"Presumption Of Death" - читать интересную книгу автора (O'Shaughnessy Perri)13T OP DOWN ON PAUL’S MUSTANG, THEY whipped past the wineries and dry hillsides on Carmel Valley Road, which had just turned into G-16, on Sunday morning. Paul took the curves too fast, and Nina held on tight. This time they had decided to leave Hitchcock at home. They were following Danny’s routines in order to find out who had tipped him off about the fires. Ben had told Nina he hardly went anywhere, except to a bar called Alma’s in the hamlet of Cachagua, deep in the Los Padres National Forest. “So,” Paul said, negotiating a particularly harrowing bend in the road, “you ever been up this way before?” “I used to come here to swim sometimes when I was a teenager,” she said. “There’s a place called the Bucket along the river here. Kids used to go naked in a deep pool in the Carmel River.” “Where exactly is it?” “Why exactly would you care?” “Hot day,” Paul said. “Nice way to cool off on the way back.” “Uh huh.” “Who did you come with?” “To the Bucket? That’s private,” she said. Paul’s sudden interest ballooned like a semi coming at her. “I can just see it.” “No, you can’t,” she said. “Banish whatever pictures you’re conjuring up.” Paul wore his khakis and a polo shirt. Nina, in deference to where they were headed, had dressed in jeans and a tank top, her hair tucked under a baseball cap. A flock of wild turkeys burst out and skittered across a field, staying very low in the air. They had already passed Carmel Valley Village and lost the houses. The one-lane road, striped with light and shade, wound around the rock banks like a narrow asphalt river. “Well, you promised to tell me about the Siesta Court Bunch party once we hit the road. When I mention it you get this expression-what is it, disbelief? Amusement? Disgust?” “That was some party.” Nina shook her head. “Was it ever.” “So? What do you think?” Nina said slowly, “I say we take off, nuke the site from orbit. It’s the only way to be sure.” Paul laughed. “That bad?” “ “Did you learn anything?” “Well, I learned how to lap dance,” Nina said. She wet her lips and began describing the party, from Darryl’s mooning over Elizabeth to Tory walking out; the black-faced kids screeching through the woods; George’s tasteless jokes; Ted and Megan grinning beatifically from the sidelines; Elizabeth’s tape recorder. Paul burst into laughter here and there as she talked. “Trust me, it wasn’t funny while it was happening,” Nina said. She finished with Britta and Sam on the plastic chair. Paul laughed long and hard at that one. “Sam’s probably still sitting there in his plastic chair, holding his drink up with that look of horror,” Nina said. “I can’t believe I let you two talk me out of going,” Paul said. “I wondered if there were any good parties left, and here I had the chance to go to the best one in ages.” “But I’m not sure I learned anything about the arson. I didn’t look at one of the men and say, it’s him, like I thought I would. One of them, Darryl Eubanks, is a volunteer firefighter, which I suppose gives him an automatic place on the list.” “What did you think of him?” “A lunk.” “I was looking for something more precise. More profound.” “He’s dissatisfied, though he has everything-health, youth, a family, work, a home-he was hitting on one of the other women. He’s likable, though, and I kept watching him and reminding myself that a lot of my guilty criminal clients are likable.” “Anybody else?” “David Cowan is alienated. He has money. I suspect he’s obsessive, and these fires may be the product of an obsessive mind. He’s secretive, that’s what it is.” “That’s interesting,” Paul said, “in an academic sort of way.” “Well, George Hill is used to getting his own way, and he has a concrete grievance.” She told Paul how the Hills had lost their right to subdivide. “Danny worked for him a lot. If I had to pick, I’d say George, but then again, he’s got health problems and I can’t see him climbing a steep trail. I don’t know.” “We’ll just keep gathering information, and you’ll be able to link up those impressions,” Paul said. “I think you learned a lot.” “I think you better slow down.” “Anything you