Tongues of Fire (23 page)

“I don't know it.”

She looked up at him. Clouds were passing overhead, and he saw them reflected in her lenses. “Have you got your card?”

“I haven't seen it for years.”

“Maybe the number's written somewhere else. In your passport? Health insurance card?”

“Don't have either.”

“What about an old income tax form. It's printed on those automatically.”

Rehv shook his head.

Mrs. Hume wrote “?” beside “
#
.” “Have you got a driver's license?”

“Where would I drive, Mrs. Hume?”

The pink thermometer rose, but not as high as the last time. “You are a Canadian citizen, Mr. Reeve?”

“Yes.”

“Naturalized or born?”

“Born,” he said. He heard no Israeli accent in his voice.

“Where?”

“Toronto.”

Mrs. Hume wrote it down, and added a number of other lies he told her. Finally she closed the notebook. “There's not much time before the fall term to get all this done,” she said.

“Please try.”

“That's what we're here for.”

Mrs. Hume and Wes got into the red plane. Again Rehv watched it roar across the lake and begin rising off the water, foot by foot. “Crash,” he said aloud, but it cleared the trees as it had cleared them before, and Rehv knew it was the last summer on Lac du Loup. He lifted the canoe out of the water and laid it overturned by a tree. Then he picked up the pack that remained on the dock and walked up the path to the cabin, to tell Paul that they would be moving to another school district, and to lie with his back to the fire.

Rehv lay on the couch with his eyes closed. He heard Paul close by, poking the fire. He heard sparks crackle in the air. He heard Paul, walking softly in his sneakers, go outside onto the porch, down the steps to the side of the house. Metal struck metal. Liquid gurgled out of a can. The pump motor started. The old pine floorboards vibrated, and so did the couch, very gently; it made his back feel better. Lake water ran up the pipe under the cabin, making a hollow little echo: In the morning he would wade out and clean the filter. The dock creaked. Once. Twice. He heard the high whistling sound of a fishing fly cast through the air. It fell on the water with a tiny splash. The wind began to rise in the north.

“Wake up.” The dark eyes were watching him.

“I was just dozing.”

“They're back.”

Quickly Rehv got up and went to the window. Clouds were blowing in from the north in long dark rolls. The lake was tinged with gray, like cold skin. Across the water came the red seaplane, fighting the chop.

Slowly it approached the dock, propeller whirling: first a translucent disc, then a dozen flashing blades, finally three that didn't move. A cabin door opened and Wes climbed down onto one of the pontoons. He had a line in his hand and a pink bubble in front of his face. The plane glided up to the dock and stopped dead. Wes reached forward about a foot and hooked the line around a wooden cleat. He stepped onto the dock and turned to the plane, waiting.

The other door opened. A big black shoe appeared, feeling around for something solid. It found the pontoon. Another big black shoe. Two long and heavy blue legs. Wes held out his hand. A tall, heavy man in blue clambered onto the dock.

“We should have taken the pictures down,” Paul said.

Wes knelt on the dock, hanging bumper pads on the pontoons. The big man came up the path.

“It wouldn't have made any difference.”

A knock at the door. Rehv opened it. “Derlago, Provincial Police,” the big man said. He had a mouth full of crooked yellow teeth. “Got a few minutes?”

What if I didn't, Rehv thought. “Come in.”

Derlago took off his hat and came in, ducking his head as he walked through the doorway. He looked at the stone chimney that stood in the middle of the big room, open on both sides. The fire was almost out. “Very nice. You keep warm in the winter?”

“Warm enough.”

“Insulation behind those pine boards?”

“Lots of it.”

“Very nice.” Derlago walked around the chimney to the other side, where the kitchen was. He put his hat on the heavy wooden table and sat down. “Oak?” he asked, running his hand along the grain.

“I think so.”

“They sure knew how to make them.” He stuck a thick finger into one of the holes gouged in its surface and trapped an apple seed under his fingernail. He flicked it at the fireplace. “Been on the phone to Immigration,” he said. “They told me to get up here and see some ID. So I'm here. Let's see some.”

“I don't have ID.”

Derlago looked at Paul. “The boy neither?” he asked, keeping his eyes on him.

