White Lies (14 page)

Jack complimented her on how she looked, which made her light up. He took her suitcase and stuffed it in the Porsche's tiny trunk.

“Pretty impressive wheels,” she said.

He opened the door for her. “320-horsepower 3.4-liter flat six. I'm a car guy.”

“And a gentleman,” she said, slipping inside.

Katrina had never been in a Porsche before—the closest thing would have been Shawn's Lexus—and she quickly realized why people who had the money bought one. The engine purred with effortless ease, and the ride down Wheeler Street was smooth as silk, making any other car she'd been in seem a laboring beast in comparison. They made a tight right onto Ski Hill Drive. The tires bit into the road while the snug sports seat held her firmly in place. When they made a right onto Highway 2, Jack kept to the speed limit as they passed a Howard Johnson and a Best Western and all the other hotels positioned at the westernmost point of town to be the first to greet visitors coming in from Seattle. As soon as they passed Icicle Road and there was nothing around them except hills and trees, he stepped on the gas. The sports car bulleted forward.

“Any preference for music?” Jack asked her, taking a pair of Ray-Bans clipped to the sun visor and putting them on.

“What do you have?”

He nodded at the digital interface on the dash. It was touch-screen and synced with his iPod, which he told her was stowed away in the center console. Pretty neat. It made her want to trade in her Honda. She scrolled through the exhaustive list of artists.
He had a little bit of everything and a lot of classic rock, which suited her mood. She tapped a Buffalo Springfield song, and the opening chords came through the speakers.

She said, “So this guy—Charlie?—is meeting us at the cabin when?”

“Supposed to be there at nine. We should be right on time.”

The morning was crisp and blue, the sun a gold coin burning brightly in the east. The countryside was sprayed with a fiery blast of autumn colors: a field of orange huckleberry bushes, mustard-yellow alpine larches and aspen, deep-red vine maple. The towering sugar-peaked mountains remained rooted in the background, unmoving, millennium-old monoliths seemingly impervious to human concepts of time and speed.

“So you must be doing well to buy toys like this,” she said, patting the leather seat of the sports car.

“I'm actually between jobs right now.” He shifted to fifth and overtook a green sedan. They must have been doing more than seventy miles an hour, though Katrina felt perfectly safe, which was due either to the well-engineered car or Jack's assertive driving. Probably a little bit of both.

“What did you do before?” she asked. “No—let me guess. Bank robber? International assassin? Treasure hunter?”

“Nothing so glamorous, I'm afraid. I used to own a small gym. A ring, some punching bags, weights. When I retired from that, I made some decent investments. They paid off well.”

Katrina was slightly disappointed by the mundane revelation. Jack had been an enigma to her. Uniquely handsome, larger-than-life personality, a drifter. All the ingredients for intrigue and mystery. The fact he was an ordinary guy with an ordinary background seemed anticlimactic. Almost like finding out your favorite movie star was a foot shorter in real life. Nevertheless, she had to admit she was partly relieved. There was no future with a man who lived a secret life, but there was with one who paid taxes, obeyed laws, and perhaps even went to church.

Future?
she thought, feeling a warm buzz inside her that was equally wonderful and frightening.

“Do you go to church?” she asked.

He glanced at her. She could see a tiny version of herself reflected in his mirrored lenses. “That's out of the blue.”

“It just popped into my head.”

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

“Catholic? Protestant?”

“Whichever one goes to midnight Mass on Christmas.”

She smiled. Two out of three wasn't bad.

“So you owned a gym,” she said, wanting to glean some more information out of him. “Does that mean you know how to box?”

“I'm no Mike Tyson.” He held up a tattooed forearm. “I'd have to get one of these on my face if I was. But sure, I box. Started with karate, actually. Did some judo. Then got into kickboxing and boxing.”

“A fighter? I never would have guessed.” He had the physique for it, no question. But he seemed too refined, too articulate and worldly to once have been involved in such brutal sports.

“Don't underestimate anyone,” he told her. “I learned that the hard way.”

“But why fighting?”

In a thick Rocky Balboa accent he said, “Because I can't sing or dance.” They laughed. He asked her, “What about you? Have you always been a teacher?”

