The Shelter Cycle (7 page)

He'd found himself inside an enormous sporting goods store with a complicated taxidermy display in its center—bears and bobcats, a mountain lion eating a rabbit, raccoons climbing a tree—where he bought the tiny tent and the subzero sleeping bag he carried now, attached to his frame pack. He bought hiking boots and gaiters, wool socks, snowshoes, freeze-dried ice cream and buffalo jerky.

Now he carried it all, along with everything else. Sweating, he paused to rest; he stepped off the road, past the half-built houses, up into the foothills where he had searched so many times. He checked Francine's house, far below, every few steps. Eventually, there was movement there—the black dog, let out into the back yard by Wells. Many mornings, Colville had watched as Francine herself came out. From here, he'd watched her car make its turn at the corner and slide away toward downtown, aiming at the hospital. This morning, her car was already gone.

Frost lined the shadows white, the ground wet where the sun had reached. Colville zigzagged through the scrub, higher, then along a slight ridge, into some taller bushes. The ground slanted down unexpectedly; he slid along a gravelly slope into a hidden depression about ten feet square. A few old beer cans rested amid charred logs in a circle of blackened stones. A low cave had been cut into the slope; in its mouth rested a metal pipe with rough concrete around each end. Colville set down his pack and tried to lift the pipe—it looked like a barbell—but it was far too heavy. He couldn't move it at all.

Next he began unpacking. The three green books of the I AM activity, others by the Messenger herself:
Saint Germain's Prophecy for the New Millennium;
Violet Flame to Heal Body, Mind and Soul;
How to Work with Angels.
He took out the tape recorder—he felt the energy coiled in the cassette tapes, those dictations, the Messenger's voice still echoing, vibrating inside him—and wrapped it with everything else in heavy plastic garbage bags, two layers. Tying the bags tightly, he pushed them as deep into the cave as they would go.

A sound, above. Gravel slid down the slope, out from under the bushes. Slowly Colville straightened, turned, one arm up to hold back the glare and to protect himself. Then another noise, more gravel sliding; he saw the side of her face there, turning, the back of her head.

“Wait,” he said. “Don't go. Talk to me.”

She kept climbing until he could no longer see her, only the tall bushes still shaking as she went.

“You don't have to come down here,” he said. “I'll come up, out in the open.”

His pack lighter now, he scrambled back the way he'd come, sharp branches in his face, against his hands. He stumbled out onto the slope, his eyes already searching for her retreating figure, but the girl was just standing there, ten feet away. In jeans and tennis shoes, a blue sweatshirt. Her blue eyes were sharp and wary, her dark hair loose and tangled.

“What?” she said. “Don't stare at me.”

“I wasn't.”

“My sister's not dead, you know. If that's what you think.”

“I know that,” he said.

“I've seen you before.” The girl looked up at the sky, then back down at him. “Out here. I've watched you.”

“I believe it,” he said.

“No one else is searching anymore,” she said. “Do you know where she is?”

“What?” he said. “No, I don't.”

“Are those snowshoes? What's your name?”

“Colville,” he said. “Colville Young.”

Neither of them moved. The wind ruffled the bushes behind him, a soft-edged sound. The sky turned lighter and the clouds slid across it, their edges barely visible against each other.

“Did your tooth fall out?” she said. “I can see your tongue.”

“Kind of,” he said. “Yes.”

“Is a new tooth growing?”

“No,” he said, feeling the gap with the tip of his tongue. “I don't think so.”

“Your adult tooth fell out?”

“Yes,” he said.

The girl paused for a moment, her blue eyes on him. She looked away, down toward the houses, then back.

“What were you doing down there?” she said.

“Nothing,” he said.

“You were hiding something,” she said. “I saw.”

“I was leaving some things behind,” he said. “Things I don't need anymore, that I don't want to carry anymore.”

The girl looked doubtful, glaring past him at the bushes. “So why'd you carry it all the way up here if you don't need it?”

“I don't know,” he said. “Maybe I'll need it some other time.”

