Devil's Pass (2 page)

Webb was only seventeen, but his time on his own made him feel a lot older.

That's why he knew that when the woman floated a twenty-dollar bill into his guitar case, there was going to be trouble.

TWO

Webb guessed that the girl had not been with the guy for very long. Otherwise she would have known better than to show appreciation for anything another guy was doing, even if that other guy was a scruffy seventeen-year-old in a ratty Rolling Stones T-shirt.

Guys like her boyfriend didn't like any kind of competition, and guys like her boyfriend generally didn't like skinny musician types like Webb, whose hair was long enough to pull back in a ponytail.

She smiled at Webb. “That was cool,” she said. “Thanks.”

Webb kept his head down.

He wondered who the target would be: him or the drunk beside him. The drunk was a better bet. Much better—from the black-haired guy's view—to pick on a drunk rather than a kid.

Webb thought of hitting the guitar strings hard, ripping into a wicked set of chords he'd come up with in a park in Toronto. Sure, a successful distraction would save him or the drunk, but someone would still have to pay. Someone very, very attractive.

So he remained silent and stared at the twenty-dollar bill as if it was a stick of dynamite in his open guitar case.

The drunk broke the silence.

“Hey,” he said, pointing at the twenty. “I should be a rock star too. Money and hot chicks.”

Inside, Webb groaned. The street bum had lit the fuse.

Webb leaned forward and set his guitar in the case.

Normally, he'd empty the change out first. He hated the thought of anything scratching his Gibson. But he wanted it in the case before he stood.

Webb made it to his feet as the black-haired guy reached down and yanked the homeless guy up by his collar. Webb kicked the lid closed and shoved the case down the sidewalk with his foot.

By then, the big black-haired guy had pushed the street bum up against the wall.

“Look, you piece of dog crap,” the black-haired guy hissed, “nobody talks about my girlfriend like that.”

The woman rushed up and put a hand on her boyfriend's shoulder. “Brent.”

He whirled on her, and the look in his eyes was something Webb was familiar with. Not that a person ever gets used to a look like that.

“Shut up, Stephanie.”

“Hey!” Webb said, drawing the guy's attention. A quick image hit him. A matador, waving a red cape at a dangerous bull. “The guy's drunk. He barely has a clue what's happening.”

“You shut up too,” Brent said. His tone said more than the words. Like he'd been hoping for an excuse to turn on Webb.

“Sure,” Webb said, raising his hands, palms up. “No problem.” A new image hit him: a dog showing its belly so that a bigger dog would leave it alone.

Webb looked over his shoulder at the people who'd been happy to listen to him busking. They were drifting away, uncomfortable and helpless.

“We're all good, right?” Webb said to Brent. “This dude's going to apologize, right?”

The street bum nodded. “Yeah, man. Didn't mean no harm.”

Webb hoped it was enough to calm Brent down.

“All right then,” Brent said. “Next time I won't be so nice about it.”

Brent put his arm around his girlfriend and walked her away.

Webb didn't feel much like playing anymore. He opened the guitar case and took out the guitar, checking the bottom of it for scratches, hoping he hadn't been too quick putting it in the case.

The guitar was good.

And there was the twenty, along with a handful of change.

He scooped it all up. The street bum was still there, a confused smile on his face.

“You hungry?” Webb asked as he put the Gibson back in the case.

“Always.”

Webb didn't give the street bum the money. That would be like putting another bottle in his hands.

“Come with me,” Webb said. “I'll buy you a burger somewhere.”

THREE

In the air, as the Canadian North flight descended into Norman Wells, Webb felt calm and peaceful. Something about the vastness of the unbroken expanse of green trees below had given him a sense that there were still things so big that humans couldn't reach out and spoil them.

Webb had to wait for most of the passengers to leave the airplane, because he'd taken his guitar on board, and he needed the flight attendant to get it from wherever she'd stored it during the flight.

He had the case strapped on his back as he walked down the steps of the big jet. Norman Wells had a small airport, and airplanes here didn't pull up to a jet bridge connected to a terminal.