She nodded. “I love kids. Always have.” For a moment a cloud passed in front of her sunny disposition as that nesting instinct took hold inside her once again. The one thing she wanted most in life—a child of her own—still seemed so impossibly far away.

“Even the older ones?” Jack asked. “They don't drive you crazy?”

“You just have to know how to handle them. It's not their fault they're teenagers.” On the stereo “For What It's Worth” finished and was followed by “Mr. Soul.” “You know what? I don't even know where you're from.”

“You're very inquisitive this morning.”

“I'm sorry. I—”

Jack dismissed her apology with a wave, took off his sunglasses,
and jumped into his life story. He was born in Colorado to an Ojibwa mother and a Caucasian lumberjack father, who'd been a violent drunk. At the age of two, Jack was diagnosed with leukemia. For the next few years he grew up in a hospital ward where, day after day, he was subjected to the crying of mothers over their dying children. “It was pure grief,” he said, uncharacteristically subdued. “I mean, there was grief everywhere. I learned not to make friends because they would probably be dead the next day or week. But I beat the cancer. I think I must have been about five when I left the place. I was the only one in my ward who survived.”

“God, Jack.”

“You think it would get better after that, right? Things could only get better? Well, they didn't. Not really. My mom and pop fought all the time. Screaming, calling the cops on each other, you name it. Sometimes it got ugly. I mean, bloody ugly. For seventeen years that's pretty much all I heard. I'd been hearing grief all my life, I guess you could say. But if there's a bright side to any of it, it's that their constant fighting was the impetus that got me into karate. I needed to get out of the house. More than that, I needed to get all my anger out. The therapy became an addiction. When I got a bit older, I started getting into tournaments, some legal, some not. I made some money, opened a gym. You know the rest.”

“I had no idea,” Katrina said, breaking the trance she'd been under. “I didn't mean to pry.”

“Don't worry about it,” he said with a wink. “It was a long time ago. I was a kid. I'm as good as new now.” That trademark wink of his, she thought, was as much a part of him as his long hair and tattoos. It made an intimidating rock of a man approachable, the way a popular uncle could always break the ice with his nieces and nephews. It also summed up his outgoing personality more than any words could, and it erased any awkwardness she'd felt about pressuring him into revealing his past—a past he might want to keep private.

“Did you like it?” she asked. “The fighting?”

“Quick and easy answer, no. I didn't like beating up on guys. Didn't like the destruction. I'm a sensitive guy, believe it or not.
When I saw an opponent after a fight, all bloodied up and everything, I felt bad for him, really bad. I did it because I was good at it.”

“But you left it.”

“Doing something you don't like for a bit is okay, I think. You learn from it. Learn what you like and don't like. But then you move on, take that knowledge with you, and apply it to a different situation. If you don't, well, if you don't that's a little sad. You got one shot at life. Why waste it? I'd rather live my life regretting certain choices I made rather than regretting choices I
never
made, if you get what I mean?”

She thought she did.

“I have to tell you though,” he went on. “I don't usually get caught up talking about the past. So if you have any more questions, I suggest you ask them now while I'm on a roll.”

“Just one. Why Leavenworth? Why are you here?”

“Like I said. I was just passing through.”

“Where are you going?”

He shrugged. “Haven't decided.”

Katrina wanted a better answer than that, but he'd just revealed so much about himself, while she'd yet to tell him anything about her past. She figured it would be best to wait for another time. And perhaps, on some level, she didn't want him to tell her what his plans were, because there was a strong possibility, given how short a time they'd known each other, those plans didn't include her.

That thought shook her, hard.

Twenty minutes later they passed a fun-looking place called Squirrel Tree Resort, then turned right onto State Route 207. They took this all the way up into Lake Wenatchee State Park, where they turned down some rutted back roads, which were definitely not made for low-riding sports cars. Eventually they pulled up to the A-frame log cabin. It was in a little disrepair, but it felt like a cabin should feel, as opposed to the multimillion-dollar cottages that were popping up all over the country—or the alpine villa, for that matter, which Jack had tried to talk her into renting.

