Dream Country (23 page)

“Have a good ride?” Paul asked.

“Yep.”

“Where’d you go?”

“To see the headwaters.”

“Solstice Falls?”

James nodded, not really wanting to talk about it. His mind hadn’t yet made sense of what had just happened between him and Daisy—he wasn’t sure it ever would. He still felt the imprint of her head against his chest; it burned like a scrape or bruise. The ranch odors were strong, but all he could smell was Daisy’s perfume. His eyes burned from the tears he’d shed. The knot in his chest was smaller than it had been in years. And his daughter was pregnant—

“I thought you were worried,” Paul said, handing him a pen and the first check. “About intruders on the ranch—I’m surprised you took her out riding. I thought you wanted her to leave.”

“I took her away from the canyons,” James said. He looked down, signing his name on a check to Thompson & Sons Saddlery.

“Where the bad guys are?”

James heard Paul wanting to joke around. His time with Daisy felt dead serious and raw. He wasn’t in the mood for this, for talking to anyone.

“Don’t push it,” James said very quietly.

“I’m just glad you took her out.” Paul smiled. “It’s good for both of you.”

“Thanks. What else do you want me to sign?” James asked.

Paul handed him the sheaf of papers. This had been their way for years: Paul would catch James when he could—on the run, in the barn, by the corrals—and get him to take care of business. Paul was an efficient foreman. James hated paperwork, and neither man liked desks or offices. When James finished, he sensed Paul wanting to say something else.

“What is it?” James asked. “What’s going on?”

“Just—” Paul began. Eyes narrowed, he looked like a man trying to solve a crime. His brain seemed to be working overtime, trying to figure James out. Maybe he wanted to be a friend, more likely he wanted to offer advice—something about him and Daisy, probably. James wasn’t going to hear it.

“Leave it,” James said. “Just leave it for tonight.”

Paul hesitated, frowning, but he nodded. Taking the papers, he walked away. And James drifted over to the barn door and stared across the darkening fields at Daisy’s house. Then he grabbed the door handles and shut the barn up tight.

By nightfall, David and Sage had left the main highway. The old black car was bouncing along a rutted farm road, with Sage reading a map by flashlight. David had made an X on the map, but wouldn’t tell her where they were going. The closer they got to the X the angrier his face got.

Without warning, he stopped the car and went to the trunk. The animals whimpered with anxiety. Sage turned in her seat, trying to see what he was doing. She heard a bag being unzipped, and she saw the glow of a light as things rustled mysteriously. He was back there a long time—at least fifteen minutes. When he got into the car, he kept his head averted, as if he didn’t want her to see his face.

“I’m not going to navigate if you won’t talk to me,” she said.

“Don’t be a jerk,” he snapped.

“I’m not. You are. Is this the mission? Is that what we’re doing tonight?”

“Sage—”

She flipped the switch, flashed the light directly in his face. What she saw made her gasp. He had drawn all over his face: seven black dots in a line across his cheeks, concentric circles and dots on his forehead and chin, four thin black lines streaking down his neck. The markings looked like tattoos.

“David, what are you doing?” she asked.

“It’s the tradition,” he said. His voice sounded odd, as if it wasn’t his own. Wind blew outside, making dry leaves scuttle along the road. Sage’s hair rose on her head and the back of her neck.

“What tradition?” she whispered.

“Do you know about messengers between realms?” he asked.

She started to shake her head, but for some reason she stopped. Her mother talked about such things: When she carved bones, she imagined calling forth spirits of the dead. Lambs, birds, cows, deer. Fingers trembling, Sage reached into her blouse and felt for her two-sided amulet. She felt the back-to-back faces, the boy and the girl, the twins.

“Yes,” she said.

“Do you know what these dots mean?” he asked, pointing to his cheeks.

Sage shook her head.

“Savings,” he said.

“Savings?”

“Each time I’ve been able to save things. One of the dots is you.”