“No.”

Derlago stuck his finger into another hole and felt around inside. “You anarchists or something like that?”

“No. I had ID, but it's all been lost over the years. We've just never had any use for that kind of thing up here.”

Derlago sighed. “Then I've got to take you back.”

“What for?”

“Questioning. Fingerprinting. Whatever else they want.”

“I meant, what have we done wrong?”

“That's what we'll have to find out,” Derlago said. He turned and looked again at Paul. “See, they think maybe you're not citizens. There's lots come in these days from the West Indies on visits. Visits that last forever.”

Rehv took two steps across the room and stood over Derlago. “Are you telling me you're doing all this because of the color of my son's skin?”

He felt Paul suddenly behind him, tugging at his arm. “Control yourself,” the boy said quietly.

Derlago looked up at Rehv, but otherwise he didn't move. “I'm doing this because they told me to do it.” Paul pulled him away. “So let's not make a fuss. If you're citizens you're citizens, and if you're not you can go to court. That can take years. So why waste all your energy now?”

Rehv looked out the window. The wind was stronger. It made the dark trees on the far side of the lake look like a crowd applauding wildly. On the dock Wes had put on a leather jacket and was staring into the northern sky. “Do we both have to go for questioning?” Rehv asked.

“Not for questioning, no. There was no talk of questioning the boy. But they want his prints too.”

“Can't you do that here? I don't see why he has to be involved.”

Derlago found another apple seed and rolled it beneath his thumb and forefinger. “Can he stay here by himself for a day or two?”

“Of course.”

“Okay,” Derlago said, standing up. “I don't see why not.” He went to the door, opened it, and called to Wes. “Bring up my kit, will you? It's under the seat.”

Rehv heard Wes say: “Weather's coming up.” He glanced at Paul. The boy was watching him thoughtfully.

“That's all right,” Derlago said. “Just bring the kit.”

Wes came in with a small black case. “You're not going to be long?” he said, handing it to Derlago.

“Not long. Sit down and take it easy for a few minutes.”

Wes shook his head. “I'll put another bumper on.” He went away.

Derlago opened the case and took out a black ink pad and a few sheets of stiff paper. On the sheets were printed a few rows of boxes, the size of fingertips. “Who's first?”

“I thought you were going to take mine at Frog Lake,” Rehv said.

“Might as well do them both while I'm at it.”

“I don't mind waiting.”

Derlago pried the tin cover off the ink pad. “Let's not make a fuss.”

“Do I still have to go with you?”

“Yup,” Derlago said. “Who's first?”

Paul sat down beside him at the table. “Right hand.” Derlago took the boy's long brown hand in his big square white one. One by one he rolled the well-shaped fingers on the ink pad and then inside the boxes on the form, as though the fingers were inanimate parts that had come down the assembly line. “Left to right, left to right,” he said as he rolled them. His mouth opened a little. Rehv watched his tongue, thick, white, and dry, rubbing back and forth around the inner rims of his crooked teeth; they did not look like teeth at all, but chips of hard yellow bone stuck into his puffy gums by a dentist in a hurry.

“Next.”

Derlago took Rehv's thumb in his hand and rolled it on the ink pad. He wasn't one of those big men with a surprisingly light touch. “Left to right, left to right.” Rehv looked over Derlago's shoulder and saw the trees on the far side of the lake in frenzy. The wind was driving whitecaps across the water and tearing their heads off if they were slow.

“No, no. Left to right. Christ. Now I have to start over.” Derlago reached for another form. He squeezed Rehv's fingers a little tighter, pressed them a little harder, but something went wrong anyway when there were only two fingers to go. “Shit. Don't you know left from right?” Derlago said, starting again. The northern sky was one huge black cloud, closing in. Lightning cracked across it like a battle standard. The sky ripped its bloated belly on the treetops and roared.

Wes came running into the cabin. “Let's go, for Christ's sake.”

“We would have been gone long ago if this son of a bitch would cooperate,” Derlago said, mashing Rehv's thumb into the ink pad. Rain moved in from the northern end of the lake like a curtain of steel pellets.

“Come on,” Wes said, rocking on his feet the way a child does when it has to go to the bathroom badly.

