Part 11 (2/2)
”Um, everything's fine. How are you girls?”
”What?” The roar in the background sounded like a jet lifting off.
”How's everyone?”
”We're all lovely. What are you doing, dear? It must be beastly late there.”
Don flushed. ”Oh, nothing much. Couldn't sleep.”
There came a long, humming pause. Mich.e.l.le said, ”What are you doing, then? Surely you must be doing something. I don't hear the telly.”
”No, no television. I'm reading-”
”Reading! I'm shocked. Anything good?”
He sweated now. His pulse throbbed in his ears. Thousands of miles away and he felt no less guilty than a boy caught in the act of some dastardly mischief. ”Oh, nothing good. Just the usual. Rocks.” He laughed weakly. ”Isn't it always about rocks?”
More static, then, ”Yes, except when it's not.” Her tone was unreadable over the connection. ”Beastly hot here. We're on the cruise, by the way. We docked in Istanbul this morning. Holly's burned to a crisp-she's keeping below decks for a day or two. No air conditioning, can you believe it?”
”It's a crime.”
”What?” Mich.e.l.le shouted.
”I'm sorry to hear it,” he shouted back.
”Are you sure you're quite all right, love?”
”Why wouldn't I be fine?”
”No reason. Everything's jolly, then? No problems?”
”Problems? Heavens, no dear. Don't worry about me. Enjoy your trip.”
”I've got to go. Give Kurt my love. I'll call you from town, later.” Mich.e.l.le disconnected while Don was fumbling his goodbyes.
He stared at the mess of books and papers spread everywhere and shook his head. ”Good lord, whatever Kurt's got is contagious. Don, old bean, you need your head examined.” He put everything away and kept a couple of the latter editions for bedside reading. He locked the door behind him, chuckling in retrospect over his foolishness. A bit of domestic skullduggery had never killed anyone.
Much later, he paused to wonder why she'd called him at that hour, knowing full well he'd be fast asleep.
Don saw to the record-keeping, Kurt performed the hefting and toting. As Don sardonically pointed out, occasionally the lad's brawn was good for something besides swelling his collar. By noon they'd ama.s.sed an impressive stack of boxes. Unfortunately, they'd but scratched the surface of the project.
”At this rate, it'll only take another five or six months and we'll have all your junk b.u.t.toned up and ready to go,” Kurt said, wiping his brow on a beer bottle. He was into his second six-pack of Rolling Rock and getting mellow. He'd stripped to a pair of running shorts and a sleeveless tee s.h.i.+rt. His neck and shoulders flushed deep red from exertion and alcohol. That's when it happened, the lightning bolt of inspiration that ruined Don's day. ”Say, Dad. I think tomorrow we should take the day and go camping like we talked about the other night. I haven't gone since-well, since me and Holly were kids.” He nodded, animating as the notion took root. ”I've a few more days of vacation. We can fish for trout up the creek, roast marshmallows; the whole bit.”
Don swallowed bile. When he became capable of speech, he said, ”I hoped you were joking. Where on earth did you dream up this c.o.c.kamamie scheme?”
”Exactly,” Kurt said. ”I dreamed about camping.”
”What the blazes-”
”I was in grade school again, nine or ten. It was late summer and you and Mom and me were on the hill behind the house. You'd caught some fish and Mom was frying them in a skillet. Then you took me hiking into the woods. We were hunting for rabbits or something-you had on your old Elmer Fudd hat with the dumb ear flaps, and carried that single shot .22 we used to keep lying around. Whatever happened to that rifle, anyway?”
”I don't recall. Rusting away in the barn, I suppose. Hunting's not for me, you know that.” Guns made Don nervous. The idea of shooting an animal made him slightly sick to his stomach. His youngest brother, Tom, hunted squirrels as a boy when they were growing up in Connecticut and it always disgusted Don to no end.
”We got separated. In the dream. I wandered through the woods and started getting panicky, like someone or something was watching me, chasing me. That's how dreams are, right? There were kids playing in a meadow. I called to them for help, but they didn't hear me. They were dressed in dirty pajamas and playing near some big rocks. The pjs kinda make sense since the kids were bald like those poor tykes in cancer wards. They sang a nursery rhyme that I couldn't make out and when I got close, they ran behind the rocks and disappeared. Then you put your hand on my shoulder and I woke up. End of dream. Thing is, I've been dreaming about this area for a few months now, going back to the days me and Holly ran wild. Once or twice a week, I get these.”
”And that makes you want to go camping?” Don suspected his son's sudden interest in exploring had everything to do with their recent discoveries in the attic. His hands shook.
