jack.”

“Jack Aldrich?”

“Yes,” Elsie said. “He’s the one not to tell. Sally’s the one to tell.”

“I’ll call Mrs. Aldrich for you.”

“Thank you, thank you. Jack gets into everything.”

“We see something of Mr. Aldrich here,” the nurse said, sounding much more sympathetic. “He’s on our hospital board.”