Dead Silver

3

"Good God, Renee," I said, regretting my grumpy hello. "Seems like light-years."

"A lot of ordinary years, for sure. I think the last time I saw you, you were about to leave for college, and your family had a backyard barbecue party."

My recollection wasn't that clear, but I trusted hers. She was several years younger than me, so she must have been about ten then. She'd be in her early thirties now.

I hadn't really grown up with Renee. Besides the age difference, our only point of contact was that our parents were acquainted, and that had ended when her folks got divorced and she'd moved to Seattle with her mother. My recollections of her were sketchy, mostly just images of a skinny, dark-haired girl. But she was sweet, solemn, and gentle in a way that wasn't just childish shyness-it was her nature.

"I'm here in Helena, for Daddy's funeral," she said.

"I saw the notice. I'm sorry." The sentiment was trite, but I meant it.

"It's a mercy, really. I don't think he'd been aware toward the end, except maybe of pain." She sounded a little shaky, which was understandable. Mercy or not, losing a parent was losing a parent.

"Is there something I can do?" I said.

She made a slight sighing sound, like she was frustrated.

"I hate to admit it, Hugh, but that's why I called. I feel guilty, barging in on you and asking for help right off. But there's so much going on, I'm overwhelmed."

"I know that feeling. And believe me, you're not barging in on anything."

"I was hoping you'd still be a nice guy," she murmured.

Still? I thought. I couldn't recall ever being anything of the kind to her, but it was good to hear her say it.

"Daddy never sold our old house, and I couldn't bring myself to do it while he was alive," she said. "But I want to now, and it needs some work. I heard that's what you're doing these days."

I grimaced; I was probably going to have to let her down.

"I am, Renee, but I'm committed to another job for the next couple months," I said. "Are you talking something major?"

"It's hard to describe. But no, I don't think it would take long."

Homeowners rarely thought otherwise.

"Well, how about if I swing by and look it over?" I said. "I could give you an idea of what you might need done."

"Really? You're sure it wouldn't be too much trouble?" I could hear the relief in her voice.

"I was heading that direction anyway," I said, which wasn't strictly true. But I was glad for an excuse to abandon my chores, and my curiosity had awakened about her, her father, and the situation. "Call it an hour or so?"

"Perfect."

I was just starting to move the phone from my ear to its cradle when I heard her say, "Hugh?" in that same anxious tone as before.

"Yeah?"

There came a pause that seemed longer than it was.

"Thanks. See you soon," she exhaled, and ended the connection.

I had a feeling that wasn't what she'd started out to say.

I hadn't forgotten my encounter with Mr. Bobcat. Before I left the cabin, I got out the loudest, most powerful pistol I owned: a.45-caliber government-issue Colt 1911 that my father had brought back from the Korean War. It had seen a lot of use; the bluing was worn and the action was limber, well broken in. I knew he'd been in a fair amount of combat, but he'd said very little about all that; I didn't know if he'd ever killed anyone with it, or if it had even been his. Still, I had a feeling that the usage hadn't all been on the firing range. I didn't shoot it often-a couple of times a year, for the hell of it-and I'd cleaned it not long ago. I checked to make sure the clip was loaded, the chamber was empty, and the safety was on, and carried it out to my pickup truck, a '68 GMC that was yet another of the valuable gifts that my old man had passed on to me.

The afternoon was waning as I started down the narrow dirt road of Stumpleg Gulch toward Helena. It was late March, the time of year when spring was encroaching but winter still clung to a hold, and the two conspired together to turn the outdoors into a tedious, unwinnable mud-wrestling battle. The roads were covered with a layer of self-perpetuating muck, snow that had melted and refrozen dozens of times and all the dirt that got trapped in the process. If you bothered to wash your vehicle, it would only highlight the greasy black splotches that reappeared as soon as your wheels started turning, like shooed flies flitting back to a picnic lunch.

The snowfields that blanketed the higher mountains were taking on a worn look, and the buds on the trees lower down were thickening. Patches of ice clung to the shoreline of Canyon Ferry Lake, but most of its solid freeze-over had broken up, and its miles-long expanse reflected the slaty gray sky in the afternoon light. Soon there'd come a couple of days when the sky cleared for hours at a time, the temperature climbed enough to make you break a light sweat, and you could almost feel the grass and foliage greening around you. Leaves would start competing with pine needles for sunlight, and insects would start tormenting mammals and delighting fish.

Then, just about when you figured that winter was done for, you'd wake up early one morning to six inches of fresh snow driven by a howling, subzero wind doing its best to tear your roof off.

That was a quality of this country that I respected to the point of reverence. If you took anything for granted, you were likely to end up regretting it.