Baxter Bog Interlude
by
Arne L. Bue
Published by Baxter Bog Cards and Collectibles at Smashwords
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organization, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.
Baxter Bog Interlude, an eBook, Copyright (c)2009 by Arne L. Bue. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, address Baxter Bog Cards and Collectibles, P.O. Box 1573, Homer, Alaska, 99603.
ISBN 978-0-9823118-3-7
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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Other books by Arne L. Bue
Banto Carbon and the Prehistoric Proboscis
Learn more about these ebooks here: Alaska eBooks Alaskan Authors and by reading the latest Press Release.
Acknowledgments
I acknowledge the kind insights of Mary Barr of the Sierra Literary Agency; Bill Carroll, Rob Crosman, Karen Jensen, Cynthia Monroe, Judy Monroe, and Judith Moore of the writer's group; Mary Jane Sutliff, Charlotte Lord and the Anchorage Writers' Guild; Jon and Patricia Bue of Homer, as well as Steve and Paul Bue of Anchorage for their creative thoughts; Barnaby and Mary Conrad and the staff of the Santa Barbara Writers' Conference, and Verna Pratt, Naturalist.
For my wife, Shirley.
Baxter Bog Interlude
Arne L. Bue
CHAPTER ONE
Arvad Winstor slipped into his parka and gloves and left the safety of his condo to wander about on one of the coldest nights of the year, not too far, but seething and angry and not looking around. He walked about two hundred yards before hearing through his hood an odd rumbling noise, plainly loud enough to interrupt the fuming in his head, and he stopped, thinking the sound must have come from near the trees off the trail.
Often he walked these same snow trails, taking in the northern lights, and he recalled his visits here in the summers, procuring environmental data for Kollarhond and Smith, the thankless bastards. They should treat environmental analysts better, he thought, even if he was only grade one.
A lingering shape leisurely etched itself in among the branches, and after awhile in the lights and shadows shifting about, Winstor could make out a thick neck, a pendulous nose, heavy shoulders, and he thought he saw the head suddenly lift. A bull moose, a big one. The wind shifted, making Winstor uncomfortable, the animal downwind, so he trudged ahead, thinking rather than walking here with the sub-zero air biting the skin on his cheeks, nose and forehead, he should be shooting pool on Muldoon.
He'd paid a price hanging around the bar playing nine-ball with the University people. He was going to work in the mornings with a slow brain and red rivulets in the whites of his eyes, and he was always short of cash near the end of the month, behind on the car payments and barely making the rent on his condo. He'd been losing parts of his evenings from all the beer he drank on an empty stomach. That's why he tried staying home with his cat, chowing on burgers and pizzas, reading The Smithsonian and Tony Hillerman mysteries, and watching Late Night with David Letterman, a boring routine that didn't give him the peace of mind he wanted. Most of the time he fumed about the situation at work, which drove him here, out in the cold.
He looked at the trail ahead, winding in snow around Baxter Bog Park, and he tried to push his concern about the moose from his mind, saying to himself, I left the big fella back there, didn't I?
He wished he could leave Kollarhond, walk away from the job like he was walking away from the moose. He was angry enough to quit, Kollarhond sticking him in the cold part of the building where there was no heat. Winstor smuggled his Titan in, hid the cord and the heater under his desk. Every morning he plugged the cord in and turned the switch when Kollarhond and Dr. Smith weren't watching. He figured they wanted to get rid of him, sticking him there, practically ignoring him.
He hardly thought about the snow glimmering on the frozen bog or the northern lights irradiating the snowscape, and he did not care about the green curtains shifting overhead, but he saw how the wind had blown the branches of black spruce clear of snow. Their dark shapes reminded him of childhood nightmares, wicked creatures watching, and he heard his own crunching footsteps, and heard again the sound off the trail. He looked back. A muffled sort of resonance this time, and closer. The moose had disappeared, but there were shadows on the bog to his left, lights to his right off the trail, the shadows moving under the shifting waves from above, the lights coming from Mrs. Wentzler's condo over the fence, across the snow. He focused on the bog. Spiked tops of trees stood outlined one by one before him, and a nearly imperceptible shape began to move. The animal had advanced closer to him than he wanted, and condensation rose about the head. Winstor figured from the angle that the bull was looking at him, a spark of light from Mrs. Wentzler's condo in its eye, and he hurried on, stopping when he came to a dark, oblong obstacle, probably, he was thinking, a toppled spruce lying across the trail from a recent blow. He looked back, losing sight of the bull, but as he judged where to step around, he heard a quiet rumble from the animal, clearly not the sound he would have expected, often having heard them before. A gust blew across the bog, a shimmering stream under the northern lights, and as the rush relented and the snow settled slowly like a silent green veil, he heard the bull's hoofs rise and fall, saw the animal move from the shadows of the black spruce, leaving the snow of the bog, heading for the hard pack of the trail. Reaching the trail, the bull stood broadside, blocking Winstor's retreat.