”Nostalgia, Pop. It reminded me of when I went exploring around here. Holly tagged along and...who was that kid? One of the farmboys who lived around here I think. There's this enormous tree in the hills back there. I ever tell you about the tree? Petrified wood.” Kurt rapped his fist on the wall. His manner seemed more manic than usual; his eyes darted and he paced. ”Yep, and we found some other things. A shed, some fire pits, pieces of rusted metal like the doors on a box car. h.e.l.l, Lyle claimed he saw some skulls, but he couldn't find the place again. Crazy.”
Nostalgia, my eye, Don thought with mounting unease. ”There were some logging camps in the hills. Many, many years ago. They shut down before we moved into the area. Sheriff Camby said a few tramps lived way back there in tarpaper shacks and lean-tos like Snuffy Smith up until the '70s. Mainly Vietnam vets who couldn't adjust to the civilian life. Everything's gone by now.”
”I know I've seen those rocks in the photos. I wonder if Aunt Yvonne knew about an Indian burial ground or something. Maybe I can find them again.”
”Holy cripes. You're really convincing me to go camping with that malarkey.”
”It'll be fun. We've got nice weather all week. Call Uncle Argyle; he's not doing anything.”
”I don't know-”
”You owe me for all this backbreaking labor. Besides, if you're nice, I'll help you move more of this stuff next weekend. What do you say?”
There wasn't anything to say. Don felt like a rat in a trap. He rang Argyle and relayed the invitation, hoping the old boy would beg off. Argyle prided himself the consummate outdoorsman and had indeed spent a good deal of his life tromping in the wilderness. He said he'd be thrilled to ”wallow about the brush and bivouac for a night in the wild” and promised to conscript Hank to serve as a porter. Ten in the morning sound about right? Don's fate was sealed just that quickly.
Good grief, don't be such a ninny! He slapped his hand on the table. You're afraid of the dark; won't go into the cellar to save your life; avoid sleeping in your own bed if you can humanly avoid it. My word, Don. Are you the same fellow who once caved the Dahl Sultan with a miner's lamp and a knapsack? What's done you in? The self-motivation didn't help much. Dread remained, a clammy vise on the back of his neck. He hoped he wouldn't disgrace himself by succ.u.mbing to hysterics or wetting his pants. To be on the safe side he packed three gas lamps and a bottle of Valium he'd saved as insurance against Mich.e.l.le's threatened hike into the Appalachians. At least that trek never materialized, praise the G.o.ds.
CHAPTER SEVEN.
The Backyard Expedition (Now) The hike was predictably delayed-Argyle didn't bother to inform Hank of the camping trip the day before, thus they arrived two hours late. Worse, Kurt was notoriously disorganized, while Argyle was the polar opposite; the type who suffered near paralysis from dithering over the most trivial detail. Come noon, the Miller kitchen proved a disaster area of loose camping gear, sleeping rolls and various articles of mismatched clothing.
”Gads, people!” Don brandished a sock hat and a pair of insulated gloves. ”We are not sailing to the Antarctic. The weather forecast is sixty with a low of forty-five. It isn't even going to rain. And if you think I'm walking more than a mile, you're off your rockers. Let's get moving before nightfall, eh?” The idea of spending a night in the dark still made his stomach roil and his palms sweat. Since the situation appeared to be inescapable, the sooner they got started, the sooner they'd come home.
No one bothered to answer him, but they began to pack more quickly nonetheless and by mid-afternoon the small company trundled up the hill behind the house and followed the trail along the creek bank. It had rained the previous evening and the gra.s.s soaked the cuffs of their pants.
”Does the county own all this?” Hank said, sweeping his arm in a vague arc. ”Or is it private land?” His broad face shone with sweat.
”Some of this is ours,” Don said. ”Darned if I know where the lines are, though. Somebody else owns a big piece of this area-Goodwyn or one those other lumber companies. Goodwyn owns mineral rights to every parcel in this county from what I understand; it's in the fine print on the deed.”
”Crooked b.a.s.t.a.r.ds,” Argyle said and spat.
”I think the state controls a lot of this,” Kurt said. ”You'll notice the logging is selective and there's some prime areas completely untouched. I bet the boys at the capitol are saving it for a rainy day.”
”Ever walk all the way to the source?” Argyle said, indicating the creek. He wore heavy lace-up boots, a wool coat and a soft cap and carried a madrone staff that he constantly used to flip rocks and sticks. Don couldn't help but see the truant schoolboy masquerading as a white-haired old man.
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