Vineyard Fear (25 page)

Ten minutes. I finished brushing my teeth, put on my straw hat, and went out into the neon night. I was in the Main Mall wondering if the guy wearing cowboy clothes and chatting on one of the telephones there was chatting on the one Orwell planned to use to call me when the man on the phone hung up and turned to me.

“Hello, Mr. Jackson,” he said. “You're right on time.” He gestured. “I thought this would be a good place for us to meet. Very public, no police that I can see, but a lot of civilians who might get hurt if either one of us tries to damage the other. Let's take a walk along the street, shall we?” He ran his eyes over me. “I don't see any sign that you're armed. Are you?”

I was looking at a young man with a drooping black moustache and the over-the-ears hairstyle seemingly favored by many young men in Colorado. He wore the hat, the boots, the denim jeans and jacket, and the plaid shirt that constituted the unofficial Durango uniform. I looked through the moustache and saw the face of Gordon Berkeley Orwell that I'd seen taken from the fax machine. If I were Max Carrados, could I have smelled spirit gum? Did people still use spirit gum to stick on false moustaches and the like?

“I have a pocketknife and fingernail clippers,” I said. “Ah. I, on the other hand, have a pistol tucked away, so I imagine that gives me an edge, should I need it. Will I?”

We walked out onto Main Street and turned right. The train depot was down that way a few blocks. “I don't think you'll need any firepower,” I said.

“You must forgive me for telling you that I'd be calling on the mall phone. Tactics. Never let the enemy know your real plans. You understand.”

“Yes. I talked to John Skye today. He's willing to speak with you tomorrow. He thinks he can persuade you that you're after the wrong guy. He thinks that once you are persuaded, you'll go away.”

“If he persuades me, you may be sure that I will do exactly that. What scenario does your friend have in mind?”

I told him.

We walked down the street, two men in Western hats glancing briefly into windows filled with turquoise and silver jewelry as we walked and talked.

“So you plan to take me up there, eh?”

“I know where Skye wants you to be before he'll talk to you. I don't think you can find the place by yourself.”

“I don't like going into places I haven't scouted. I'm never sure about what might be waiting for me.”

“You have that Beretta machine gun. You can keep that in my back while we're hiking, if it will make you feel any safer.”

He smiled. “So you know about the Beretta. Do you think your friend Skye will attempt to ambush us?”

“No, I don't think so.”

“How about someone else? You, for instance. Or will the police be waiting for me?”

“I haven't told the police about this. They botched things pretty badly out at the ranch.”

“I should believe you, of course.” Two pretty girls came walking toward us. He stepped aside and they went between us. He never looked at them. “However, I make it a practice not to believe people too often. Tomorrow, you say?”

“Yes. We should start up the trail no later than nine or so in the morning, if we're to be out at the cliff in time.”

“Where is this trail?”

“You can get a map of the San Juan National Forest from the Forest Service. You'll find the Goulding Trail going up the cliffs about halfway between Rockwood and Haviland Lake. They tell me that there are other trails going up, but that's the only one I know, so that's the one we'll use.”

“I have one of those maps. Describe the trail to me.”

I did.

“There's a cabin near the top?”

“Yes.”

We walked. I thought that if I were Orwell, I wouldn't like the idea of coming up the trail toward a cabin where someone I couldn't see could see me and could be waiting. I remembered walking into villages in Vietnam and hating that very thought.

“And up on top there's another trail? Which way do we go?”

“I'll tell you that when we get there.”

“Again, I must trust you, eh?”

I was suddenly angry. “Who are you to be talking about trust? You're the guy who almost killed me three times. I haven't done a damned thing to you. Do you want to do this thing, or not?”

“I don't plan to get my ass blown off by some wacko professor or his friends, I'll tell you that!” We came to the depot and pretended to look at advertisements for the Silverton train. After a while, he said, “Here's what I'll do. I'll meet you at the top. We can go the rest of the way together. You're going to start up about nine?”

I thought he would probably go up very early tomorrow morning, so he could scout the area before I got there. But I couldn't be sure, and because I couldn't be sure, he
would be safe. He might even meet me at the bottom of the cliffs and go up with me, instead of going up earlier. He didn't like to let the enemy know his real plans, after all.