If only he had stayed inside, done pushups, anything to work off the anger. Even his `good mornings' to Kollarhond went ignored. And he couldn't socialize with management personnel, like Kollarhond's secretary, Emily, because of a policy Kollarhond had instituted. And he didn't have permission to enter the heated hallway, the one leading to the Special Section. Winstor looked behind him, the trail winding into a black stand of birch and willow. Once during spring break-up he had come here only to turn back because of a bull. The bull was working an expanse of willow, and as Winstor moved within fifty feet, the bull swung its head and seemed ready to charge. Not unusual for that to happen. No problem. He backed off, took another route home that day. But this particular moose wasn't guarding its browsing territory; besides, Winstor was walking away from the animal.
Over his shoulder Winstor saw the hulk move closer, tacking towards him like a sailing ship. He heard the breathing, saw air from the bull's nose, tendrils thick in the cold. The bull was coming at him. Winstor pushed through the snow to the fence and leapt. His boots sank in a knee-high drift, and he dove forward, landed on his stomach, got up and dove again. He did not move, hoping the snow was deep enough to hide him, praying the moose would stop at the fence, perhaps lose sight of his human form, lying flat.
He could not stay long, the cold seeping through his wool pants, and he thought of Mrs. Wentzler's condo. He must gain cover under the porch. The moose might not see well, but its smell and hearing were excellent. As Winstor pushed himself up, he saw the snow drifts were in clumps, the depth elbow-high. Standing, he heard the bull snort, saw the front legs coming over the fence. The animal disappeared from sight as a flurry swept through, raising a gray and green sheet of fine glistening snow. Forward Winstor dashed, hoping the snow ahead was no deeper than his knees.
Fifty yards to go.
As the gust subsided, he heard a long, prolonged bawl, and he looked over his shoulder and saw the moose hanging back, swinging his head side to side, striking its hoofs into the outline left in the snow where Winstor had lain moments before.
The deck porch was ahead.
Yes, Yes.
He threw snow aside and felt muscles in his arms ache, and he kept digging, hearing the animal's breathing, the hoofs sinking in the snow, digging until he saw he had gone down enough. The drift broke open: a hole, leading under the planking.
Winstor wiggled through.
He took heaving breaths, and cold air seared his lungs; as he drew his knees to his chin, he heard breathing, rushes of air above, and hoofs battering the decking. The latch of Mrs. Wentzler's sliding glass door leading to the deck clicked. Winstor heard the wheels on the bottom of the door roll over runners, the door opening, his neighbor probably unaware, twenty feet from the animal.
"No! Close the door, call the police! He'll attack!"
She probably did not see, the shape of the animal mixing with shadows from the trees near the porch. "What on earth are you doing under there? I saw you digging," she said.
My God, she's scolding me, he thought. "Close the door! Call for help!"
Winstor heard hoofs and a shrill cry from Mrs. Wentzler.
"Call 911! 911!" he yelled.
The door rolled on the runners and slammed. Above his face the bull's lips began working the spaces between the deck boards, its wind reaching in puffs through the cracks.
Deck won't support him, he was thinking, must weigh near two thousand pounds.
He threw his voice to the opening, kicking his feet out. "Hey! Hey! Hey!"
