Impasse (21 page)

“He shouldn't have gone.” When she started shaking, he held her tighter.

“I know. I blame myself. I shouldn't have let him go alone, but he insisted. If I'd been there, I could have made sure…”

“You might be lost too.”

“I doubt that.” He scoffed at the idea. A bit callous but honest, too. Stu was lost, Clay wasn't.

Clay released her with a reassuring pat on the hip and turned her toward the exit. “We need to carry on,” he said as he walked her out. “The search-and-rescue pros are on it, and sitting around waiting for news is the worst thing we could do. It doesn't do Stu any good and it won't do you any good. They'll call as soon as they know something.”

It made sense, but she had trouble thinking of anything else. “What do you want me to do in the meantime?”

“Resist the urge to run tell everyone. That's the first thing. The cycle of worry will just keep repeating itself if you tell the story over and over. Second, go work out. Hard. And third, find something to keep you busy.”

“I could do some shooting.”

“Maybe. As long as you stay away from moody or artsy. Take some saleable pictures. Make it like work.”

“It
is
work.”

“Perfect. Then throw yourself into it. That'll be good for you no matter what happens.”

Katherine took a deep breath. “What if he doesn't come back?”

“If it comes to that, we'll deal with it. ‘Adjustable,' remember? Open to change.”

“Got it.”

“Good.”

They climbed into Katherine's Corolla in short-term parking. Clay made small talk, and they tried to avoid talking about Stu. He commented that she needed a new car, and she agreed. Then they embarked on a debate about which make and model would be best, which was both a relief and sort of fun after the tension of the last few days. They settled on an Audi. Classy and practical. Katherine wondered if there was a model with a refrigerated center console, but Clay didn't want her to get something cooler than his BMW. Besides, he said, he could hook her up with a new client who had recently acquired a nice one for cheap.

“Where did you meet
this
guy?”

Clay laughed. “Larry the bondsman? He used to sit in the back of the courtroom while we asked for bail on new arrestees. The higher the bail I got on them, the more money he made when they had to go to him for a bond. Now he's a client. He takes cars as collateral. When people don't pay up, he gets them.”

“Is that legitimate?”

“Yeah, and talk about your legal issues. More business for our cheap associates, eh?” He winked at her.

Katherine chuckled. Clay made it sound so easy to work the system and come out ahead. Stu, on the other hand, saw easy opportunities as illegal and immoral, or made them more complicated than they needed to be. Clay's don't-sweat-the-small-stuff approach was so refreshing that she already felt better. But she noticed that as soon as Clay stopped talking, thoughts of Stu descended upon her again like a heavy weight. He was right; she needed to keep her mind off her husband.

Clay dropped her at home but didn't come inside, and for that Katherine was both disappointed and grateful. She wanted company but appreciated the simplicity of the path forward he gave her. She called no one, went for a run, and spent as little time as possible in the house before heading to the photography studio.

The owner of the studio was Brad Bear, a tall blond man and self-made shooter with a penchant for skinny jeans. Very gay. He greeted her with a camera in one hand and a hug.

“Katherine, what a surprise. Welcome back.”

She didn't mention Stu. “I'd like to log some hours. I can schedule some sittings, but if you have any overflow I'd be grateful.”

“Just family portraits and early Christmas card shots.”

“Perfect.”

“Really?” He raised an eyebrow. “A bit pedestrian for you, especially considering…” He gave her a sly grin.

“What? Considering what?”

“Some recent sales.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your last showing: the whaling series.”

“I sold one print.”

“The day of the showing, yes. But I've had a little run on your work since then.”

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“Happened last week. I reconcile at the end of the month, and I was just going to call you.”

“Which ones sold?”

Brad's sly grin became a full-on smile.

Katherine pouted. “Come on, tell me.”

He gave a little bark of joy. “All of them!”

“What? There were nineteen left. That's crazy. I didn't authorize a remainders sale. Doesn't that kick in after a year?”

