You’re right, he said.
Can you come over tonight?
God I want to, he said. But it’s supposed to snow for the whole week and I gotta get the enclosures ready for it.
I got the snow tires on. Maybe I can come up.
Maybe in the daytime tomorrow. Not at night. That would just scare the crap out of me, thinking of you and Jude on the road.
I want to see you.
You do?
Of course I do.
I wasn’t sure you did, he said.
You freaked me out but I love you, Bill Reed.
I love you too, he said, relief pouring through him like an avalanche.
They talked for a few more minutes about the days to come. There was the Fish and Game paperwork to complete. Grace would call Zoo Boise in hopes they might offer some advice. And Bill told her he would try to get out to Bonners the following day to pick up the expired meat and if so he would stop by the house to see her and Jude, saving them the trouble of coming out to the rescue in the storm.
His eyes had adjusted to the darkness of the room now. In the dim light bleeding through the curtained windows he could see the desk, the cold silent heater, his breath in a cloud. I better go switch out my tires before I’m out of daylight, he said.
OK, she said. Be careful out there.
Always am.
They said their good-byes and he hung up the phone, smiling.
The light outside was pale blue as if the sky was frozen into a single enormous plane. The snow had fallen unabated and his booted feet sank until they were buried. He would need to clear the paths out first or he would be struggling all day to get to and from the equipment shed. And he would need to fire the generator to get the heaters functioning. But first he would change out the tires on the truck. After that he would attend to the rest of the list. He would have tomorrow too, and the next day, and the next. If Fish and Game wanted to close down the rescue, they would need to come up here and do it, and with the snow dumping down the way it was, he did not think they would do any such thing. At least not this week.
12
IT’S FIVE HUNDRED CASH BACK, RICK SAID. THAT’S WHAT HE keeps saying on the commercials.
So what?
So that’s a lot of cash to have around. He was sighting down the length of the 99, sighting and then dropping the barrel to look at the cans and the water jug and then raising the rifle and sighting down its length once more.
You gonna shoot at some point? Nat said.
OK, OK, Rick said. He steadied the rifle again and squinted and at last squeezed off a round. A can jumped and rattled away off the rocks.
There it is, Rick said. I was starting to think the damn thing wasn’t shooting right.
I think we’re not shooting right, Nat said.
Too drunk.
Too retarded, Nat said.
Water jug, Rick said.
We’ll see about that.
Rick ejected the spent shell and then stood and aimed and repositioned and aimed and repositioned and finally pulled the trigger. The weapon’s report made Nat wince each time and with it the thin muscles in his forearms jumped as if from a short, faint electric shock. The shot did not hit anything this time and so the water jug remained where they had set it upon a smooth yellow boulder a few dozen yards away, flanked by a series of rusted cans already filled with bullet holes from previous shooters, men and perhaps women with better aim than they. Shit, Rick said. I don’t get it. The fucking jug is the biggest thing down there. I’ve been popping cans for an hour.
They changed positions, Nat with the rifle and Rick sliding to a seat on a stone beside a scraggly and ill-defined bush bristling with spikes and tiny gray-green leaves. The field guide lay next to him on the rock where Nat had left it and now Rick lifted the slim book and paged through it. What’s this thing called?
Saltbush.
Saltbush, Rick said. Christ, how do you find anything in here? Everything looks the same.
It’s just like reading a map, he said.
A map to where?
To here.
It was almost Thanksgiving and the cold of winter had already descended from the mountains, their breath outspiraling under a sky so pale it was very nearly white. The shallow draw they occupied was sunken between two low hills into which the sun shone lengthwise so that the whole of its short span was aglow.
Rick laid the book beside him on the rock and lifted the bottle at his feet. You said he had a safe in his office, right?
Yeah, so what?
So if Milt is giving people five hundred dollars cash back on every car sold, how much does he have on hand?
Nat stared down at the cans and the water jug. His broken index finger pointed down the length of the barrel. Depends on how many cars he sells in a day, he said.
Yeah, so let’s say it’s only like three or five cars. Something like that.
What’s your point, Rick?
My point is it’s open seven days a week so that would be … what … six days would be forty-five hundred and another fifteen so that’s six grand. Probably all in that safe in his office. And that doesn’t even include cash down payments and stuff like that.
Nat turned and looked at him now but Rick only lifted the bottle of Mad Dog from the dirt and took a long drink. You gonna shoot? he said.
Nat returned to the cans and took aim and fired, pulling the trigger with his middle finger. This time the bark of the weapon made his index finger jolt with pain. Nothing moved. Not even a puff of dust.
How big is that safe you saw?
I don’t know.
Small enough to carry?
I don’t know, Rick. Maybe. Probably … This is crazy talk. That’s what this is. Where’s all this coming from?
Just talkin’, Rick said.
No you’re not, Nat said. He had turned toward Rick but now he faced the targets again. This is a bad stupid idea. Seriously. A bad bad idea.
Jesus, I’m just talking, Rick said. Don’t get excited.