know about this place we’re going? Cachagua?” “Ca-sha-wa,” she corrected. “But a hard She shrugged. “It’s how we pronounce it here. Hmm, Cachagua. I always thought of it as this magical valley in the middle of the forest, timeless, quiet, the sun always shining. It’s sensationally beautiful and remote.” “Can’t wait to see it, then.” “But it’s probably not so quiet at the moment. Remember Ben mentioning the old dam up there? The San Clemente? The locals fish and hike there. The village, what there is of a village, is built right next to the dam. Well, there’s talk of putting in a bigger dam. “Ah, you think the idea of a new dam has the locals worked up,” Paul said. “Sure it does. The Salinas Valley growers are running out of water. The locals feel like the water’s being stolen from them.” “We’re gonna wring the earth dry before we’re done,” Paul said. “The truth is we don’t think very well.” “Hey, Paul. That last line is one of Ruthie’s Twelve Points.” “So it is. They’re contagious.” “Water is “But it’s so hot and still here. I feel,” Paul said, giving the wheel a spin, “like someone heading into the waving fields of Iowa, one of those outposts where there should be miles of untouched neat rows of corn, American frontier, peace, and no issues.” “Visit Iowa. I’m sure you’ll find they’ve got fights about pesticides, the end of small farming, whatever,” Nina said. “Meanwhile, California’s got its water fights.” Stiff and impatient with the long drive, they arrived in Cachagua before noon. Even the spectacular views of forest, wineries, and horses along the way hadn’t diminished the feeling that they were riding into the Wild West, visitors to a place they did not belong. The village, a clearing in the woods with a couple of mom-and-pops and a dusty county park with a tot lot, had only one gathering place of note, the bar. “Alma’s. I could use a drink,” Paul said. She knew he meant a real drink, the kind that actually hydrated. They parked in full sun in the dirt lot, and Nina followed him through the door of the long, low brown shack. After the blazing summer sun, the dimness and cool inside provided a haven. Four men already sat at stools along the bar, three grizzled from years in the outdoors, and one down at the end, gray-bearded but wearing a couple of gold rings in his right earlobe. All eyes turned toward the tourists who had driven up in a fancy red Mustang convertible. Paul gave the men a nod. “Ice water,” he said. “Ice water,” Nina echoed. She checked the menu chalked on a board behind the bar. “And nachos.” Paul said, “And add a couple of turkey sandwiches on wheat.” “White’s what we serve,” said the woman behind the bar, not unfriendly, but not smiling either. “White’ll be fine.” When the water arrived in drizzling, cold glasses, they drank thirstily. Down the bar, the three cowboys resumed what seemed to be a comfortable, ongoing discussion, with an occasional sideways glance toward them. They griped about the lack of jobs, the drought, the divorces, and the child support, and no fact went uncontested. While heated, the conversation was peppered with peevish humor. After a suitable time, Paul asked the bartender what was going on with the dam. She answered, “Nothing bad has happened yet,” and retired to a stool by the curtain that led to the back, but the question set off the others at the bar. Nina quickly dubbed them Cowboys One, Two, and Three, since the three sitting together wore identically battered denims and work shirts, and from the smell of them, seemed to be taking a break from a morning of arduous outdoor labor. “Smoke, dust, traffic, blasting, medical problems, strangers in the park… that’s what’s gonna be goin’ on if that damn dam gets built.” Cowboy One wore jeans that rode too low over scrawny hips. His drooping eyes looked permanently unhappy. “It’s a Godzilla,” said Cowboy Two, a beat-up young man wearing a hard-used tan cowboy hat. All Nina could see of him was his mouth and chin. “And we’re Tokyo. It’ll lay waste to this town.” “You know what they want to build?” asked Three, a short, plump man who squinted as if needing to protect sensitive eyes from even this murky light. His baseball