Derlago threw the ink pad and the forms into his case. “Move it,” he said to Rehv.

“Just give me a second to get my overnight bag.”

“Hurry,” Wes said. He opened the door and started running toward the dock.

Rehv crossed the big room and went through the doorway that led to the bedrooms at the back of the cabin. In his room he took a small canvas bag from the closet and put in it two pairs of socks, two pairs of undershorts, a pair of corduroy jeans, and his shaving kit. He was folding a shirt when Derlago burst inside, grabbed his arm and yanked him out of the room. “Goddamn it. Move.”

They hurried down to the dock, leaving Paul in the cabin. Wes had both hands on one of the pontoon struts and was leaning on it hard to keep the plane from banging into the dock. The wind ripped Derlago's hat off his head and blew it way. “Get in, get in,” Wes yelled. Then the rain hit, drenching them in seconds. A bolt of lightning struck very near, behind the cabin. They heard something crash in the forest, just before the thunder boomed.

“No way,” Derlago shouted.

“Get in. I've taken off in worse than this.”

Lightning flashed in front of their eyes like a hacksaw blade of fire. Thunder shook them at the same moment. “Not with me.” Derlago ran heavily toward the cabin. Rehv turned to follow.

“Wait. Help me get another line around her.”

“What?” Rehv shouted at the top of his voice, although they were close enough to shake hands.

“Another line. Or we'll lose her.” A wave broke over the dock.

They struggled with the line. The wind tried to wrench it out of their hands. It tried to blow them into the water. Cold steel pellets stung their skin. Lightning dove at them like lines on a graph in 1929.

When the line was secure they ran up the muddy path. Inside the cabin Derlago was sitting on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, and Paul was adding logs to the fire. Derlago's outfit was spread across the stone hearth: gun and holster, blue uniform, black socks, black shoes, frayed white jockey shorts, stained blue. “We'll just have to wait it out,” he said.

“It'll be dark soon,” Wes said.

Rehv looked outside. It was dark already. “Anyone for a drink?” he asked.

“I never drink when I'm in uniform,” Derlago replied. “But I'm not in uniform.”

Rehv poured Canadian whiskey into thick plastic tumblers. The tumblers had fishing flies embedded in their bases. “Very nice,” Derlago said, holding his up for a better look. He drank. “Very nice.”

“None for me,” Wes said. “It might blow over.”

When it didn't, he drank too.

They finished the bottle. Paul made sandwiches. Ham. Cheese. Tuna. Peanut butter. Derlago had one of each. Wes kept putting on Rehv's oilskins and going outside to look at the plane. “Better radio in,” Derlago told him. “Say we'll be back tomorrow.” Paul went to bed. Rehv opened another bottle. They played three-handed cribbage for a penny a point. Rehv won two dollars and fourteen cents. Then they played hearts. “Have you got Monopoly?” Derlago asked.

“No.”

They played crazy eights. Wes chewed gum and drank whiskey at the same time. The fire roared inside. The storm roared outside. They finished the bottle. And started another.

“Bedtime for me,” Rehv said.

“I guess we should too,” Derlago said. He rose, swaying slightly, and pulled the blanket around himself like a toga. He picked up his gun and his black case.

Wes stood up too. “Have you got anything to read?” he asked. “Like flying magazines?”

“No.”

“Doesn't matter. I'm seeing double anyway.”

Rehv led them to the door that opened into the hall at the back of the cabin where the bedrooms were. Derlago paused in front of a photograph of the savannah hanging on the wall. “Where's this?”

“Arizona,” Rehv said.

“Yeah? My wife's brother goes there every winter.” He gazed at the photograph. “Doesn't look so great to me.”

There were three bedrooms off the hall: Rehv's at the lake end, Paul's in the middle, and the spare one at the other end, where Rehv took Wes and Derlago. It had an old bunk bed, left behind by the lumbermen who had once lived there. “Dibs the bottom,” Derlago said. He put the gun and the black case on the bedside table and lay down. Rehv went out and closed the door. He walked down the hall to his own bedroom. Inside, Paul was kneeling on the floor, refilling the two packs by candlelight.