Reaching out, Sage touched David’s face with her index finger. She traced the dots across his cheeks, counting them as she went: one-two-three-four-five-six-seven. This was the most bizarre experience of her life, yet she somehow understood and wasn’t afraid. She was the seventh dot, David’s seventh saving. Without being told, she knew what the other six represented.

“We’re going to a puppy farm, aren’t we?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Can I come in with you?”

David hesitated. He started up the car again, so he wouldn’t have to answer right away. Sage held all six kittens on her lap, curled into sleeping balls. The dogs lay still in the backseat, and the only sound was Petal licking her ragged toy.

They drove for half an hour more. The road was straight, and it ran due north. Shadows rose in the west, blocking the stars, and Sage knew they were the foothills of a mountain range. It looked like a long, shallow, black hole in the bottom of the sky. She heard an explosion of air and realized it had come from her: She’d been holding her breath.

A cluster of lights showed up ahead. David turned off the headlights and checked the map, holding the flashlight close to the paper so no one outside the car could see. He slid a battered hacksaw from under the seat and turned to Sage.

“You can come,” he said.

“Thank you,” she said, suddenly unsure of whether she really wanted to.

“But you have to wear something if you do.”

“What?”

“The owl,” he said.

Sage cocked her head. What was he talking about: wear an owl? Opening the glove compartment, he pulled out a small leather case. The light was so dim, she could barely see. He told her to turn on the flashlight and hold it very close. She saw a case of needles, thread, and ink. Her heart pounding, she watched him extract colored pens. He took hold of her right hand.

“Where did you get your tattoos?” she asked in a high voice.

“I do them myself.”

“Is that—is that what you want to do to me?” she asked, trying to pull back her hand.

“Not tonight,” he said. “Not ever, unless you want me to.”

He licked the tip of the brown pen, and very gently he licked the back of her right hand. His tongue felt soft and warm, and Sage closed her eyes, wishing he wouldn’t stop. But he did, and he started to draw. The pen point was fine, and it tickled. He seemed to be drawing each individual feather.

“Why an owl?” she asked. “What does it mean?”

“It sees.”

Changing pens, he took out a bright yellow one and drew two piercing eyes. When he was done, Sage had an owl on her hand. It was perfect, tiny, and fierce, exactly like the one on David’s wrist. Staring at it, Sage felt braver than she thought possible. It seemed like magic, just like wearing her mother’s jewelry. Although she never took it off, she found herself pulling her necklace from around her neck. Her heart was pounding; her hands moving almost by themselves, she handed the pendant to David.

He peered at the carved bone, turning it over and over in his hand. Nodding, he seemed to accept its power. He touched the faces to his forehead, then to his heart, then to the knife he carried in his pocket.

“Who made this?” he asked.

“My mother.”

“Is she Shoshone?”

“No, are you?”

“Maybe.” He grinned. “Or maybe I’m a wolf. Ready?”

Sage reached for her necklace, but he held on as if he wanted to keep it. “Don’t you want to know who the faces are?” she asked. “It’s the only two-sided one she’s ever made.”

“I know who they are,” he said. “They’re you and your brother. Come on. Let’s go.” He handed it back to her.

Sage took a deep breath. She felt like saying a prayer, chanting a spell, somehow blessing her, the baby, David, and all the animals. No words seemed right—nothing that made any sense, anyway—she tried to remember the word her mother used to say, the Indian name that meant bravery. It was too elusive, like a feather in the wind, so she just crossed her fingers instead.

There seemed to be two farms on either side of the dirt road. One looked bigger than the other, with a tidy white farmhouse, a red barn, and a silver silo. The other farm had an old brown house, a brown truck, and several brown sheds. Sage could hear barking, and the closer they got, the louder it sounded.

David crept low to the ground, like an Indian brave. He held Sage’s hand for a while, but then he dropped it and began to run ahead. She had a stitch in her side, and she needed to stop and rest. Circling back, he looked furious.

“What’s the matter?”