“I figure it will take me a couple of hours to hike up to the top. I'm not acclimatized to these altitudes.”

“Nothing personal, but I'll expect to search you when we meet, so don't bring a weapon.”

“Pocketknife and fingernail clippers. You, of course, will be dressed.”

“Dressed,” he said. “I haven't heard that expression since Jacksonville. The first time a guy told me he was dressed I didn't know what he was talking about. Yes, I'll be dressed. I will be a stranger in a strange land, after all, and if I'm going to have trouble, you're going to have more. Please wait here for a few minutes. I will see you tomorrow at the top of the Goulding Trail.”

I watched him walk away up the street. After he disappeared beyond the nearest crowd of tourists, I went to my car and drove to my motel, brooding all the way.

Early the next morning, I got into my car and drove to the Sheriffs Department.

A deputy said the sheriff was in his office, spoke into a phone, and waved me through to the inner sanctum. The sheriff was chewing a matchstick. He pointed me to a seat. I asked him if they'd contacted the Jackson, Wyoming, police about Orwell renting a car there. The sheriff rolled his cigar to a corner of his mouth.

“As a matter of fact, we did. That was a good idea of yours. Orwell rented a Chevy Blazer. Blue. We've got the
license plate number, but we haven't seen the car. Never knew there were so many blue Blazers in La Plata County until we started looking for this one.”

“He might have changed the plates.”

“We thought of that.”

“You can't stop them all.”

“That's right. Somebody back east said you were a cop once.”

“A long time ago. Any other news from the east?”

“Some. Orwell was an actor in high school and college. Liked to play roles where he could try to look like somebody else. No surprise there, is there? He looks different every time anybody reports seeing him. Hell, we don't even know if all these sightings really are Orwell.”

I had seen him close up. I knew.

“For all we know,” said the sheriff, “the real Orwell may be up there in the Tetons, camping out.”

“Yeah, that could be,” I said. “But if it's not Orwell, I don't know who it could be. Anything else?”

“Yeah. This Orwell fellow is on special leave of some sort. Seems he got hurt on some job—down south of the border someplace, nobody's saying exactly where. His old man died a while back. The two of them were close, I guess. Then this summer, his sister pulls the plug on herself. Tough times for Orwell. Things seem to have piled up on him. His special leave seems to be for mental R and R. Could mean he's slipped a cog. Could also mean nothing.” The sheriff shrugged his big shoulders, and a crooked smile played around his matchstick. “Ten-cent psychology. Worth a dime less than you pay for it.”

I thought of Orwell's mother, who had suffered losses as great, but, as is often the case with women, had not decided to kill someone because of them. I got up. “Thanks for your help. I'll keep in touch. If I get any smarter, I'll let you know.”

Out on the streets of Durango, the tourists were enjoying themselves. Beyond the buildings, the rimrocked
hills rose in wild purity toward a bird's-egg-blue sky. The tourists did not know that a killer was perhaps walking among them, and the innocent earth did not care.

Back at the motel there was a message to call Billy Jo. I decided against it, but as I did, the phone rang. It was Billy Jo.

“My grandfather's old .45 Colt Peacemaker is out here,” she said. “It must be a hundred years old, and it hasn't been fired in years, but it still works. I could bring it in to you.”

“No, thanks. I don't want a gun.”

“It's better to have one and . . .”

“No. There's not going to be any shooting.”

“You're sure.”

“I'm sure. I want us all to get out of this without anyone getting hurt.”

“Be careful.”

“Yes.”

At eight o'clock, I parked at the foot of the Goulding Trail. There were car tracks leading farther ahead. I followed them on foot and came to a blue Chevy Blazer with New Jersey plates. It was tucked out of sight behind a clump of oak brush. I tried the doors. Locked. I tried an experimental call: “Orwell, come out, come out, wherever you are, and let's get going!”

No answer. Of course, the man I had decided was Orwell had never actually admitted that he was that person. If any of this ever came to trial, I could never testify that anyone calling himself Orwell had actually admitted to anything. Clever Orwell.