The boards cracked as the bull stepped off. The animal breathed in the opening, and the lips sucked over its teeth, seeking his foot, his leg. Winstor pulled his feet inside and rubbed his cheeks and nose and tightened his hood strings as, pawing and grunting, the moose widened the entrance, poking further in. Human scent must have excited the animal because the pawing became obsessive. After what seemed a very long time, Winstor could see the bull couldn't get in. He heard it again climb on the porch, and he cringed as the hoofs sharpened on the planking, and he squeezed his eyes shut, praying the cops would hurry, finish the moose.
Oddly, the cold began making him drowsy, and he began battling to stay aware and alert. The joints in his fingers were hard to move, nearly locked, and he could hardly move his right elbow and then only with much effort. He felt a horrible numbness grip his forehead, and though he fought, his mind began to play tricks and he began to float off, dreaming of those days when he was a kid with his dog Prince, in Ketchikan. They had run through the woods and came upon a warm field. He could smell the golden grasses of the field, waist-high, and he could see the dog wag his tail and look at him with asking eyes. The hoofs struck hard, inches above his face, and he thought he felt his body jerk, but wasn't too sure, since it seemed detached from him now. He wasn't with his dog, his heart pounding in his ears, and he heard new sounds, maybe more grunts, and figured the sounds drifted across the snow from the fence, maybe another moose. He heard the sound again, muffled, but closer, not moose, people, humans murmuring. The moose stopped pawing and moved over him, cracking the wood above his face. The voices grew clearer, but not the words, and he opened his mouth and made a frail, gurgling sound he was sure did not reach them, and all the while he could hear them pushing through the snow, coming closer.
Men's voices. Coming to save me, he thought.
"The trail, dead there."
"Over there, moose on the porch. Fire, fire!"
The blast buzzed in Winstor's head and he thought he heard glass in the door shatter, but wasn't sure because his ears hummed. Boards above him cracked, and planks heaved, ripped from two-by-fours framing the deck, probably lifted by the weight of the animal's fall on decking hung over the yard. The animal sank in the snow by the opening. Winstor's feet grew warm, a wave of blood washing over them, but he knew the warmth would not last long; soon the blood would freeze. He tasted copper as the odor reached him, and as he tried to move his tongue around inside his mouth he heard the animal take a breath and hack, deep from its lungs.
And silence. The bull moose stopped breathing.
Boots crunched close by, the snow squeaking like chalk. Winstor tried to speak, but he couldn't get his mouth and throat to work, frozen with fear and shock, and no way could he work his way out the way he came in, the dead mass blocking the hole. The one way out was through the opening above, the torn decking. Lights: green curtains undulating overhead, maddening northern lights. His feet would not move, encased in the paste. He was sure he would not last long, dressed like this, not moving, no circulation in his fingers, his cheeks, his feet, his nose, his ears.
He drifted.
CHAPTER TWO
He saw himself in the skiff, the 10 horse Johnson running wide open. He was seventeen years old, steering the skiff, moving down the inlet in the Queen Charlotte Islands, Canadian islands, thinking about the storm on the salmon fishing grounds in Hecate Strait, blowing him and his dad into the islands for safe harbor. The sun reflected off the water, making his face feel as warm as he imagined it was now, lying there, freezing to death. He headed the skiff toward shore, steering for the hot water that bubbled from the ground and smelled like rotten eggs, like the smell of the last breath of the moose. Fishermen had made a trough to feed the mineral water into a crude tub, and he would take a hot bath, then swim in the cool inlet. He must put his feet in the tub of water, which would make his feet feel like they did now, warm in blood from the moose.
Snow by the porch crunched under a heavy boot, and Winstor stirred and could tell his feet were not warm; they were freezing. He would die. The arteries along his neck began to throb and he began to take fast, shallow breaths. He opened his mouth, and formed a word.
"Stuck," he said.
A white shroud - light from a flashlight - lay over him, and he heard a harsh, dirty voice. "We got him. Moose done us a favor."
The words confused Winstor. Must be a mistake. He called out to them. "I can't move."
Light blinded him, and he heard the voice. "Get out of there."
Winstor moved his right foot; strings of blood pulled back. Harder, he pulled, breaking the foot loose. The other foot was not so easy. Winstor heard the voice. "Extend your arms."
A direct order. He lifted his arms, reaching his hands out, for his life. They will save me, save me. And Winstor felt metal around his wrists, and heard the click; handcuffs dug into his wrists, and the man hefted him to his feet.