“I gave the standard discount for a full-series purchase, but otherwise it was a full-price sale.”

“Who?”

“Archie Brooks.”

“I don't know him. Did he ask to meet me?”

“No. And I didn't know him either. But his check cleared just fine.”

“Did he say anything?”

“He didn't say much, but I assume he sparked to your focus on the decline and decay of the industry. Not everyone wants to see history propped up like a grinning skeleton.”

“Exactly. I was just telling my friend Clay that recently.”

“That's Stu's partner? The handsome one with the dark hair?”

“Right.”

“Is he completely straight?”

“Oh yeah.”

“You sound pretty certain.”

“Certain as I can be.”

“How is Stu?”

Katherine stiffened. “I'm waiting for him to come back from Alaska.” She turned away in case she began to cry. She pretended to examine a backdrop, but the tears didn't come.

“Alaska?”

“He's trying to find himself.”

“Well, that's a big place to look. Your total for the series after commission is just under eight thousand dollars. Do you still want to do Christmas cards?”

Katherine drove home singing “Sweet, Fleet, and Upbeat” by Modern Moll at the top of her lungs. She'd never sold an entire series. But the dying whale industry theme had been a fabulous idea, if she did say so herself. It touched on the theme of a failing economy, the environmental and wildlife movements, and even the fading of traditional New England culture. A full-series sale was also the sort of thing that could jump-start one's reputation, depending upon who the buyer was. He wasn't a reviewer—she knew that—but he might be a socialite or collector who would display her work. She made a mental note to research Archie Brooks. She didn't like to pester shy buyers, but it was good to know where one's work went, and a thank-you-for-your-patronage note wasn't out of order.

The whole thing was exciting and professionally satisfying in a way that regular money from commercial sittings could never be. But when she pulled into the driveway, Stu's car was there waiting for her, empty and neglected. She hit the steering wheel in frustration; she'd only been able to enjoy herself for an hour.

 

CHAPTER 26

The first day on the trail was the hardest. Stu gritted his teeth against the pain in his ankle and the lingering restlessness of his bowels. And, true to his word, Blake did not slow for him. Stu wasn't a hiker, and so he had no sense of time. Blake apparently refused to wear a watch. They climbed up over the ridge, out of the small mountain bowl where he'd nearly ended his life, and Stu was distressed to see another, larger mountain ahead.

Shit.

The descent was brief, and the footing treacherous—crumbled rock with no path. And he had to lift his feet every step to avoid tripping over low-growing plants. Then they were ascending again.

“How far will we go today?” Stu asked when they finally stopped to rest and munch trail mix. The sun was not at its apex, but it felt like hours had passed.

“Ten miles. Every day.”

“How far have we come so far?”

“Maybe two.”

The dread of starting up again ruined any enjoyment he might have gotten from their break, and then he was walking again. The landscape hardly changed, and no matter how far it seemed they'd hiked, it felt like they hadn't gone anywhere. Whenever he looked back, he could still see where they'd been for the previous hour.
I need to stop looking back,
he decided.

They veered north and, thankfully, crossed over the shoulder of the mountain instead of heading up toward the peak. The sun was descending by the time they reached a height from which they could see the valley on the far side.

“Are we stopping for the night?”

“Not here, unless we're idiots,” Blake said. “The farther down we can get, the more likely we'll be below the snow line, if it comes. Another mile or two.”

“I'm not sure I've got another mile or two in me.”

“It's downhill,” Blake said as though that settled the matter. And he was off again.

They pitched camp near the base of the mountain at the edge of an open plain, which stretched for miles in all directions and was crisscrossed with rivers and stands of trees. Blake had a tent. He also had a hatchet should they need to build a lean-to. He didn't seem concerned about cover, so Stu tried not to be either. He was just glad he had a pair of Extremes—only a small blister so far. Half of Stu's gear had been left behind in the duffel bag at the broken cabin, and he still struggled under the weight of his backpack. Blake had gone through the duffel quickly, muttering as he tossed aside hundreds of dollars' worth of Stu's clothing and equipment. He let Stu keep half of the clothes—mostly outerwear—the sleeping bag, the gun, and the medical kit, which he seemed to like very much. Stu had argued to keep
Edwin's
, despite its weight. He wasn't sure why; perhaps because he'd need it if Blake abandoned him, which seemed like a very real possibility.

