The Best American Mystery Stories, Volume 17 (21 page)

“Come on, baby!” Cory said again, desperately urgent now. As he got Billie almost out, another, smaller eruption of flame licked out and caught both of them, searing the sides of their faces, singeing their hair.

Limping, half dragging Billie, Cory managed to get them just far enough away not to be blown up when the rest of the Buick exploded.

Along with the million two in its trunk.

 

Sirens began piercing the humid air as police cruisers, fire engines, and ambulances converged on the cul-de-sac from all directions. On a narrow side street a block away, Cory managed to walk Billie along a row of older frame houses, where porch lights were being turned on and people were coming out to see what was going on.

At the end of the block, where the houses stopped and only the dark night remained, Cory paused where an old man in a wheelchair sat looking toward the fiery sky above the cul-de-sac.

“Say, mister,” Cory asked, “does this street lead out of town?”

“This street?” the old man replied, peering curiously at their injured faces. “This street don't lead nowheres. This street ends at the cemetery.”

Cory grunted quietly, said, “Thanks, mister,” and laboriously moved on.

As he and Billie went on their way, the old man saw blood on the sidewalk and started wheeling toward a police cruiser that pulled up to block the other end of the street.

 

They rested on the grassy ground next to the large headstone of a grave about twenty yards inside the cemetery. There was enough light from a full moon for them to see each other.

Billie's face was shredded on both sides from the windshield glass and burned on one side from the gasoline fire, and most of her hair was burned off one side of her head.

Cory's face and hair were seriously charred on one side, his neck wound painfully seared by the fire, and his stomach gunshot wound bubbling air-blood past the hand he held pressed tightly over it in a futile attempt to stop the flow. He had looked at his bloody hand under a streetlight just before they entered the cemetery and seen that the blood was streaked with black. The bullet had nicked his liver.

As they sat with their backs against the cold surface of the headstone, two police cruisers pulled up at the cemetery entrance and four officers got out and moved cautiously onto the grounds.

“I don't want to go on, Cory,” Billie managed to choke out.

“Neither do I, baby,” Cory replied.

They both drew their guns.

ANDRE KOCSIS

FROM
The New Orphic Review

 

I'd been watching the bear from across the valley for almost fifteen minutes. I first saw him just above the last of the stunted jack pines, galloping along a snowy bench and heading for the steeps. The slope above him was corrugated by a series of narrow couloirs, and I kept the binoculars on him, wondering what he would do. He hesitated not a moment, choosing a steep, tight channel in the dark rock. The increase in incline did not perturb him; he continued motoring up at a good clip. That couloir was steep—at least forty degrees. I knew. I had skied it a few weeks before.

Where was he going? There was no food up there. And why was he not holed up in a cave, anyhow? It was March—too early for him to come out.

Sometimes bears wake up, go out to explore for a while, and then go back to sleep, but this guy looked like he was on a mission.

An eagle circled far above, soaring on thermals, king of the blue sky.

When I looked back, the bear had reached the top of the couloir, and then he disappeared over the ridge. For a moment I considered putting on my skis and trying to pick up his trail, just to see what he was up to. It would have been a lot easier if I had had a dog. Well, not easier. The bear's tracks would be easy enough to follow. But a man needs a companion to go adventuring.

Someday.

Right now it was too complicated to take care of a dog. I was up at the cabin less than half the time, and Nelson wasn't fit for humans, let alone a dog. The town was totally overrun by fat, pale tourists.

When I first moved there, in 1975, it was still a funky little place, but a third of a century has elapsed since, and a lot of things change in that much time.

On the other hand, some things don't change. The U.S. is at war again. It took just one generation to forget the lessons of Vietnam.

Ironic, that Pinto had done me a favor by ratting me out to the cops for selling him that dope. He was trying to save his own hide, but in California I still have a warrant for my arrest. I suppose I would have left anyway, when I got my draft notice.