Winstor swayed against him as his knees gave. Iron fingers dug into his arm. The faces and condos and lights seemed foreign and his lungs hurt from the cold. He thought he recognized his brown condo on the other side of the trailhead, a hundred yards south of Mrs. Wentzler's place, and he saw a blurred movement, probably Mrs. Wentzler donning mittens and a parka and boots. The cops -Winstor began to figure there were two of them probably were thinking of taking her to a warmer place, her door shattered like that. But they began steering toward Hampton Drive, and right away Winstor realized they were not heading for his condo. They were marching to a van.
Mrs. Wentzler looked wide-eyed, like a frightened deer, and her voice was sharp in the cold air. "Why are you doing this? Who's going to pay for my door? You could have killed me."
And the cop digging his fingers into Winstor's bicep said: "You know this guy?"
"He's lived next door for years! What on earth..."
"We got a call," the cop said. "There's a dead body out there, and this man," the cop dug his fingers in and jerked when he said this, "knows what happened."
Winstor's knees weakened and he began to shake. He did not want to, but he relieved himself, the urine momentarily warming his crotch, and he opened his mouth to speak, but words would not come out. One of the cops, the narrow, pasty-faced one, loomed and looked him over with the flashlight. "Not in the van. He went to the bathroom right in his pants. Take him to the body, Tony."
Winstor flinched from the digging fingers as Tony forced him along the trail. His urine froze solid, chafing his thigh as they approached the fallen tree, and he was thinking how odd, the metal of the handcuffs feels hot, even in this freezing weather. They were not hot, but they felt as though they were burning into him.
Under the flashlights the obstacle in the trail, what he had thought a tree, changed shape. This was a human blocking the trail, belly down, arms and legs splayed, a dark ski suit. The back of the head was crushed, and the skull spread like a purple flower. One of the legs drew him. The right calf had been sliced. The carver had done a careful piece of work, as though removing a choice cut. Winstor turned his face away, wanting to return home, but the skull held him, the cuffs held his wrists, Tony's fingers dug into his arm. There should be more blood, he was thinking, a skull agape like that, brains should have spilled over the trail. What blood he saw colored the snow maroon under the flashlights, and from tracks in the snow, a hoofed animal had circled, probably the bull moose. The skull was empty, cleansed of its contents, gawking like a mouth. Winstor retched and heard next to him Mrs. Wentzler's high cry. His puke began to freeze the minute it
hit the ground. "For God's sake, get us out of here," Mrs. Wentzler said.
CHAPTER THREE
Winstor felt the heat from his kitchen on his cheeks. The urine on his wool pants would thaw, and, though dazed, he figured it wouldn't be long before he began to stink. He heard the cops and Mrs. Wentzler talking, saw them looking him up and down, heard them tell her she could file a claim for the door if she wanted, and all she had to do was get someone to start boarding up the opening, and not to worry so much about it, just a shotgun blast.
Still not warm and confused, Winstor mumbled answers to their questions. He talked about his work with LifeData. He told them he was an environmental analyst, grade one. He told them about the classes he taught part time at the University, entomology, bugs. Winstor heard Tony, the cop with narrow eyes, call for the paramedics. "They've got this van. They can haul the body away," he said to Mrs. Wentzler.
"Well, I want you people to get someone right away to start boarding up my door. I want to go home and start cleaning," Mrs. Wentzler said.
Looking at the pasty-faced cop, Tony said, "Phil, you want to call someone, come board up her door?"
"Guess I can do that without too much trouble," he said. Phil made a short call. He came back and lit a cigarette and began looking Winstor up and down. Winstor resented the smirk.
Phil asked, "How do you feel?" He didn't really care, the way he moved his eyebrows and smirked at Tony.
Mrs. Wentzler didn't give Winstor time to answer. "Can't you see he's in shock? I don't understand why you would handcuff a nice man like Mr. Winstor. He would never hurt anyone. You people are ridiculous," she said.
"Oh, sure, sure," Tony said. "This guy fits the profile perfectly. A bug man, quiet, lives here alone with a stupid cat. Don't go telling me he wouldn't do what was done. Wait'll Sergeant Lagadi gets here."
