I walked on back to the fire. Laurie had gotten into the van and made a nest of the sleeping bags where Madbird had sported with Tessa Wills and no telling who else. She was lying there curled up on her side. I sat down inside the open doors, next to her feet.
I owed a lot of people now in ways I'd never imagined-Madbird, Hannah, Sarah Lynn. But I owed Laurie my life. This afternoon while we'd driven around town, she had talked about feeling kinship. But it was hard to fathom her risking her own life for that.
"I can understand why you warned me today," I said. "Why you kept watch on your husband, why you tried to call me when you saw John Doe. But driving to my place with him right behind you-I mean, you hardly know me."
"What would you have done? Stood by and let somebody die?"
I shook my head. I had no idea what I would have done.
"I've started to say thanks a hundred times," I said. "But it sounds so feeble."
She patted my hand. "It sounds very sweet."
I knew she meant that, but somehow it underlined the fact that all the words in the universe were worthless. The only thanks that would count would be getting her out of this mess.
"We'll start making sense of things tomorrow," I said. "You better put your shoes inside your sleeping bag, otherwise they'll freeze." The bags were good ones, heavy goose down that would keep you warm even below zero, but footwear or damp clothing left outside would be stiff as a board by morning.
Among the gear I'd thrown into the van were a couple of foam pads, the kind you rolled up to carry backpacking. They weren't great for comfort but they helped keep the chill of the earth from creeping into you. I tucked them under my arm and started gathering up the empty sleeping bag beside her.
"Where are you going?" she said anxiously.
"Just outside."
"To sleep?"
"Well, yeah. I want you to have your space."
She sat up and grabbed my sleeve. "What about the wolverines?"
I wouldn't have believed that I ever could have laughed again. But Laurie was not amused.
"Why is that funny?" she said coolly.
"They're tough little bastards, but even they can't chew their way in here."
"I'm not worried about in here. I'm worried about out there."
"I'll leave the keys in the ignition. If there's nothing left of me in the morning but bloody bones-"
"Asshole," she snapped. "I need a lot more from you than the fucking keys, and you better be here for me." She let go of me and thumped herself down again, this time with her back turned.
I rubbed my hand over my hair, feeling like I'd been punched. I'd been trying to lighten things up. But after watching her stab John Doe, I should have known she was volatile.
"Sorry," I said. "I wasn't thinking."
"I don't even know what they are, really," she said, still facing away.
"What what are?"
"Wolverines."
"Kind of a skunk on steroids, with an attitude like a pit bull," I said. "But they don't usually come near humans."
"Then why did they come near you?"
"They were hungry."
"See?" She sat up again triumphantly.
"No, not hungry for us-"
"Who was us?"
"Madbird and me."
"And?" She folded her hands in her lap and looked at me solemnly. My clouded brain grasped that she had changed, within a few seconds, from a fiercely demanding woman to a child expecting a bedtime story. Auburnlocks and the Three Wolverines. And yet, I still felt like she was the grown-up and I was the kid.
I sat back down and told her.
A couple of years earlier, Madbird and I had been looking for a new place to fish-driving back roads, drinking beer, mostly just enjoying a fine Saturday in May. Neither of us had tried this spot before, and we stopped to check it out. The stream was too fast and clear to look really promising, but there were pools, and the place was as pretty as they got.
"What kind of flies were you using?" Laurie said. It had the feel of a question she'd learned to ask to sound knowledgeable.
"The kind called worms."
"Oh." She looked taken aback. "I thought that was-well, bad form."
"So do the trout." To a hungry rainbow or brookie, a fat squirming nightcrawler was a Big Mac with fries.
We'd judged the stream correctly-after a couple of hours we'd caught four or five and kept just two, barely pan-size. We were reaching the point of having to decide whether we were really fishing-in which case we knew a spot on the Little Blackfoot, on the way home, where we could pull out a half dozen pretty good ones in short order-or just fucking around, and we'd hang there a while longer and drink another beer and save ourselves a bunch of fish cleaning. Things were definitely leaning toward the second choice.
Then I heard Madbird say, "We ain't got much, but you're welcome to it."
He was a little way upstream, his voice loud enough to carry over the rushing water. For a second I assumed he was talking to me, but his words didn't make any sense, and he was looking straight ahead. I followed his gaze.
A wolverine was standing across the creek in the forest maybe a hundred feet away, watching us. I'd never seen one before, and my immediate hit was of a bear cub. But then I registered the white markings and the low, built-for-assault body shape. Something behind it was rustling around in the brush. After a few seconds I glimpsed a kit, then a second one. There might have been more.
At this elevation, spring came late. There was still a lot of snow around and not much food. Wolverines were voracious, and a single mom with a family to feed would be hard-pressed-hungry and aggressive. They were lightning-fast, vicious, and fearless, capable of chewing their way out of a cage of eight-inch logs in a matter of hours, known to attack grizzlies, and rumored to have killed humans. I didn't know if that was true, but she sure wasn't backing away.
Like a lot of animals, wolverines had figured out that people were likely to have food around-they were notorious for raiding unoccupied cabins and camps. She might have smelled our fish or even known that men doing what we were doing sometimes caught fish. She wanted to bully us out of there and have lunch.
That was fine with me.
But Madbird, moving slowly, set down his fishing rod, crouched at the water's edge, and pulled out the net bag with our pair of keepers. He tossed one toward her onto the rocks of the opposite bank. The wolverine shifted in agitation, a quick sinuous movement that brought her a few feet closer, and had me ready to run for it. But she didn't charge us. The trout was still alive enough to flop feebly. Mom lifted her nose, sniffing hard.
Madbird tossed the second trout. "Stick around, I'll try and get you something better," he called to her.
He backed away and, with that same almost lazy lack of haste, reeled in his fishing line and picked up his other gear. I did the same. Mom watched us until we'd retreated twenty or thirty yards. But then she started warily toward the fish, with the kits running around her like berserk little satellites.
When we got to the van, Madbird pulled out his 30-30.
"I'm gonna see if I can bag them a chuck or something," he said. "I won't be long."
I stowed the fishing gear, then opened a cold beer and walked back down to where I could see the lunch party. It was long since over-it had probably lasted about ten seconds-but they were still there, with mom watchful again. Her head moved constantly, taking in everything that was happening around her. But her gaze kept coming back our way and lingering. I was sure she wasn't seeing me. I got the damnedest feeling that she was counting on Madbird to deliver.