The only thing I regret now is that I couldn't go back to see my dad before he died last year. He was eighty-one, and he had not visited me since before Mom died, six years ago.

I put the glasses down on the rock where I'd been sitting and went into the cabin, crouching to avoid hitting my head on the low doorframe. Calling it a cabin was generous. It was no more than a shack. I had dragged every log a couple of kilometers up from the tree line.

I still wonder whether the effort had been worthwhile. The cabin is on Crown land. I had camouflaged the roof to avoid detection from the air, but if any rangers wandered up into the alpine, they'd burn the unauthorized structure.

I was going to turn fifty-six soon. It was time I had a place of my own, but I could not imagine living anywhere except in the alpine. I wanted to buy some land, but my savings were not enough. Guiding was not exactly making me rich, and spending so much time chilling at the cabin pushed millionaire status further out of reach.

I picked up the little plastic baggie holding my dope and papers. It felt light. Moving back to the door, I held it up to the shaft of light and noted that the contents had definitely diminished since arriving a couple of weeks before.

Time to get a new supply. Time to go back to Nelson. Maybe even get some work.

 

Owen was an Englishman in his late thirties who ran a “collectibles” store on one of the side streets of Nelson. He sold comic books, hockey cards, vinyl records—anything he could buy for pennies and sell for big bucks. It was unclear whether selling dope supplemented the huge profits he made on the collectibles or whether the collectibles just served as a front.

“Hey, Sierra, you're just in time,” he said as I entered the dusty, poorly lit store.

“Hi, Owen. Just in time for what?”

“A couple of blokes came in this morning. They're looking for a guide.”

My clientele used to consist mainly of backcountry skiers, hunters, or fishers who wanted to spend a week in the wilderness, but in the last few years Owen had opened up a whole new market for me. The border to the U.S. is quite mountainous in this area, making it ideal for undetected transport of B.C. bud into Montana. Dope runners paid better than skiers, even after the hefty commission that Owen took. (I always suspected that he also took a percentage from the clients.)

“How do I get in touch?”

“They're coming back tomorrow. I was going to use Calvin, because I never know how to find you.”

“I'm here now.”

“So you are, buddy, so you are.” He smiled at me, revealing the narrow gap between his two front teeth. Owen had dark, curly hair and a broad, friendly face that stood him well with the ladies. He had come to Nelson to get away from his third wife. She was still in England, working the divorce courts to squeeze more money out of Owen.

“What's been happening?”

“Same old, same old. Bush is threatening Iran to get people's minds off the fact that he ruined the U.S. economy. Hey, there is a meeting tonight to plan a demonstration. Are you coming?”

“I'm busy,” I lied.

“You're constantly ceasing to amaze me, Sierra. This country gives you asylum from those warmongers and then you just turn your back on the people that saved your ass.”

“Save it for someone who cares. I haven't had a toke in twenty-four hours, and I'm ready to go postal. Can you front me a baggie? I'll pay you as soon as your clients show up.”

Owen went into the back for a couple of minutes. The store had a relaxing gloom, and I surveyed the racks of comics and cards, all encased in plastic. Junk. But people were willing to pay for it.

Owen came back and laid a fat baggie on the counter. I immediately rolled a joint, and we passed it back and forth.

“Tell me, Sierra, have you ever done anything to fight the imperialism of your country?”

“It's not my country, and not my business.”

“Okay, have it your way, but have you ever done anything?”

“Yeah, actually, I was part of a major conspiracy to stop the Vietnam War.”

Owen perked up at this. “Really?”

“Oh, yeah. There was a group of us in Berkeley. We were dangerous radicals. One time we got a bunch of identical shoeboxes, like about fifty of them. Then we took a banana, put it in a box, and sent it by first-class mail to Lyndon Johnson.”

“When did you live in Berkeley?”

“After high school.”

“You told me you were climbing in Yosemite after high school.”

“Sometimes I'd stay in Berkeley for a couple of months.”