cap and sunglasses sat on the bar. “A concrete wall two hundred eighty-two feet high, quarter of a mile long. That’s four hundred feet wider than Hoover Dam. You ever seen that?” One and Two shook their heads. “You get to Vegas, you’re not thinking about dams,” said One. “Well, this thing is gonna drown one of the prettiest valleys in the Ventana wilderness. The Los Padres Dam already forces the steelhead salmon that run the river here to climb the highest ladder in the country to spawn. Destroy over a hundred acres of habitat, some of it wilderness. Spotted salamander. Steeleye. We can forget about fishing.” “Bastards,” said One and Two, drinking deeply of their drafts. “Bastards,” agreed Three, keeping up. They drank again. So did Paul and Nina. “They say it’s gonna cost us a hundred twenty-five million dollars,” Three went on. “Hell, it could cost three times that.” “Shit,” said Two. “You kidding me?” “That’s what the Sierra Club says,” Three said, nodding. “Bastards!” Two said. “The Sierra Club?” Three asked. “All of them. Outsiders. Why can’t they leave it alone? The old dam’s done the job all these years. We don’t want any more water. It’s all for people who live miles from here.” “Somebody’s getting rich off this.” “And there’s no tellin’ who.” “So the damn developers can keep building until we all live up each other’s asses,” said Three. “Let ’em get their own damn water.” “I didn’t move out here to listen to noise and deal with hammering, hollering, and hauling all day long,” Two said. “Damn right,” One agreed. “Somebody’ll blow it up, we get lucky,” said Two. “I’ll do it if you’ll do it,” said Three. This statement resulted in a long period of silence, as if the boys needed time to adjust to the change in dynamic before continuing. Down at the end of the bar, the fourth customer, the one with a gray beard, nursed a glass of ale. He wore paint-spattered shorts and sandals, and on the floor beside his stool rested a folded easel, confirming Nina’s impression that he was an artist rather than a housepainter. She knew many of the people in the area formed a loose-knit community of artists and craftspeople. “Let me know how to join the posse when the time comes,” the artist contributed now. “Oh, good idea, Donnelly,” said the lady bartender from her perch in the corner. “That’s right. Run ’em out of town,” said One. “A hundred and eighty trucks a day rollin’ in!” Two said. “Think of it! We only got eight hundred people in Cachagua. That’s one truck per four people!” “Not like they’re gonna hire locals either.” “Place’ll be crawling with Mexicans,” Two went on. “Shut up, Randy. I’m Mexican, in case you forgot,” said Three. “Yeah, but you’re my friend,” Two said. “And how about the Esselen Indians? Here for at least a thousand years. There are ancient relics all over the place, grinding stones, all that. The Esselens have been fighting this idea for years. Shouldn’t somebody listen to them?” Three asked. “My sister’s husband is part Esselen. He’s all right,” said One. “I agree with you, they ought to be considered.” “Ditto,” Two added. Nina and Paul ate their sandwiches, paying close attention. “You folks from around here?” asked Three of Nina and Paul. Having finished his current beer, he moved his mug back and forth along the bar, agitating for service. “I grew up nearby,” Nina lied. She had grown up in Pacific Grove, fifty miles away in a whole different culture, but she certainly felt she knew these guys intimately. Any one of them might have been her first boyfriend, the skinny-dipper and bad boy, refocusing all his lawless youthful energy into a hard job and bar talk. “You do look familiar,” Cowboy One said, examining her. “I think I used to see you at the Bucket.” “I doubt it,” she answered, feeling the red creep up her cheeks and down her neck. “No.” He showed his teeth. “I’d remember you.” The others at the bar cast sidelong glances at her, then looked innocently back into their beers. She could feel Paul bristling beside her, so she hurried to erase the naked frolicker who seemed to have taken up residence there beside them. “We’re looking for… a friend of a friend. Danny Cervantes?” “Dead,” said One, his