The Extinction Club (13 page)

« Shot. Hunting accident. Funny thing was, he was wearing a bulletproof vest. Hit with a .500 Nitro. »

I had no idea what that was but mimed surprise. « The bullet went through the vest? »

« With one of those babies you can blast a hole in a wall big enough for a dog to jump through. But no, it didn’t go through the vest. »

I waited as the driver drew another chestful of smoke from his reservation cigarette.

« The bullet hit him below the belt, if you get my drift. Bled out in three minutes flat, said one of the paramedics. Thing’s like a fire hydrant the way it spurts out. »

He glared at me, his eyes shifting from my face to my groin, suggesting perhaps that if I was the new ranger the same would happen to me. He turned his head aside, seized his
nose between thumb and forefinger and blew twin strings of mucus onto the snow. « You like girls? » He wiped his fingers on the inside of his army jacket’s breast pocket, originally designed to carry grenades.

I pulled a match from the cartoon blonde, fired up the Hawk. « Yeah, sure. Or are you asking— »

« I ain’t askin’ if you’re queer, no, I’m askin’ if you like girls. Me, I seen too much muff. You heard of the Cave out on 117? That’s my uncle’s place. »

I blew out heavy blue smoke, dizzily. Glanced down at the address on the matchbook. « I’ve passed by. »

« Now guns—I like guns. Maybe you and me we go up in the mountains some time, kill some birds. »

Right. When cows learn to synchronize swim. « I’m not a hunter. »

« That’s right, I almost forgot. You’re one on them
enviros
, am I right? One of them
antis
. »

I had nothing against hunters—my Uncle Vince was one and he was a good man. Plus I had stopped weighing things on my scale of ethics, not because I didn’t have one, but because it had been skewed for years. « Not really, no. »

« I know you ain’t, I seen your rifle. »

Oh shit. « I … I don’t own a rifle. »

« I seen her too, eh? »

« Seen who? »

“Céleste Jonquères. I’d stay away from her if I was you. »

I answered with unhinged mouth and words that neither of us could make out. My brain was disconnected from my vocal cords.

« Half-breed hellcat. Just like her mother’s tribe, all fighters and hotheads and generally all-around bad ones, ask anyone. Plus after what happened, she’s just damaged goods,
eh? Never be the same after what happened. Nope, never the same … »

« But … what happened? »

« She killed her grandmother, a ‘mercy killing’ she called it. She put the bag over her head ’cause she pleaded, ’cause she couldn’t stand to see her suffer. A half-breed swamp slut, just like her mother. Shot out of a cannon. I’d steer clear of her if I was you. She’s killed before and won’t think twice about killin’ you. »

I coughed out more words, questions, but the driver had already switched on his flasher and back-up beeper and was reversing out of the parking lot.

VIII

I’m now going to tell you what I know about my host, which is not a lot. His first name is Nile (his parents honeymooned in Egypt) & last name Nightingale (no relation to Florence). I’ve never felt comfortable with men, to tell you the truth — men & school, those are my kryptonite — but Nile might be an exception. He seems OK. He’s distant & quiet, at least when he’s not muttering to himself. I can spend time with him without him breaking into my thoughts. And he’s smart enough too, for an American, for someone who believes in angels & the afterlife. “There was a herebefore and there will be a hereafter,” he said to me. “Nothing in the universe, including the universe itself, can terminate entirely.”

He talks malarkey like this, the gloomy little saint, but at least he doesn’t use an adult tone or weird voice as if I’m a baby or puppy. He has a quiet voice & a grace & gentleness too, like a swan or some grallatorial bird. But one that’s not from this area — an “accidental,” one that’s tired from flying so far off-course.

As far as looks go, he’s what my grandmother called a Monet. Handsome as hell from a distance but not as much up close. His hair grows wild in thick clusters like it hasn’t seen a brush in his lifetime & it seems to prefer standing up to lying down. He has dark-tinted reading glasses & dresses all in black with a purplish-red scarf like a retired pirate or rockstar roué.