Winstor watched Mrs. Wentzler's jaw muscles tighten. "Well, you've made a terrible mistake. He almost got killed by that creature. And he warned me and he saved me. And you ruined my door. You could have killed me. Irresponsible jackasses, the lot of you."
Out the window Winstor saw the paramedics' van and two police cars pull up, the lights turning. He pressed his face against the window, looking at them form down the trail around the body. Flash bulbs lit the night. Winstor's eyes and head hurt as he watched a stretcher carried over the trail.
"I need out of these clothes," Winstor said. His frustration must have come through, the way the cops turned their heads. Winstor began shaking his handcuffed wrists, looking at Tony. "Take these cuffs off," he said.
The cops looked at each other. "Yeah, Tony, better let him change. Lagadi don't like bad smells," Phil said.
A key clicked in the cuffs. He cleaned himself in the bathroom, and climbed into fresh underwear and jeans, terribly insulted as Tony, with narrow eyes, watched him. But he held his temper and returned to the kitchen table, hoping this would be over soon.
Winstor regarded Mrs. Wentzler's face, florid in the kitchen light. Her brown and gray hair was rolled in yellow curlers, her face wrinkled in worry. "I was watching the news on Channel 2 and I don't know what made me look out at the bog. My God you were digging through the snow, Mr. Winstor. I thought you were up to mischief, until I saw the moose, right there on my porch."
Winstor looked at the narrow-eyed cop, Tony. "Am I under arrest?" Winstor asked.
The two cops looked at each other. Winstor guessed they'd had time away from their shoot-out with the moose, time away from the corpse on the trail. Likely, their adrenalin rush was subsiding. Probably the shooting, the body, his situation, were coming into perspective, but they pretended to ignore the question. The pasty cop, Phil, lit another cigarette. "Got any coffee here?"
Winstor heard the tone. He'd better have coffee, or else. He started a fresh pot, not so dazed now, warmed up, clean clothes, thinking maybe pretty soon they would leave. But they would not leave. Probably what was left for them were questions that would get them nowhere. Winstor wanted privacy, and he nodded and smiled like a calm and healthy man as he filled their cups, thinking the cops would see he was co-operating, see he was a good citizen. Then they would go away, leave him alone. He could see Mrs. Wentzler, Phil and Tony seemed to be intent on discovering whether he needed medical attention.
And they stayed. He suffered through more questions, Tony looking at him. "How do you feel?" he said. He said that more than once. Winstor figured he feared a lawsuit.
"You planning a trip?" Phil asked, a pleasing, soft voice.
Winstor didn't answer. Winstor's silence did not make Phil happy, and his mouth twisted into a gray, clay-like frown. "You know the deceased? You might as well tell us now. Lagadi will be here in a minute," he said, a staccato bite to his words.
"Didn't get a chance to study the face," Winstor said. He showed steady hands on the table, and pretended he was an amiable, happy citizen, pretty sure Mrs. Wentzler and the cops were thinking he was in top shape. "I need to be alone awhile, take a shower."
"Only problem is we're not done yet, right?" Tony said, looking at Phil.
Winstor jumped up from the kitchen chair when the doorbell rang.
"Oh, good. Sergeant Lagadi," Phil said.
Cold air followed the officer into the kitchen. Lagadi was beefy, wore a bushy black mustache covered with frost, and his voice was high-pitched and tense. "Loaded in the van. Bullet hole middle of the forehead. Chunk sliced off the leg."
"Any identification Sergeant Lagadi, sir?" Phil asked.
Lagadi plopped a driver's license down. Winstor leaned over and looked. A Florida license. The license said the man's name was Andy Warhol.
Winstor knew what Phil would ask him next. "You know Andy Warhol?" Phil asked.
Winstor moved his hands behind his back and clenched his fists. The Campbell Soup print was hanging right there on the kitchen wall behind Phil, Andy Warhol's signature in the corner. Tony narrowed his eyes and looked.
"Andy Warhol died a long time ago, in 1987, I think," Winstor said.
"You trying to tell me the guy on the trail has been dead that long?" Phil asked. He smirked, a superior look on his face, and looked at the other cops. They shook their heads, looking at the floor, trying not to laugh.
Mrs. Wentzler looked at the Campbell Soup print. Winstor heard her voice raise. "He means the name on the license is a coincidence."