eyes gloomier than ever. “Don’t you read the paper?” “Danny spent many a evening here, drinkin’ Coronas,” said Two. “Seems obvious this is just plain what it looks like, a case of Danny being Danny,” said Three. On this sobering thought, the rest of the guys drank again. “You really think he set those fires?” Paul asked. “I don’t think he had a thing to do with those fires,” said Cowboy Three. “I ain’t gonna speak ill of the dead.” “Last time he was in here, you sure had a different version. Started with Cowboy Three sucked in his cheeks. “That’s because he was with Coyote that night.” “Now, Coyote, he was Danny’s good buddy.” “Uh huh,” said Nina. “So what’s your interest in Danny?” said the artist. “Actually, it’s Coyote I’d like to talk to,” Nina said. “Why?” How easily the lie flowed. “Danny’s uncle, Ben, found something in Danny’s room that belonged to Danny’s friend-I guess that’s Coyote, and my friend and I were coming out here anyhow to walk around the dam, so we said we’d ask around.” This was rewarded with nods and pursed lips. Paul nodded too. “Couldn’t be money,” Cowboy Two finally said. “Coyote sure ain’t got any of that, and Danny wouldn’t have saved it for him if he did.” “Could you tell us where Coyote’s camp is?” Paul said. “He’s got a camp out Arroyo Seco way.” “Way out there,” Nina said. “But you could just leave him a message at the one place we all go to when it all comes down.” Nina nodded and smiled. “Where’s that?” Paul said, and the whole bar, including Nina, said, “The Mid-Valley Safeway.” “Ah. Right. We all have to buy groceries,” Paul said. “Right,” Two said. “Even if he lives mainly on grilled squirrel.” “What else can you tell us about Coyote?” Paul asked. Two laughed. “He only talks when he’s drunk, but then you can’t shut him up. He collars you. The bar empties out when Coyote gets to talking about how he caught that big steelhead and gutted it and how good it tasted fried in a pan over a campfire.” “How about the rest of you?” Paul asked. “You know the man?” “He’s just… prickly. Yeah, that’s it. That’s why he yells at you if you say hey,” said Three, setting the roll of his stomach into movement as he chuckled. “Or even try to use the head, if he’s in there. He lives so deep in the boonies, he probably thinks the running water here is really special.” “I remember he said once he grew up around Lake Tahoe,” said One. “But that’s right. Mostly he talks about hunting and fishing.” Nina and Paul looked at each other. “Hey, Donnelly, you were drinkin’ with him last week!” Three said suddenly. Donnelly, the artist, had been watching them. He seemed to be working up some steam. “Boys, I don’t trust these people,” he said. “They come in here and they want to know where a man who likes his privacy lives. Who are you people?” Surprised, Nina gave him her full attention. He had a twitchy, drumming presence that made Nina think about the dangers of crack cocaine. He seemed old to be abusing stimulants. In her experience older addicts preferred to mellow out. “Just what we said,” Paul said with his innocent look. “Lies. You’re the System.” “The System?” “The fucking exploiters and spies.” “Oh, them. No, we’re just friends of Danny’s uncle.” “IRS,” the artist said, counting on his fingers. “County sheriff. Welfare. Repo man. Child support. Which is it?” “Look, I’m not after your friend at all. Danny left two hundred bucks in an envelope marked Coyote and his uncle wanted him to have it. Nobody cares what it’s for-drugs, loan, work, whatever. Screw it. We tried. We’ll buy dinner at the Sardine Factory instead. Let’s get out of here,” Paul said, turning to Nina and nudging her off the bar stool. “Wait.” Two’s strong hand grasped Paul’s arm. “So it was money after all? Let’s see this envelope.” “She has it.” Paul nodded casually toward Nina. She opened her mouth and closed it. Opened it again. “I tossed the envelope,” she said. She opened her purse and pulled out ten twenties she had just received from the ATM and flipped the edges like a deck of cards. “Lies,” said Donnelly. “Don’t tell them anything.” “Oh, be quiet, Donnelly. You oughtta ease up on the controlled substances,” said Two, which brought