He looks dead-tired, like a soldier coming back from a war or something, and his eyes are dog-sad, a bit like Jesus’s in the east window of the Church. For some people, according to Grand-maman, there are things that happen in their lives that they just can’t live with. Things that “take the shine off the universe.” For Nile, it might have been his mom’s death. Or maybe his dad beat him or something. Or maybe he suffered from “possession overload,” what my grandmother called “affluenza,” which is a kind of virus that makes people want more & more things but makes them less & less happy. “For everything you get, you lose an equal amount,” she used to say.

Nile’s mom was from a rich family & so was his dad, who was a doctor, even though he didn’t have to work for a living. Nile was a “chip off the old block” because he got into med school when he was a teenager. To celebrate this, his parents gave him a car he always wanted: a Delage, an extinct French sports car from the 30s that he drove all over Paris & then had shipped over to the States. He showed me a picture. It’s a wreck, just like the van he drives.

Nile grew up in Europe and Asia with cooks, cleaning ladies, chauffeurs & native-speaking nannies. Which explains how he speaks 5 languages (!?) & knows Chinese fairy tales. When he went back to the States & lived on his own he worked as a translator & still does from time to time. He said he saw one of his books at Walmart. When I asked him if he’d give it to me for Christmas, he said no, I wouldn’t like it.

Nile also collects stamps. I’d never have guessed in a million leap years he’d have a hobby like that. I mean, is there anything nerdier? People call me a nerd for being interested in science &
reading all the time but I think he’s topped me. But he says that Edgar Allan Poe & Sherlock Holmes & Julian Barnes were stamp collectors & so were Freddie Mercury, Kurt Cobain, Thom Yorke & the bass player of Arcade Fire.

Nile listens to classical music a lot. “Its audiences are going grey & will soon die,” he told me one night. He also writes a lot in a journal — a black one with a silver lock & silver pen, which was a gift from his mom. Sometimes he copies stuff from my grandmother’s books & reads them to me at night. Like José Saramago’s line about not knowing whether the tree you plant will end up being the tree you hang yourself from. Is Nile thinking of killing himself too? Has he been reading my journal?

Not everything is good about Nile (it never is about anyone). There’s something haywire about him. Tilted off centre. A spring-loaded kind of thing. Like he has a wickedly hot temper or fits of madness. I’ll give you an example. After dinner last night (some kind of okra mash, which was totally gross), he drank some Scotch & his personality changed, a Jekyll & Hyde switch. He got funnier, more confident — and then a killer-on-the-loose look in his eyes. I thought things were really going to go sour — until I saw him pour the rest of the bottle down the sink. “A touch of brain fever, that’s all,” he said. “Happens from time to time.” He turned on the tap & the water hit a spoon & bounced back up into his face & I didn’t dare laugh.

Nile also sees things that aren’t there. Everywhere he looks. Like Osama bin Laden in an icicled cliff, or a wolf biting a deer in a stain in the ceiling, or a brontosaur in the frosted front
window … I mean, I see them too, sort of, but only after he goes to great pains to point them out. Is Nile on something?

I’m starting to feel a bit better, to eat more, and now have an URGENT need for a cigarette. For a carton. Must put in another request.

Nile asked me today how I knew the “vet” from Ste-Mad & I said what makes him think I know her & he said that when he was getting me my sketchbook & glasses he saw a picture of her. I hemmed & hawed (I’m not a very good actress), then simply said it was none of his business.

I’ve been snooping around a lot (I’m a terrible snoop, my worst fault, according to my grandmother) & I should stop before Nile catches me in the act & strangles me or something.

I just found some things in Nile’s duffle bag. As in criminal things. VERY scary …

More later, I hear some noises out front. Like Gervais’s plow. That’s it for now & maybe forever.

   IX