"Oh, you know Warhol, too?" Tony said. Winstor began to understand: None of them - except perhaps Mrs. Wentzler - knew anything whatsoever about modern art. He positioned himself in front of the print, blocking the signature, certain if they read the name they'd be questioning him through the night. "Andy Warhol is a famous artist who died," Winstor said in his most understanding voice. "He challenged the presumptions of modern art."
And Mrs. Wentzler said, a tremor in her voice, "Andy Warhol made us see the world around us in new and provocative ways. But Mr. Winstor and I are talking about the famous painter. Not the man in the driver's license."
"You trying to say they're not the same?" Lagadi asked. His voice was high and strong, like Pavarotti's.
Mrs. Wentzler glared. "The names are either a coincidence, or the driver's license is fake," she said. "The real Andy Warhol died, as Mr. Winstor said."
"Oh, really?" Phil said, his clay lips turning down, not believing.
Enough, Winstor thought. He was warm now, not so confused. They had no right. "Listen, I thought a tree had fallen. The moose charged. You put the light on the body and I saw the head and I saw the empty skull, and I saw the calf of his leg was sliced off. But I've never seen the man before in my life. Never."
Lagadi scratched at a piece of melting frost on his cheek, and Winstor saw a line left by his fingernail. The line went away. Lagadi looked at the Campbell Soup print.
"Inside the head is clean as a freshly washed soup bowl," he said. Lagadi looked at Winstor, hard eyes that negated the chummy tone. Droplets formed on his mustache as the frost melted. "Which one of you called us about the body?"
Winstor shook his head. Mrs. Wentzler's mouth opened. Winstor waited for her to speak, to please say a word or two, and he noticed the gold crowns on her molars. She closed her mouth, and Winstor heard her sigh. Then she said, "Wasn't me neither."
"Whoever called muffled their voice. A voice full of gargling sounds and spit," Lagadi said. "We played the tape back."
Lagadi stared at Winstor, and looked at the Campbell Soup print. Winstor felt like screaming as they started again, asking mostly the same questions they asked when he was still dazed from the cold. They asked about Winstor's place of employment again, checked his identification again, repeated the questions: Have you seen him before? How do you feel? Are you sure you did not examine the body? Did you touch your friend when you thought he was a tree? Did you roll the body over? And after that, did you roll the body back to the way the original position? Mind if we look in your freezer? Do you think you might have bumped the body with your foot, or adjusted the arms or legs or head in any way? Do you want to see a doctor? How do you feel?
Winstor slammed the door behind them as the cops left. He watched Mrs. Wentzler write her phone number on a paper napkin should he need her.
Alone, Winstor allowed his shaking to surface as he steamed himself in the shower. The water, hot and penetrating, burned into his back, over his stomach, and he screamed until the nightmare disappeared into the steam.
At the dinner table he watched his hands, unsteady, play with the cup of chocolate. The moose on Baxter Bog: crazed, stalking him, seeking him under the porch, certainly not normal. And a killer had been there, a man murdered, shot in the forehead, the meaty part of his calf sliced away, the man's brains gone.
Winstor sat in the dark and peered though the dining room window at the bog gleaming and shifting under the northern lights, imagining the bull listening for him along the trail, and he was sure he saw in the snow a shadow moving east, away from the condos toward the trail on the opposite side of Baxter Bog.
Could be one of the cops, could be the murderer, he thought. Can't get my hands to settle. Advil. Take a few Advil.
After awhile, he looked at his hands, quiet and unmoving on the table, and he thought of giving up Baxter Bog. Maybe this was what the oldtimer was talking about when he lost at nine-ball to the University professor, the night of the winds. Gusts were blowing at sixty-five down from the Chugach Mountains, nearly whiting out the road, hard for Winstor to see as he pulled in for beer and pool. He'd done OK, the first six games. But then the old man came in drunk. He leaned himself against the pole and blurted out the same words over and over, saying how they were going to change and start going for people.
Winstor wasn't surprised when the bartender told the old man to shut up or get out. Winstor generously offered that he didn't think the oldtimer was so bad off, saying the old guy wasn't bothering the game much. Weather was bad out anyway. And no one knew what the hell the old man was talking about. The bartender smoldered, and he warily let the old man be, shifting his attention to a black-bearded man brushing snow off his coat onto the dark wood of the bar.