I looked up at the cliffs. Hawks were riding the winds like dots in the sky. I was wearing my very best hiking gear: shorts, a tee shirt advertising Papa's Pizza, my old combat boots, and my forest green Martha's Vineyard Surfcasters Association cap. I had a small knapsack containing the second walkie-talkie, a light jacket, a plastic canteen of water, and a ham and cheese sandwich. I delayed
long enough to cut myself a walking stick, then, having no more excuses, and feeling empty and fatalistic, I started up the trail.

A bit after eleven, puffing like the little engine that could, I passed the Craig Cabin. There was a padlock on the door. I went on up toward the ridge, taking slow steps with many pauses, like the climbers you see in those movies of Everest. I got to the trail at the top of the ridge and sat down, sweating and breathless, my legs weak as Billy Beer.

To the east, between promontories covered with spruce and quaking aspen, I could see the mountains beyond the Animas Valley rolling away toward infinity in giant blue waves. Around me the wind sighed in the trees. At my feet the green meadow I had just ascended fell away to the tiny log cabin and on down to the stream that had, over a million years, cut the gap in the cliffs that made the Goulding Trail possible. It was all shining, it was Adam and maiden. The innocence of the wilderness. I stared at it with fascination.

“You came,” said Orwell's voice from behind me.

I nodded.

“If you'll slip off that knapsack, I'll just have a peek. That's it. Ah. Lunch. Very good. Stand, please.”

I stood.

“You will allow me,” said his voice, and I felt his hands pat me down. “Thank you,” The hands went away.

The knapsack landed lightly beside me. I picked it up, and turned. Orwell, wearing green fatigue pants and a green tee shirt and cap, was putting the walkie-talkie into a backpack. There was a pistol in a camouflaged cloth holster on his belt. There was a flap snapped over the butt of the gun. Orwell got his arms through the straps and hoisted the backpack up onto his shoulders. He noticed me noticing the pistol.

“No machine gun. I hope you're not disappointed, but they're hard to get through metal detectors at the airports.
This pistol, on the other hand, goes through more easily. It's a Glock. A lot of it's plastic.”

“I fired one once.”

“Did you? An excellent weapon, I'm sure you'll agree.” He gestured toward my scarred legs. “You are a veteran, I note. I recognize shrapnel scars when I see them. Asia?”

“The recent unpleasantness in Vietnam.”

“I was too young, but my father was there. I was at Grenada and Panama. The men of my family attend all of the wars.”

“I was an amateur soldier, not a professional.”

“That is an important difference between us. Shall we go?”

I pointed north.

“After you,” he said, with smiling mouth and icy eyes.

We walked north alongside the rail drift fence until we passed through the gate and came, a bit later, to the first of the great, rolling meadows that gave such fine graze to the cattle which summered there. Off to the southwest, the peaks of the La Plata Mountains pointed into the sky. On the far side of the first meadow, a few white-faced cattle grazed. It was a quietly pastoral scene, and I was struck by the irony of our tense intrusion upon it. The cattle lifted their heads and looked at us, then returned to their feeding.

Orwell seemed unaffected by the altitude that was making me pant. We came to the dark spruce woods that grew on the north slope of the vale where Skye's camp had been, and I found the trail leading through the trees. When we emerged on the campsite, Orwell said, “Stop.”

I stopped and looked at him. He was standing half hidden by a tree, sweeping the terrain with field glasses. He took his time, then returned the glasses to his pack, and gestured to me to go ahead. I walked down into the campsite.

Orwell approved of it. “Water, graze for the horses,
early sunlight, flat spots for tents. Good place for a hunting camp. Where's the nearest fishing stream?”

I didn't know. I pointed to the east. “We go that way.”

We walked across the meadow Billy Jo and I had crossed only yesterday, found the trail leading out to the cliffs, and walked through groves of trees and over meadows under the warm nooning sun. We came to the ridge where Skye had said he'd be hiding. I'd seen no hoof-or footprints on the trail, and wondered if he was there. I didn't look to see if I could spot him. We passed out onto the last green meadow that led up to the cliffs and walked on.