“Maybe it'll be gone, by then.”

“Maybe,” he said. “How old are you?”

“Seven.”

“Does anyone know where you are?”

“No,” she said. “I'm supposed to be at school.” She glanced away, down the slope, as if expecting to see someone coming after her.

“What's your name?” he said.

“You were supposed to ask me that right after I asked you.”

“I was?”

“Yes.”

“Your sister,” he said. “When I came here, a week ago, I was certain I would find her.”

“And you didn't.”

“I don't think she's dead,” he said. “She's alive—she's just not here.”

“Is she coming back?”

“I lost a brother,” he said. “His name was Moses. But the thing of it is, I didn't really lose him. Not really, exactly. I carry him around with me, wherever I go.”

“Is he dead?”

“Yes, in a way.”

“You carry him?”

“Inside,” he said.

“My name's Della.” She kicked a pebble without watching it skitter away. “I have to go.”

“All right,” he said. “Nice to meet you, Della. I'm glad. I'm glad we agree about your sister.”

“But you don't know—”

“No,” he said. “But there's plenty of things I don't know that I'm trying to find out about.”

“Bye,” she said, turning away.

He expected the girl to head down the slope toward her house, but she went in the other direction, climbing along the ridge, not looking back. He didn't follow her; instead he turned and looked down over the city, the neighborhoods stretching up toward him. It took a moment to locate the girl's house—usually he looked for the round black shape of the trampoline, but it was no longer there. Taken away. Now her house looked so much like the other houses on the block, it was hard to distinguish. Two houses over, Francine's driveway was empty now, the blue truck gone, the back yard surrounded by fence. And there, on top of the picnic table as if trying to see higher, to get his attention, stood the black dog.

Colville tightened the straps of his pack and began to descend in long switchbacks, careful not to trip or lose his balance. The wind sliced around him; it felt colder now than it had on the way up.

The dog did not bark as he approached. It saw him and wagged its tail, leapt down from the picnic table so he could no longer see it.

Now he was against the fence. He could hear the dog whining, see its wet snout pushing through the narrow gaps in the boards, its tongue trying to lick at his fingers.

“Yes,” he said, whispering. “Good boy. You recognize me, don't you? Don't you, boy? You were calling me? Here I am. I understand.”

He did not want to climb the fence, to draw attention. Setting down his pack, he took out a tent stake and carefully bent the bottom of one board, then another, the nails groaning a little as they pulled out. He peeked through the gap; the dog sat watching, waiting. As soon as the space was wide enough, he slithered through, then licked at Colville's hands, scratched at his boots, whined quietly.

Colville pushed the boards back flush, tapped at the nails. “Yes, yes,” he said. “We're going now, we're going to do it.”

He climbed again, the dog darting ahead and then returning, always checking where he was. Once they crossed the first slight rise, they were out of sight of the houses.

“Come!” he shouted, and the dog leapt back, leaned against his thigh as he unbuckled the leather collar. He read the metal tags, then threw the collar away into the scrub as hard as he could; the dog began to run after, to fetch it.

“Kilo! Leave it. Let it be.”

Colville liked the feeling of it, not walking alone. He wondered, as he went the long way down, around the houses, whether the girl was somewhere on the ridge above, still watching him.

A
DAY OF HITCHHIKING
later, they were in the mountains, in Montana. Colville followed Kilo across a one-lane, wooden bridge. Ahead, new log mansions glowed on the hillside, against the steel-gray sky. Past them, above, the canyon opened and spread out. Colville had been up here once or twice, as a boy. Tom Miner Basin. He'd gone along with his father, who was wiring a house for another member of the Activity.

A brown Dodge rattled past, now, through the washboards, toward the bridge. An old man in a cowboy hat raised two fingers from his steering wheel rather than waving.

The second pickup—coming up from behind, ten minutes later—pulled over. The woman driving it rolled down her window.

“Going up the Basin,” Colville said before she could ask. “Can my dog get in? He can ride in the back, if you'd rather.”

