Over ten years later, sitting alone, his grave nearby, she still remembered his first touch. It was as familiar and powerful as the last taste of Jean-Philippe's smiling lips.
Neeley shivered. There was much to be done before she left.
Gant had told her that he would find her something like the Bronx meeting for her to get money. She'd always wondered where his money came from but all he would say was that the government paid him every month for past services rendered. With his death that income would be gone and she'd be on her own.
Gant had talked of his root family rarely, telling her he had a mother and a brother. The mother lived somewhere in New York but Neeley had never met her and as far as she knew neither had Gant in the time they were together. Of his brother, Gant had also spoken sparingly. She sensed something dark between Gant and his brother Jack and she had not pried. Gant’s given name was Anthony, but she had never referred to him by it or any derivation of it or heard anyone else do it either.
He’d told her once his father had disappeared when he was twelve, an odd choice of words that left many unanswered issues that Neeley had not probed into. He also had someone he called his Uncle Joe, although Gant had indicated the man was not really blood, but a surrogate father that had raised him in the years after his father’s disappearance. This Uncle had been the one to call Gant with the information on the drug deal.
"Then there are three other things you have to do," Gant had added. He'd reached into his pocket and given her a key. "This is for a locker in the bus terminal in Hartford, Connecticut. Go there. Get what's in it."
She taken the numbered key.
"Then go to Boulder." He'd smiled, recalling better days. "Remember the climb we made in Eldorado Canyon? The first route you led?"
Neeley had nodded. “Thin Air.”
"There's something up there that you will need."
“And the third?”
Gant had pulled out a letter. “It’s for my brother.”
“How do I find him?” Neeley had asked.
“You’ll meet some day. Trust me on that.”
“How will I know him?”
Gant had given a wistful smile. “That won’t be a problem.”
And that had been it. He'd offered no explanation or hint of what she would find in either location or how she would find his brother. When she'd pushed him for more, he shook his head. "I can't tell you what will happen to you once I'm gone; all I can give you is what I had to keep the dead time going." He’d paused and reached into his pocket, pulling out a slip of paper. A phone number was written on it with a 212 area code— New York City. He’d given it to her. “That’s Uncle Joe’s number. If you really are in trouble and need help, call him. He knows your name. He’s very—“Gant seemed to search for the word, and then he smiled wistfully—“resourceful.”
Then he'd tossed his empty beer into the grave and turned for the cabin. The gaping hole and his words had filled her thoughts those last few months. The hole became a symbol for the cancer that was killing Gant and she hated it. But she had always hated the dark small places that Gant insisted were really refuge. He would spend endless hours staring at the hole through the wide front window, wrapped in the big comforter as Neeley fought to keep the fire blazing. Gant had lost so much weight that she could easily carry him, but his voice remained strong as ever. He could no longer participate in her physical training but she still learned through his voice. He had tried to teach her everything he knew and had almost succeeded.
Last week she had finally filled the hole. He had died in her arms, his last words full of sorrow that he was leaving her alone and in some unnamed danger that she would have to work her own way out of. She had sat by the grave a day and a night; her voice a keening cry that echoed through the snow covered mountains and stopped only by vocal cords too swollen to move. Then she had gone to the South Bronx and set up surveillance on the alley to do the first of her tasks.
Looking at the suitcase helped her forget the cold somewhat. Everything had gone as expected, which surprised Neeley. She could hear Gant's voice: No matter how well you prepared and planned, there was always "Murphy" waiting to screw things up. Expect the unexpected and a whole slew of other sayings that Gant had harped on. The rules that he had given her one by one over the years; like other men gave the women they loved jewelry.
She checked the small pile of wood next to the fireplace. Enough to get it going. Then she'd have to break some out of the frozen stack outside and let it thaw in the fire. She looked around for paper to start the fire with.
After a moment, she quietly laughed. For all the preparation, she hadn't laid in any paper to start a fire when she got back.
She tramped outside the cabin to the pick-up, opened the door and grabbed the newspapers she'd bought in town on the way through. She also retrieved the overcoat with the rifle attached inside.
On the way back to the cabin, she paused to appreciate the view. Gant may have hated the cold but he had loved the scenery. The cabin stood on the west slope of Mount Ellen. The glow of the rising sun glanced through the trees one hundred meters above, at the crest of the mountain. Laid out below, like a toy town, down over a thousand meters of altitude and about four kilometers to the northwest, she could discern a few twinkling lights in the tiny village of South Lincoln.
The town was where the paved road ended. To get here from there, Neeley had to put the truck into four-wheel drive and negotiate an old, overgrown logging trail that switched back and forth up the mountain. Gant had enjoyed the isolation.
The cabin didn't have much in the way of conveniences. Water came from a mountain stream, not more than ten feet outside the door; the quick flowing water didn't freeze, even in the coldest winter. Heat came from the fireplace.
Neeley stomped inside and laid the papers on the table. The light from the kerosene lamp highlighted her chilled breath as she quickly scanned the news. She had the late edition New York Times and the Burlington Free Press. The Times had a brief mention about the incident in the Bronx that must have made it in just before press time.
Neeley scanned the article and was satisfied that the official police statement was the usual double-speak, which basically meant the cops didn't have the slightest idea who had done it. Which they shouldn't, Neeley reminded herself.
Curiously, the article didn't mention the destroyed drugs. Neeley had thought the police might have said something about that, but, on reflection, she realized that tidbit might be something they'd keep to themselves for a couple of reasons. It was their little secret to play against any suspects they might come up with; another might be because it would generate some sympathy for whoever had walked away with money. Cops were always afraid of self-styled vigilante killers: bad publicity and a bad example.
The local Vermont paper held nothing on the story. Killings in New York City were common and not especially newsworthy up here in God's country. Neeley crumpled the local, sheet by sheet and lined the bottom of the fireplace. She threw in some kindling and then laid a pair of logs on top. She squirted lighter fluid over the whole mess. Maybe not what Daniel Boone would have done, but she was too cold to worry about style. She threw in a kitchen match. Neeley quickly retreated as the fireplace exploded in flame. While she waited, she pulled the locker key, which hung on a chain around her neck, out. She stared at it, knowing that she would have to be back on the road soon. There was much to do in the next several days.
The cabin was warmer and she finally took off her gloves and sat at her laptop computer. She hooked the modem to her cellular phone. They were the only modern conveniences on the hilltop. When they needed recharging, she plugged a special adapter into the truck's lighter outlet.