Webb enjoyed the feeling of sunshine on his face and was glad this wasn't the middle of the winter. He couldn't imagine what it would have been like to walk across the runway if it was minus forty with a howling wind.

As he stepped into the airport, a man walked toward Webb, giving him a small smile.

“You must be Jim Webb,” the man said, extending his hand. “I'm George.”

Webb had expected someone to meet him.

“I'm Webb.” Webb accepted the handshake. “Nice to meet you.”

George was barely taller than Webb, with dark hair streaked with gray. He was about the age Webb's father would have been, if he'd lived. One of the letters in Webb's pocket had mentioned that George was Sahtu Dene, one of the First Nations of this area of the Northwest Arctic.

“Jim Webb. Named after the songwriter?” George asked.

Webb was impressed. The other Jim Webb had won Grammy Awards and had written for artists like Elvis Presley and Frank Sinatra. A song by the other Jim Webb—“By the Time I Get to Phoenix”—was the third-most-performed song between 1940 and 1990. Webb knew this because he had learned it from his dad, a man who had loved music, who had been happy to give Webb a first name with such heritage. He had been the one to teach Webb to play guitar as soon as Webb's fingers were big enough to put pressure on the frets.

“Yes, I was named after Jimmy Webb,” Webb said. “Not a lot of people know about him.”

“Your dad must love music. Like me.”

No point bringing the mood down and telling George that Webb's dad was dead. Or that the guitar Webb carried was not the Gibson J-45 that his dad had given him.

George pointed to the guitar case strapped on Webb's back. “Much as we both love music, you'd better want to carry that really bad. We don't leave anything on the trail. Ever. If we can't burn it, we carry it out. That applies to garbage. And guitars.”

“It's coming with me,” Webb said. “I've got it wrapped in plastic inside the case. It won't get wet if it rains.”

George nodded.

Webb liked the fact that George didn't say something like “Are you sure?” Webb hated being treated like a child.

“Maybe then,” George said, “you could find room in your case for some extra rope. Never hurts, you know, to have extra rope.”

It was Webb's turn to nod, and George grunted with satisfaction.

Webb also liked that George spoke quietly, like a man who didn't have anything to prove to anybody. Webb liked that George's hands were scarred and leathery and that a couple of his fingers were bent and twisted. Hands that had been outdoors a lot, which probably meant that George had learned to survive in the wilderness. That was a good quality in a man who was going to guide Webb through desolate mountain ranges.

George followed Webb to the luggage area where Webb caught sight of Stephanie and Brent. The peace that Webb felt from being in the serenity of the Northwest Territories dropped away as surely as the plane had dropped to earth. When Webb saw that Stephanie had a new welt across her face, it hit him like the sudden jarring of wheels on a scorching runway.

Webb saw Brent duck into the washroom, leaving his girlfriend standing alone as the luggage belt lurched into motion.

It was a small airport with big windows that let in a lot of light. That should have made Webb feel cheerful, but it didn't. Because it was a small airport, he'd only have a minute with her, if he was lucky.

“George,” Webb said, “can you excuse me for a minute?”

George nodded.

Webb moved to stand beside her, pretending he was just another passenger, staring at the luggage belt as if concentrating would bring the suitcases out quicker.

“It won't get better,” Webb said to her. “No matter what you think.”

Stephanie glanced at him like she was surprised to see him, although he was sure she knew he had been on the same plane. She had done a good job of ignoring him at the Yellowknife airport after all the passengers had cleared security, and before they'd left the terminal for the airplane.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” she said. But he knew it was a lie as soon as she lifted her hand to her face.

“People don't change,” Webb said. “If you stay, he'll keep hitting you. You don't deserve it. Nobody deserves it. He's not going to stop. Trust me. I know about these things.”

“You can't talk to me like that,” Stephanie said. “You don't know me. Or my life.”

“I know all about getting pushed around though. So, yes, I can talk to you like that.”

“No,” she said. She gave the word a lot of emphasis.