Winstor picked up his cue stick, thinking he would shoot one more game before making the drive through the snow to his condo. And when it was his turn, he could see he was going to have a hard time shutting out the old man's yapping, which had started in earnest and with more volume once the bartender moved to the far end. Winstor chalked his cue and tried to focus on dropping the six-ball in the corner pocket and leaving the cue ball positioned for a clean shot on the seven, but he knew right away his concentration was off. Instead of the game, he began thinking how he had been out walking on the trails, hadn't seen anything odd, and how he had heard tall tales before, lots of them. Stories always floated around the bars in the darkest part of the winter. Hard to convince anyone, especially Arvad Winstor, that out of nowhere they - whatever "they" were - would start tracking down his neighbors, much less him. Simply did not make sense, and Winstor figured he, if anyone, would be the one to know.
Winstor missed the six-ball. The game cost him two beers.
He wished he had listened, stayed inside. He would never go there again, but would drive to work at LifeData in the mornings, teach a few classes at the University, and stay off the trails. In the dark, looking across the bog, Winstor thought that was sensible. He would tell Dr. Smith he could not gather in April from the bog, and he would tell Kollarhond he would not go into the field ever again.
Ridiculous ideas. Kollarhond would fire him. He was still recovering, his hands finally having stopped shaking but five minutes ago. Probably the shapes and shadows out the window were spooking him. This certainly was not the time for decisions. He was a professional environmental analyst, grade one; his job brought him into the field for harbor seal, sea otter, shellfish, bird and fish counts and Insecta studies in the lakes, the streams. Anyway, in the daylight, the scene would not be fearsome.
Calm down, and in the morning this will look better, right?
Winstor ate a peanut butter sandwich, drank a cup of chocolate warmed in the microwave. He went to bed. He tossed and turned, replaying the old man's yapping in his head until, two hours later, he slept. He often woke to the sound of hoofs on the porch deck above him, the boards creaking and cracking, and he saw the empty skull gawking, drawing him closer. He saw the cut, clean to the bone where the meat of the calf had been deftly removed. He heard the upper lip of the moose caressing the porch boards, prying into the opening, and he curled in the dark, a round ball, thinking the night air was still at twenty-two below.
Arvad Winstor slept like that for a week, going to work tired each morning.
As the days passed, the intensity of the moose attack and the memory of the corpse faded; he gradually began sleeping without the dreams waking him as often. He thought the incident was over until the doorbell rang one Saturday afternoon at three. Sergeant Lagadi stood on the porch. Winstor did not invite him in.
"Few more questions," Lagadi said. The voice was high and tense.
Winstor caught the scent of leather, heard the belt creak about his waist.
"Getting over that night," Winstor said. "Hoping we could let this rest."
Winstor watched Lagadi shrug the words away, saw him dig into a smudged envelope. "Photos of the body for you to look at. You have a degree in biology. Shouldn't bother you none." Winstor guessed Sergeant Lagadi must have done a background check to know.
Winstor looked at the photos, the body face down on the trail, and saw the police had turned the body. They had taken shots of the face, the mouth agape, vague eyes frozen open, and Winstor noted the light brown eyebrows. The man must have been forty-five, fifty years old, and he realized he did not recall what the driver's license said about the date of birth.
Lagadi said, "Well?"
Winstor gave the photos back. "Hole in the head."
"Twenty-two," Lagadi said. Winstor heard the impatience.
He watched Lagadi wave the photos. "We got the personal belongings from a cheap hotel. Maybe you already knew about the hotel."
"No."
"He checked in the day before this happened. Maybe you knew that, too." Lagadi's shoulders looked tight.
"Of course I didn't know," Winstor said. He realized he must have raised his voice because Lagadi stepped back. Winstor calmed himself and said, "How did you find the hotel?"
"The hotel called us a few nights after Andy Warhol was offed," Lagadi said. Winstor noticed the shoulders relax. "Hotel people said a guy skipped, left his personal effects in one of the rooms. Well, we checked on that. Name on the driver's license matched the airline ticket. No one's claimed the body. Fingerprints didn't help. See, we're not dumb."