“You're starting the fire,” Blake said as he swept a clear area of ground free of debris for his tent.

“Why me?”

“Because that's going to be your job from now on. I figure you ain't a great hunter. You sure as hell aren't getting water for me after you picked a puddle to drink from that animals used as a toilet. By the way, if one animal takes a dump somewhere it's likely other animals sniffed its scat and pissed there too. And unless I'm mistaken, you're not much of one for putting up a shelter. Any argument, counselor?”

“Fires. Fair enough.”

Blake pointed to a tree and unstrapped his homemade hatchet. The simple tool was a rough chunk of steel with a blade that had been sharpened so many times that it looked like a caveman had chipped it from obsidian. The bone handle—clearly not the first—was a thick black-and-white antler carved into a gentle forward curve. It might have been a piece of art in a souvenir shop at the Fairbanks airport, but it was a serious tool out here in the interior.

“Now strip off that bark and get some of the stuff right under it for tinder.”

Stu took the hatchet and sized up the tree. The hatchet was well balanced and felt good in his hand. The perfect woodland tool. The symbol of mankind's superiority to animals. It made him feel armed, powerful, ready to take on …

Well, at least a tree,
Stu thought.

“According to
Edwin's
, that sub-layer is the cambium,” he said importantly.

“According to me, it's the stuff right under the bark. Less talk, more chop. Strip it and rip it.”

Stu cocked the hatchet over his head and gave the tree a firm whack. The wedge-shaped head glanced from the bark, and the flat of the blade smacked his other wrist.

“Oww!”

Blake shook his head. “You don't hit a round tree straight-on. Can't have you choppin' your arm off.”

Blake hauled himself up to demonstrate a proper chop.

“Swing at it from the side—a downward angle, then an upward angle. Two whacks is all a guy should need.”

He flipped the hatchet back to Stu, who dodged instead of trying to catch the handle. When he picked it up, he swung tentatively. It took him eight chops.

Edwin's
had taught Stu to make a little nest with the tinder—that much he'd absorbed. But it didn't catch readily with the flint and steel. Finally Blake held out a small cardboard box full of cigar-shaped tubes in white plastic wrappers.

Stu frowned up at the burly man and didn't take one. “Is this a joke?”

“Nope. You're struggling. I'll let you use one o' these to start your fire this one time.”

“Pardon my skepticism, but with all of the bullshit manhood musk you exude, why the hell would you be shoving a box of tampons at me unless it was a bad joke?”

Blake nodded, unoffended, as though it was a perfectly reasonable question. “Because they're good for about a half dozen things that might save your miserable life.”

He tore one open, fluffed up the cotton, and tucked it into Stu's cambium nest. He motioned for Stu to strike the flint and steel again. This time when Stu produced a single spark the entire nest went up as though doused with lighter fluid. The small fire that appeared from nowhere seemed a miracle to Stu, much as it must have to cave dwellers of old. Logically, it shouldn't have amazed him, but to make fire with his own hands instead of a match or some ridiculous consumer backyard barbeque version of a blowtorch felt magical.

“I did it!” he exclaimed like a Cub Scout on his first camping trip.

“There you go. Nothing girlish about that. In a pinch that cotton puff is no less manly than that rifle you're toting.”

“You're saying my gun is like a big tampon?”

“Yep. It's a tool. It's whatever you need it to be. That Browning could be binoculars, a crutch, a snow shovel, even a hammer—I once had to club a wounded wolverine to death with my piece after it latched on to my leg.”

“Sounds awfully violent.”