Daniel was squatting there wondering if he could hide the Diamond under the turban when he saw, directly across the aisle, at eye level, exactly what he was looking for. The listed contents indicated a complete costume:
MOUNTAIN MAN / TRAPPER
AMERICAN CIRCA 1840–60
SIZE 46 (APPROX.)
BUCKSKIN SHIRT/PANTS
ELKSKIN MOCCASINS & LEGGINGS
FOXHEAD CAP (7¼–½)
CHEYENNE DYED-QUILL BELT W/ ANTELOPE SKIN POUCHES
LARGE POSSIBLES SACK: BUFFALO HIDE,
BRAIDED OTTER-SKIN STRAP
POWDER HORN, BUCKSKIN THONG
The first two words – MOUNTAIN MAN – convinced him; the contents delightfully confirmed it. Perfect. Especially the possibles sack, which if he remembered correctly from his boyhood reading was a large pouch for the miscellany of the trapper’s work as well as personal treasures, totems, and medicines. Johnny Seven Moons had told him the mountain men were about as close as whites ever came to being Indians.
Daniel, for a long moment, remembered walking naked in the spring rain between Seven Moons and his mother, each holding a hand, how safe he’d felt, how complete, as the warm rain streamed down his body. Seven Moons and his mother were both dead now, but he knew the memory would remain when there was no one left to remember, curving through space like light from a dead star, curving back to its origin in the Infinite Dazzle.
Daniel dressed slowly, savoring the assumption of another self. As he slipped on the buckskins, he imagined the odors of pinesap and smoke and grease dripping from buffalo steaks. The moccasins and foxhead cap fit like they’d been custom made, and the pouched belt decorated with dyed porcupine quills was a work of art. The rough-tanned possibles sack, however, looked worrisomely small.
He picked up the powder horn and returned to the bedroom. He lifted the Diamond from the bowling-bag. To his great satisfaction, the Diamond slipped right in the possibles sack. He cinched the thong around the elkhorn catch, knotting it securely. He put his few toilet items in the belt pouches, then carefully stuffed the powder horn with some of the money from the attaché case – around eight thousand dollars.
He hid his old clothes in various costume boxes, stashed the day pack and its four thousand dollars in the SWISS MILKMAID box. He slipped the case – with about five thousand left in it – onto a shelf with other luggage and hand grips. He returned all the costumes he’d strewn around to their proper boxes.
He smoothed out the bed and hung the damp towel behind the dresser after using it to wipe off prints.
He stood a few minutes, pondering what he might have missed. Granted, the mountain-man garb would attract attention, but, as Jean Bluer had taught him, the outlandishly improbable is often the best disguise. Besides, seriousness needn’t necessarily compromise style.
Daniel loved the hang of his buckskins, the way the moccasins connected him to the floor, the slung weight of the Diamond under his left arm, the idea of a fox curled on top of his skull. Without the case and bowling bag, he felt lighter. Lighthearted, too, but not giddy.
He vanished and exited through a wall, heading north. A half mile later he reappeared, turning west toward town. He ignored the curious stares, waved back when someone yelled from a passing car. He tried to recall what he’d read on the mountain men, their stories, their names. He wanted a name that fit his journey. He chose Hugh Glass. He remembered the story of Hugh Glass, who had crawled two hundred and fifty miles to the nearest fort after a grizzly had mauled him. Strength. Determination. Tenacity. He would be Hugh Glass.
A dusty old pickup waited in the gas bay of a Shell Station on the corner while a stooped gray-haired man watched it fill. On impulse, Daniel asked if he happened to be heading east. He was. But his wife and granddaughter were with him, just freshening up in the bathroom, and they were taking Highway 50, which he called the ‘loneliest road in the world,’ and their turnoff was only thirty miles out, and that would leave Daniel in the middle of goddamn nowhere in the dark. But hell, if it didn’t make him no mind, hop on in the back.
Daniel felt lighter and lighter.
THE FIRST NOTEBOOK OF JENNIFER RAINE
APRIL/LEAVING RENO
Life is still great.
My name is Susanna Rapp. Says so right here on my driver’s license, birth certificate, and passport. Rapp is an old Germanic word meaning ‘young raven’ or ‘brilliant counselor,’ depending on the root. I do like to talk, and Rapp sounds tough. ‘Susanna’ because I always liked that song, ‘Oh Susanna, don’t you cry for me…’ Hey sweetheart, I’ll cry if I feel like it. Even though I’m not the sort of woman men serenade.
When Longshot got up this morning, I had to tell him that as much as I liked him – which is a lot – I’d have to be moving on. I told him about meeting the DJ at Jim Bridger’s grave. Longshot understood. And because he did understand, because he honestly cared to, I told him the short version of my life.
When I had finished, he said, ‘I don’t think you’re crazy. You’re kinda intense and slippery and taken with some fancies. I’ve gotten out there myself, more than once to tell the truth, and I always got back.’
‘How?’ Imagine my eagerness.
‘Well, I have a kind of unusual method. Works good for me, but it’s on the order of fightin’ fire with fire. I get an ounce of blow and a fast car and drive straight to Kansas City, then turn around without stoppin’ and drive right back. Reams out the sludge.’
I tell you, that man is charming. And since I’d hoped he’d beg me to stay, preferably forever, I was a little depressed. But let me tell you, a little depression is no problem for a woman with nearly two hundred thousand dollars in her purse.
First, with Longshot’s help (he seems to know everybody), I spent five grand on a new identity. Clicked my picture and rolled my thumb, and an hour later I was Susanna Rapp.
I bought a brand-new cardinal Porsche. Seventy thousand. I was cheering up.
I felt good enough about myself then to buy clothes. Ten thousand dollars – but that includes luggage and shoes.
I bought Longshot a big silver belt buckle with two glazed plastic eyeballs glued to it. Engraved around the edges is the motto: ‘The eyes of Texas are upon you.’
Longshot said, ‘The best thing about being crazy is you can do crazy things.’
From Longshot I bought an ounce of cocaine and an ounce of weed and twenty Quaaludes – all for a grand. He claimed that since the drugs were for therapeutic purposes, not recreational, he was honor bound to sell at cost. When I asked point-blank if he was a drug dealer, he said with that easy grin, ‘Not really. I stock up for hard times when there’s quality available. Long shots wouldn’t be long shots if they always came in.’