Jack pulled up beside a silver pickup truck parked out front, and they got out of the car. Katrina breathed deeply the fresh mountain air. She didn't think she'd ever tire of doing that. An elderly man dressed in black cords and a black turtleneck and leaning on a polished cane limped out the front door. His thinning gray hair was cut close to the scalp, and a few liver spots stood out on his skin. He peered at them through rimless eyeglasses. Katrina's first thought was of Steve Jobs in his last few months. “You made it,” he announced, then broke into a coughing fit.

“We did,” Jack said, crossing the distance between them and shaking hands. “I'm Jack Reeves. This here is Katrina Burton.”

“Howdy,” the man said. “I'm Charlie. I don't got much time. Got to get me to a goddamn funeral. Seems like I'm going to more ‘n' more of ‘em each year. Soon it's gonna be me. Who's gonna come? No one, cause they're all fuckin' dead. But come in, I'll give you the tour. Don't mind your shoes.”

The cabin was rougher around the edges than the Internet advertisement led prospective renters to believe, but Katrina liked it. A wagon-wheel chandelier hung from the cathedral ceiling above the open living/dining room, which featured a stone fireplace, an uncomfortable-looking patched sofa, and a rocking chair with ottoman. Mounted on one wall was a stuffed deer head, its beady eyes staring off into nothingness. The kitchen contained the bare necessities: scarred fridge, ancient stove, stainless-steel sink, and two sets of cupboards. Katrina poked her head in the bathroom and discovered an unremarkable toilet and sink along with an old-fashioned, claw-footed tub, which made her think momentarily of her bathroom back in Leavenworth, and the creep who'd been looking in. A narrow flight of dangerously steep steps led to the second-floor loft. It was stuffed to capacity with a queen bed and a small night table on which sat a blinking alarm clock. The smell of old wood and old blankets hung over everything, musty but not unpleasant.

“This little baby's been in the family for years,” Charlie told them. “Grandpa built it, oh, say, must've been just after the Depression. I came up here all the time as a wee pecker, and when
the folks went knockin' on heaven's door, it came to me. That's Bob Dylan, ain't it? Anyway, it's the only thing they left me worth two shits. I don't got no brothers or sisters. Glad not to.” He whipped out a handkerchief to smother a coughing fit that left him looking shaky. “Fuckin' cold,” he explained. “That's why I'm renting. We live in Skykomish. The missus don't want me out here in the fall or winter. No insulation. No central heating. Holy shit. Thinks I'll get pneumonia. Get yourself pneumonia, she says, and you best go sleep in your grave ‘cause you'll be dead soon enough. Goddamn women. Can't stand ‘em. No offense, ma'am.”

“None taken.” Katrina handed him the one hundred and fifty she'd withdrawn from the ATM last night.

Charlie counted it, then frowned. “Didn't I mention the deposit?”

“What deposit?” Jack asked.

“Hell if I didn't,” Charlie said reflectively, scratching his bald head. “Can't trust my memory no more. I need another hundred deposit. Never used to ask, but last year I rented her out to two college boys over Memorial Day weekend. Said they just wanted to do some fishin', hikin'. I don't care, I said. Just as long as I get my money. You know what them kids end up doin'? Havin' a big old party. Twenty friends, I reckon. Helluva mess. Goddamn beer spilled over the floor, cigarette butts everywhere you looked, bottles behind every rock ‘n' tree. Probably pissed wherever them little peckers wanted to, I bet. Kids nowadays got no damn respect for nothing. Not even the dead. Am I right? Sure I am. Thank the Lord they didn't burn the fucker down. But I learned my lesson, I'll tell you that. Don't rent to no snot-nosed kids no more. That's why all the questions last night.”

“So no parties, huh?” Jack said lightly but cautiously.

“Hell no! But you look like a respectable fella, am I right?”

“The best.” Jack took two fifties from his wallet and gave them to the old man. “All we have in mind is a little romantic weekend. Here you go. One hundred for the deposit.”

Charlie took the money and stuffed it in his pocket. He gave them a final, lengthy appraisal before handing over a single key
and bidding farewell. He limped down to his pickup truck, hiked himself inside, and drove off with a toot of the horn.