“Bring him in,” she said. “Shovel and jack sliding around back there might kill him.”

Colville swung his pack alongside a bale of hay, then got into the cab after Kilo and slammed the door.

They were moving, climbing. Kilo licked at the woman's ear, and she laughed. She wore a bright orange down vest under a blue Walls jacket, a red silk scarf tight around her neck. Snowmobile boots. Her dark hair had strands of gray in it and was tucked under a black-and-red-checked cap, its earflaps down.

“So who you headed to see?” she said.

“What?”

“Whose place am I taking you to?”

“No one's,” he said.

They passed four horses in a corral, then two llamas. The back of the truck fishtailed a little as they climbed a big switchback. Ahead, the basin spread out, mountains on either side.

“Have to put on the chains one day soon,” she said.

“I'm heading up to the top,” Colville said. “The campground, there.”

They passed the fancy gate to a fly-fishing lodge, small ranches, barns, fields of snow with horses and cattle standing in them.

“It's smart to travel with a dog,” she said. “I doubt I would've stopped if you were alone. You hunting?”

“No.”

“I thought, what with your coat. Seen some bow hunters around.”

Colville looked down at the fabric of his new parka—tan camouflage, twigs and moss and leaves—then out the window again. Dark clusters, herds of cattle or elk, mottled the benches and higher slopes.

“Are you crying?” she said.

“No,” he said. “No, I'm not.” He wiped at his eyes, looked away.

Higher, they passed stone houses, gates and fences. The buildings were less frequent as they climbed, as the road leveled, its surface now white with untracked snow.

“I've only been here in the summer,” he said. “When I was a boy. I hiked with my dad to see some caves, a petrified forest.”

“Where you from?”

“Here,” he said. “I grew up in the church, and then we moved away.”

“I got a few friends used to be in it.” Slowing, the woman shifted the truck into four-wheel drive. “What a mess.”

It seemed she wanted to say more, but she didn't; they rode in silence again until they reached the sign for the campground. Carefully she turned the truck around, then shifted out of gear and looked over at him.

“You all right? It'll be dark soon.”

“Not for a couple hours.” He opened the door, the cold sharp in his face.

“Everything's closed down for the season. There's no one up there, nothing.”

“I'm snow camping,” he said.

“So why do you need a campground?”

“I don't,” he said. “Come on, Kilo.”

He closed the door and the pickup moved slowly and silently away across the whiteness, beneath the dull sky, its red taillights growing smaller. Kilo whined, sitting there at Colville's feet, black tail sweeping back and forth.

“All right, then. Here we are.”

The snow underfoot was only an inch, two inches deep, but it drifted deeper, off the road. Setting down his pack, he took off his jacket, zipped in the down insert, then pulled on the insulated overalls. Camouflage, they matched his coat: tan, with twigs and leaves. It reminded him of the uniform Moses had shown him for Afghanistan, the desert camouflage that looked like it had been made inside a computer, digitized.

He did not put on his snowshoes. Not yet. He did not wipe away the tears as he walked past the scattered picnic tables, all the campsites frozen and long empty, thick chains on the door of the bathroom. He knocked on a brown metal bear box and it echoed, its door swinging open. It was too late for grizzlies; he hoped that was true. Were there wolves, now? He couldn't remember if they were back, how all that discussion had turned out.

He walked a quarter mile down the road, Kilo trotting alongside him, in the tire tracks of the woman's truck. The shadows and the snowdrifts made it difficult to see where the water snaked down, off to the side of the road; when Colville found it, he turned right, following the rise, along half-frozen Sheep Creek, up under the lodgepole and white pines, the spruce and Doug fir. Snow sifted down, a squirrel or raccoon or possum or only the wind in the branches above. He glanced upward. Nothing.

They passed around petrified stumps, jagged and snarled. The ground grew steeper, the snow deeper, the shadows darker. Buckling on his snowshoes, he took out his quilted brown balaclava, pulled it over his head, and kept moving, slapping his way up a long slope. Kilo snapped at the snowshoes, at first, then fell back.