He had grown bored with destroying ants and drifted back toward us, resentful about being left out.
“Look, a boat’s bound to come by sooner or later,” I told Andrea. “Maybe even a plane. When it does, I’ll fire a few shots at it. That’ll get the cops out here fast enough.”
“It could be days before anybody comes by. This place is very remote.”
I smiled.
“That’s no problem. I know a place we can hide up for a week and no one’ll find us.”
She sighed. Then, getting up on tiptoes, she kissed my cheek.
“They don’t need to find us. The only water on the island is down by the hall.”
“I can sneak down there during the night and get some.”
“And get shot? They may be crazy, Philip, but they’re not stupid.”
“Where’s this place you’re going to show me?” demanded David peevishly.
“We’re going there right now,” I said, taking his hand.
I looked at Andrea.
“How’s your arm?”
“It hurts like hell. But I don’t care. I’m so glad to be here. I’m so glad you’re here.”
I wanted to kiss her, but David’s presence inhibited me.
“It’ll be all right,” I whispered in her ear. “Everything’s going to be all right.”
We walked on along the path, David and I hand in hand, Andrea following close behind. The weather had turned warm and summery, bathing the woods in a benign light that seemed full of the promise of things to come, of growth and change and new life.
Eventually we reached one of the side paths which I had explored the day before. It was overgrown and steep in places, and Andrea especially made slow and painful progress. About halfway up, erosion had caused a gully to open up, almost obliterating the path. Some trees had collapsed into this cleft, coming to rest at an angle over a boulder in a way that formed a natural shelter. Inside, we would be invisible from anyone on the path, but with a good view out over the strait which separated us from the distant islands to the south.
Before we climbed down, Andrea got us foraging for food. Lisa and her friends had apparently been into living off the land and food-for-free, and Andrea still had all the old skills. Before long we had a collection of berries, leaves and nuts which looked extremely unappetizing, but which gave us something to chew on. Then I climbed down to the uppermost tree, and helped the others to scramble down the chute of dry mud. The shelter was home to a family of sea gulls the size of ducks, who squawked and flapped their wings proprietorially as we invaded their domain, but once we got rid of them we were left in peace.
The trees had retained enough of their root system to keep their leaves alive, and it was very beautiful under the canopy of foliage, the light filtering down and the sun warming every surface. Andrea resumed the story she had been telling, but before long David fell asleep. Andrea and I stayed awake a while longer. I asked her about her life, her family, her background and beliefs. She answered haltingly at first, then with increasing confidence, like someone speaking a language she hadn’t used for a long time.
The light slowly began to fade, tucking shadows in around us like a comforter. Our conversation became more and more desultory, and in the end we must have fallen asleep too. I remember waking once, and automatically reaching for the body I found beside me, without even knowing who it was. I may have mentioned Rachael’s name. If so, Andrea pretended not to notice. We huddled together and fell back into the soothing solitude of our respective dreams.
It was dark outside when we were awakened by a loud roaring noise, and a lurid glare which made our shadows revolve like a carousel.
21
Joe Quinlan was driving a truckload of hay back to the barn when his pager sounded. The low beams of early evening light which showed up every detail of the meadows to his right had turned the woods on the other side to a jagged sheet of black. Quinlan swung into the Cooks’ drive, backed out facing the way he’d come and jammed the pedal to the metal, swooping around the curves and over the belly-wrenching undulations of the two-lane blacktop that meandered the length of the island.
The grass in the fields was burned to a deep ochre, the driest Quinlan could remember for years. Lying in the rain shadow of the Olympic mountains, the San Juans had a microclimate totally unlike the prevailing conditions along the rest of the coast. Tourists, off-island immigrants and elderly convalescents loved this “banana belt” effect, but for the islanders themselves it was a mixed blessing. After a month in which the sun had blazed down almost every day, water supplies were now dangerously low. The whole county was like a primed barbecue waiting for a flame.
It took him twelve minutes to reach the outskirts of Friday Harbor, and another five to get through the convoy of cars, trucks and RVs which had just disembarked from the ferry. When he finally pulled up outside the Fire House, the doors were closed and both engines still inside. In the office, he found Jim McTafferty and Ed Boyle sipping coffee. McTafferty was wearing jeans and a Hawaiian shirt, Boyle a pair of combat pants and a T-shirt inscribed “Accordions Don’t Play Lady of Spain-People Do.”
“What’s the idea?” he demanded.
McTafferty looked up with a pesky smile.
“Hi, Joe. We got a reported blaze at the old camp on Sleight. Thought we might take the boat over, have ourselves a look at the situation.”
Joe Quinlan stared at him incredulously.
“You drug me all the way down here for that? Sleight’s private, you know that. Those hippies don’t pay taxes. Fuck ’em if they’ve got a fire. Let it burn itself out.”
“What day’s it today, Joe?” asked Ed Boyle.
Quinlan frowned.
“Hell’s that got to do with it?”
Boyle looked at McTafferty.
“He don’t get it,” he said sadly.
Jim McTafferty shook his head.
“I guess he don’t.”
“OK, Joe,” said Boyle, “you better run along now. Wouldn’t want you to be late for charm school.”
Joe Quinlan felt a sinking sensation in his gut. He’d forgotten all about the function that evening. At seven o’clock, they were all supposed to assemble at the high school to attend a “Communication Skills and Stress Management Seminar.” Some salesman had gotten to the Chief and convinced him that the “emergency response capability” of San Juan County would be “enhanced” if all personnel participated in an “interactional growth experience providing a neutral space in which to ventilate feelings and promote team cohesion through the development of problem-solving strategies and coping mechanisms.”
“This facilitator they brought in from the mainland sounds like she really knows her stuff,” McTafferty said. “That seven-page questionnaire they sent around sure made me realize my communication skills need to be upgraded. I couldn’t understand a goddamn word.”
“I hear they’re going to have role-playing too,” Ed Boyle chimed in. “I sure hate not to get a chance to express my true feelings. I remember going to those Lamaze classes when Jean was pregnant. That was so much fun. I really miss all that touchy-feely stuff.”
He wiggled his fingers in the air.
“Hell, yes,” said McTafferty. “We’ll be thinking of you, Joe.”
“Let us know how it goes,” added Boyle.
Joe Quinlan looked at them.
“The Chief said it was mandatory.”
“Mandatory this!” said Boyle, stabbing a finger in the direction of his crotch.
“Thing is,” McTafferty explained, “we’ve had this report of a fire on Sleight, like I said, and in my capacity as deputy I consider it incumbent on me to investigate personally and if need be inform the state authorities pertaining to the risk of environmental damage.”
“Way to communicate,” murmured Ed Boyle.
“I’m taking Ed here along ’cause it’s getting dark and he knows the waters around here better than anyone, and I was also hoping to draw on your considerable experience, Joe, to assist me in any decision I might feel called upon to make. Plus I know you just love watching things burn. But it would mean missing out on this seminar, and I can see you don’t want to do that.”