It took Webb a fraction of second to realize she wasn't talking to him but past him. Over his shoulder. Her eyes were widening, and Webb figured out what was happening just as a huge hand grabbed his shoulder, spinning Webb away from her and toward the person she was speaking to.

Brent.

Brent's fist was already in motion. A big, big fist, filling Webb's vision as it accelerated toward his face.

No way did Webb have time to lift his arms in defense. Instead, he let himself fall backward, going with the motion of that big, big fist. He didn't even try to stay on his feet.

Going with the punch took away some of the impact but not close to enough. There was a flash-bang as the fist hit his face, and Webb flailed with his arms to break his fall. He also allowed his body to turn naturally with the force of the blow. Landing on his back would have been disastrous. People died that way, when their bodies hit the ground and their skulls whiplashed into the floor a fraction of a second later.

He fell onto the luggage belt, but that didn't give him any safety.

A second later, Brent hauled him up again, like Webb was a runaway suitcase.

Brent was a fast learner.

This time, as he raised his elbow to throw an overhead punch, he kept a grip on Webb's shoulder with his other hand, so that Webb wouldn't bounce away from him again.

What he didn't know was that Webb was a fast learner too. Or that Webb had done some intense martial-arts training and had lived on the streets. This wasn't Webb's first fight.

Brent had landed the first punch because Webb had had his back to him, too worried about Stephanie to focus on anything else. This time Webb saw the punch coming, telegraphed by the way Brent had drawn back his right elbow.

Again Webb went with the natural flow and didn't give Brent any resistance. Webb let Brent's left hand draw him in, and then he ducked the punch by slamming the top of his forehead into Brent's nose.

Not painful, if you do a headbutt right. The skull is an amazingly solid object.

But painful to your opponent. Because the skull is an amazingly solid object.

There was a crunch of cartilage, and Webb knew instantly he'd shattered Brent's nose. As Brent brought his hands up to the mess Webb had just made of his face, it left his lower body open.

The knee is an amazingly solid object too.

Much more solid than the part of Brent's body that Webb slammed his knee into.

Brent fell to his knees, clutching his crotch, and barfed. Then he toppled into his own barf.

That's when the cop stepped into the luggage area and saw Webb standing above Brent, ready to kick him if he tried something else.

The cop barked at Webb to step away, like Webb had started the fight.

Webb looked around, hoping Stephanie would say something. Something like Brent threw the first punch.

But she was gone.

Webb looked at George. “Tell him,” Webb said. “The guy threw the first punch.”

“What I saw,” George said, “was you walking up to the guy and hitting him without warning.”

Then George folded his arms across his body.

That's why, on a sunny June afternoon three days after the reading of his grandfather's will, Webb found himself in handcuffs in the back of a cop truck outside Norman Wells airport, ninety miles south of the Arctic Circle.

FOUR

As the cop drove Webb through Norman Wells, Webb saw streets with names like Raven and Lynx. He knew from Internet research that there was also one named Honeybucket, because, in the past, that's what they called the pails they used on long frozen nights when a person didn't want to go to the outhouse.

He wasn't in the mood for sightseeing though. He was mad at himself for not paying attention in the airport. On the streets, that kind of carelessness could get a person killed.

He was also mad at George, who lived in this small town. George knew the cop who had arrested Webb. Webb wouldn't be sitting in the cop truck if George had told the truth. No, Brent would be in it instead. But George had lied.

It didn't help Webb's mood that his lower jaw hurt. A lot. There was a tooth loose. It felt like it was sticking through his skin. He used his tongue to push his lower lip forward and touch the tooth. It was leaning forward at more than forty-five degrees. The pain felt like lightning going through his veins. But that slight touch was enough to pop the tooth loose.

With his hands cuffed behind him, there wasn't much else to do with the tooth except spit it out, swallow it or roll it under his tongue. He decided not to give the cop the satisfaction of seeing a tooth come out like a Chiclet, and he sure didn't want that small, hard chunk of enamel going through his digestive system. So he kept it under his tongue and watched the streets of Norman Wells go by.