“Oh.” Owen looked at me skeptically. “So you sent a banana to the president of the United States. And that was supposed to stop the war?”

“No, no, there was more to it. The next day we took another identical box and put a banana in it and sent that to LBJ, also by first-class mail.”

Owen took a deep drag on my joint and handed back to me a much-diminished version.

“We did this for over a month,” I continued.

“Wow! That's perseverance.”

“You don't get it. After doing this every day, we suddenly just stopped.”

“So?”

I took a drag on what was left of the joint, extinguished it, and put the roach into the baggie.

“That just drove them crazy,” I explained.

“Sierra, you deluded, long-haired midget, what the fuck are you talking about?”

“Well, the U.S. eventually pulled out of Vietnam, didn't it?”

 

When I showed up at Owen's store the next day, he started in on me again.

“Some people mentioned you last night. They're wondering if you support the war in Iraq.”

“War is a delusion.”

“What? The U.S. killing people in Iraq is no delusion.”

“I'm saying that anyone who truly believes that a problem can be solved by war is deluding himself.”

Owen stared at me for a second. “I don't know about that. I mean, sometimes you have to go to war. What if we hadn't stopped Hitler? Were we deluded about that?”

“The delusion started with Hitler. He thought that by eliminating the Jews he'd solve Germany's problems.”

“He didn't believe that at all. The Jews were a convenient scapegoat.”

“Maybe for cynical leaders war is not a delusion. They may have a personal agenda that's served by war, but for the common man, the one who has to put his life on the line, it's a delusion. The average American soldier had more in common with the average German soldier than either of them had in common with their commanders and national leaders. They just wanted to live their lives, have enough to eat, keep their families safe. Only the leaders had ideological agendas that they valued more than the lives of their country's citizens. That's the tragedy of the twentieth century—ideologies that were so important that no sacrifice was too great. It would have been different if the leaders had been asked to be on the frontlines.”

“Sure, but you have to take a stand against evil...”

“Any individual who sacrifices himself for a cause is deluded.”

Owen shook his head. “So you're a pacifist?”

“Not at all. I favor individual violence. If you attack me, I will kill you. But I will not do that for an idea.”

Owen stared at me for some moments. He shook his head again. After a long silence, he said, “You can probably bump up your rate on these people.”

“Yeah? How much?”

“Double.”

I didn't have time to digest the implications, because just then the door opened, and two men were silhouetted against the strong sunlight from outside. The dust in the store defined shafts of light which seemed to come from their outlines. They closed the door behind them, and the gloom in the shop was restored, the grimy glass in the door effectively blocking the sun.

Introductions were made. George was above average in height, with regular features and a dark complexion. Though he was clean-shaven, black stubble darkened his strong jawline.

Thanh was short, about my height, and Vietnamese. He looked strong, packing lots of muscle on a small frame. He spoke without accent, but George had an inflection I couldn't quite identify.

They did not argue with the daily rate I proposed, but there was an issue with payment.

“You'll be paid when we meet our friends on the other side,” George said.

“Sorry,” I said. “I get paid up front.”

George stared at me, and for a moment I felt fear. There was a ruthlessness in his gaze, something that told me that this was a man who was used to being obeyed.

“Your standard arrangement assumes half the daily rate you're charging us,” he said. I was starting to get a bad feeling.

“Maybe you need another guide, someone who'll work for less.”

Thanh, who had not said a word, exchanged a glance with George and then said, “We can pay half up front, half on the other side.” It was hard to tell who called the shots. Many of the grow ops were run by Vietnamese, so it was likely that George was just a front. His aggressive manner was compensating for lack of real authority.

There would be six of them, and I would have to carry most of the food, tents, and communal gear, since they would be burdened with “personal baggage.” Another glitch developed when they insisted that I should provide transportation to the trailhead. There was no way that seven people and all the gear would fit into my beat-up Toyota. To my surprise, Owen came to the rescue.