Copper River

23

Things did not go well.

From the start, it was clear that Charlie resented being left behind, that in her mind Cork had no authority over her, and that she’d just as soon spit on Dina. She slumped on the sofa with her arms locked across her chest and refused to be coaxed or cajoled into civility.

“How about some breakfast?” Dina offered cheerfully from behind the kitchen counter. “What do you guys want? Eggs? I make a mean omelet.”

“I’m fine with cereal and juice,” Cork said.

“Come on, let me impress you. How about you, Charlie?” She pointed a long-handled wooden spoon at the girl. “I don’t know where you were hiding, but I’m willing to bet it wasn’t a bedand-breakfast. What’ll you have? I can make almost anything.”

Charlie kept her back to Dina and addressed the front door. “You wouldn’t have caught me except I slipped in the mud.”

“That was last night. This is this morning, a whole new day. Let’s start over. What do you say?”

“I could beat you in a race any day.”

Cork watched Dina as she assessed the back of Charlie’s head and flipped through the whole registry of possible responses. Her eyes became hard green pellets.

“You’re fast, Charlie,” she said, “but not as fast as me.”

“Right. You’re, like, what? A hundred years old?”

“It doesn’t matter how old I am. You run, I’ll catch you.”

“Fine,” Charlie snapped. “Race me.”

Dina left the kitchen, still holding the wooden spoon. She walked purposefully across the floor until she stood directly in Charlie’s dour line of vision. Charlie lifted her eyes, which were full of defiant fire.

“I’m not going to race you, Charlie. We’ve already been there. The thing that’s important for you to understand now is there’s no reason to run. You’re safe. We’re not going to let anything happen to you.”

“Safe? Because of you two? Grandma Moses and”-she cast a desultory look at Cork-“the gimp? If I believed that, I’d be so screwed.”

Dina paused, giving a few moments of weight to the girl’s words, evidence that she’d heard. Then she said, “One of the things I’m sometimes paid to do is protect people. I’m very good at it.”

“Yeah? Bite me.”

Dina tossed the spoon toward Cork, who managed a decent catch. “Stand up,” she said to the girl.

Charlie stayed firmly rooted on the sofa.

“Stand up and hit me.”

Surprise replaced the girl’s glare. “What?”

“You’ve been in fights before?”

“Sure. Lots.”

“Ever hit anybody?”

“Of course.”

“Then stand up and hit me.”

“You think I won’t?”

“I think you can’t.”

Charlie launched herself from the sofa. She went straight at Dina, who nimbly sidestepped. Charlie spun, her right fist in a fast, angry sweep. Dina caught her arm, twisted, and sent Charlie down. The girl was so fast, she seemed to be back on her feet even before she’d hit the floor. This time she attacked with a kick. Dina danced back and the girl’s foot connected with air. Charlie’s own inertia caused her to lose her balance and she fell squarely on her butt. This time she sat there, breathing hard and staring at the floor.

“So,” Dina said dryly above her, “how about a little breakfast after that workout?”

“I’m not hungry.” Charlie picked herself up and stomped toward the guest room at the back of the cabin.

After he heard the door slam, Cork said, “You didn’t exactly win her heart.”

Dina grabbed the wooden spoon from him. “All right, maybe it was a little over the top, but she pissed me off, okay. I didn’t like her attitude. The important thing is that if the shit ever hits the fan, she’ll understand I can handle it. By the way, how’s the leg this morning, gimp?”

“Let’s just hope the shit doesn’t hit the fan. I’d be so screwed.”

“How about that omelet now?” She headed toward the kitchen.

“If I said no, would you beat me up?”

“Don’t test me.”

He watched her work in the kitchen, such an everyday kind of thing. Chopping mushrooms and onions, grating cheese, beating eggs. By the end whatever irritation she’d felt as a result of Charlie seemed to have vanished and she hummed softly to herself. The omelet she made, with additional hints of garlic and basil, was marvelous.

“Thanks,” he said as he finished his last bite.

“For the gourmet meal? You’re welcome.”

“And for coming.” He wiped his mouth with his napkin. “And for being willing to forgo Jacoby’s money. After all, I’m worth half a million dead, no questions asked.”

She scooped the final bit of omelet onto her fork. “Don’t think it’s not tempting.”

“I owe you an apology. In Minnesota, I misjudged you, then I used you.”

“You had your reasons. Good ones. If I had a family like yours, I’d do whatever it took to keep them safe.” She finished eating and dabbed the napkin to her lips. “More coffee?”

“No, thanks. Let me do the dishes?”

“With that leg? Dude, you’d be so screwed. I’ll take care of things. You just sit.”

“Sitting is all I’ve been doing. But I could sure use a shower.”

“Go on. I’ll keep an eye on Charlie.”

Outside, the day felt good. The storm had washed the air clean, and the sunlight and meditative quiet gave the morning a hopeful feel. The ground was littered with leaves and small branches torn from the trees. Rainwater filled every depression. Cork made his way toward Cabin 3, the tip of his cane leaving small perfect circles beside his deep shoe prints. As he came to the steps of his cabin, he paused and studied the wet ground. He knelt, moved aside a big russet oak leaf, and saw clearly what had been partially obscured. A paw print, one that had not been there the day before.

The cougar had returned.

Cork followed the tracks, easily done because the muddy ground held the impressions well. The animal had circled his cabin. It had also visited the locked trash bin, where scratches indicated the big cat had tried to claw its way in. He picked up the trail again at Thor’s Lodge and followed the tracks to the shed where his car was parked. The hood of the yellow-green Dart was covered with muddy paw prints, as were the windows. The cat had been very interested in the car. Cork wondered if it had smelled the blood that soaked the seat inside.

One hungry animal, he figured.

Although the presence of the wild cat was a concern, Cork discovered something else that was far more disturbing: boot prints. They were all around the Dart, particularly deep on the side that was pocked with bullet holes. Cork studied the waffle pattern of the prints, which had been made by boots much too large to belong to anyone at Jewell’s place. Unlike the cougar’s prints, they weren’t filled with rainwater. They’d been made sometime after the rain had stopped. The tracks ended at the edge of the shed, a vantage from which the cabins could be easily observed. They were even deeper there than beside the car. Whoever it was, he’d spent a while standing, sinking into the ground, watching.

Cork followed the boot prints away from the resort into the trees and found a trail that led south through the woods. Whoever had been interested in the car and the cabins had come and gone along this trail.

Cork leaned on his cane. His leg throbbed from the effort he’d put into the tracking. A hungry animal he could understand. A man in boots was something else.