“I’m out of breath,” she said, feeling her baby change position. She supported his weight with her hands, wishing he’d keep away from her bladder.

“Do you want to wait here? We have to be ready to run fast when we finish inside.”

“Can’t you tell me what we’re going to do? So I can be prepared? I’m wearing the owl—”

David paused. She couldn’t see his face in the dark, but she sensed that it was grave and unsmiling. “Then you already know,” he said.

They moved on. The house was nearly all dark—except for a dim light in the kitchen and a blue glow from the TV room. A tilting, peeling sign by the road showed a picture of a hunting dog proudly pointing at a dead pheasant. “Purebred English Setters,” the writing said.

Now, from inside the house, Sage heard yelling. A woman’s voice raised in anger, and a man’s voice in response. Some kid was crying, and another joined in. She heard a smack, then a door being slammed, then silence. The barking went on in the shed, as loud as ever.

“They’re sick fuckers,” David whispered.

“The English setters—” Sage said, pulling toward the house. She wanted to rescue whoever had just gotten hit.

“No, the people. All the puppy farm owners are the same. Exactly the same—nightmares. They beat their wives and they both beat the kids. This is how they spend their nights. It’s no big deal. Come on . . .”

“No big deal . . .” Sage gulped, staring up at a second-floor window where a light had just gone on. The curtains glowed from within—they were pink, and a young girl’s sobbing could be heard through the glass. Through a space in the curtains, Sage could see a poster of Ariel, the Little Mermaid.

“He hits her, and he probably fucks her, too,” David said, glaring. He pulled Sage’s arm, and she turned to follow him. They plodded through a muddy yard. David whispered, “Don’t worry about stepping in dog shit—they’re not allowed out.”

“Never?” she asked.

“Never.”

David had stuck the hacksaw in his belt like a sword, and he removed it now and sawed off the flimsy lock. Gingerly, he opened the creaking shed door. Sage slipped in behind him. The space was pitch-black and very cold: She couldn’t see a thing except for clouds of breath in front of her face. The dogs had been yelping; smelling humans, they yelped a little louder. David disappeared. Sage felt petrified, as if she was standing in a dark cave all alone. But then, as her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, she began to see.

The shed was about fifteen by thirty feet. Cages lined the long wall, two high. Each cage was made of wood and wire mesh, about two feet square. David moved methodically along the wall, opening all the doors. He had his flashlight out, his bandaged hand hooding the beam as he trained it into each cage.

Sage went to be beside him. She saw the dogs cowering against the back walls. Although they were long of bone, they were curled into snail-like balls. Some had puppies nursing on their teats. The stench of excrement was strong, and Sage held her forearm over her mouth and nose. Some cages contained mother dogs and several dead puppies. No one had bothered to remove them.

“Poor things,” Sage said, reaching in to pet one trembling dog.

The dog bared her teeth and snapped.

Sage stepped back. She tripped over something and fell backward into a pile of fur. It was cold, and it smelled horrible, and when David reached down to pull her out, she realized she had fallen into a heap of dead dogs.

“Oh, no,” she cried.

“Sssh,” David said, moving. “Be quiet.”

Trembling, Sage watched him. He was looking for something, going up and down the row again and again. Some of the dogs had started to creep forward. The bravest ones stuck their noses out, sniffed the air outside. They jumped down, trying to straighten out their backs and legs—perhaps for the first time in their lives. Sage watched them try out their legs, taking steps like new colts.

David was going to set them all free.

“You can’t,” Sage said, grabbing his arm. “Where will they go? What will they eat?”

“They’re hunters,” David said. “They’ll survive.”

“They don’t know how,” Sage said. “They’ll die!”

“You think that’s as bad as this?” he asked, his voice as much a snarl as any animal’s.

Sage looked around. Very slowly, one by one, the dogs had all hopped free of their cages. Many of them had dragged their puppies out, one at a time, holding them in their mouths the way Petal carried her toy. Others had abandoned their litters, and when Sage checked, she saw that most of those babies were already dead.