on a hearty laugh from his “But-” “I said shut up. You hear? These nice folks come here to do a good deed. So shut the hell up.” He glowered at the artist, who stroked the gray soul-patch on his chin rapidly a few times and then got off the bar stool and walked out without a backward glance. Two said, “He oughtta get some sleep. Now. About getting Coyote his money.” “Coyote come in here regularly?” Paul asked. Two shook his head. “Could be weeks before he stops by again. He has a younger brother he takes care of and I don’t think he likes leaving him alone.” “How old?” “Twelve, maybe thirteen? Less said about that kid, the better.” “Big-time screwed up,” One stated. “Screwed up how?” Paul asked. “Drugs?” Drugs were on both their minds at the moment. Cowboy Three squeezed his little eyes littler, and snorted. “Drugs might have helped that kid. I’m afraid it’s probably too late to get him anywhere near normal.” “You should meet Nate. Then you’ll have the full picture,” said One. “Does he come in here?” “Not hardly. You’d have to go out there to the tent to see them both, probably. But if you do that, watch it. Coyote keeps a pit bull.” “Yeah, a real friendly animal,” said Cowboy Three, adjusting his hat back on his head. “Just like us.” That made all three of the men at the bar laugh. Hopping off his stool, Cowboy Two doodled a map on a napkin for Paul and Nina. “Go back to G-16 where it goes left around Sycamore Flat back to town. You want to take a right there instead, onto Arroyo Seco. He lives up a dirt road in Wood Tick Canyon. It’s a long way.” This time Nina drove. She kept the air conditioner blasting on her arms while Paul dozed on the seat beside her. He slid back and forth, first against her, then against the side door as the road zigzagged around the canyons and hills of the Paloma Ridge. When they came to the main turn, she woke him up. “I need you to navigate. Pull out that map the guy gave us, okay?” “Hey, I’m still alive,” he said, opening his eyes. “You don’t trust my driving?” “Of course I do or I wouldn’t let you drive.” He found the map in his pocket and studied it. “It’s irrational, this need I feel to scream when you take a blind curve fast, so I close my eyes to keep the peace.” “So you’re letting me drive? I’m not taking a turn at the wheel as an equal?” “It’s just a figure of speech. Lighten up, babe. I had a brainstorm when we were talking to the cowboys. Remember the one who was talking about Godzilla?” “No. You thought of something about Coyote?” “No, this is another verse for our monster song.” He sang in a deep growl: “They’ll love it at the Grand Ole Opry. Speaking of turns,” she said, “is there a turn coming up?” It should have been right there, although almost an hour of searching nearly convinced them otherwise. The snarl of dirt roads ended in gullies, fences, boulders, and debris. They finally located the right turn, exactly where the map showed it. “How did we miss it?” Nina said, taking the pitted road too fast, irritated and tired, feeling as dusty as the road. As the afternoon progressed it had only grown hotter. They finally spotted a distant gray tent in a clearing up ahead. Nina parked. Paul jumped out of the car, closing his door silently while Nina pulled socks out of her bag and put them on along with her hiking boots. She also pulled out a long-sleeved shirt, unsnagged her rolled-up sleeves, and buttoned them tightly at the wrists. “Why are you doing that?” Paul asked her. He had forgotten already. How infuriating, that he had no such cares. “You can’t see it? Paul, this forest is crawling with it.” Poison oak swarmed up the trunks alongside the road, crossing on the Spanish moss from tree to tree. Clumps of it framed the road and flourished all the way up the hills around them. They walked up the road toward the clearing, cautious, both wary of the pit bull. Paul held a thick branch. Nina stopped. “What’s the matter? You see something?” Long black shadows of the late afternoon made the road ahead look like something out of a fairy tale, where threatening beings wavered, waiting for them, and trees creaked and whispered as they walked by. The silence, aside from the hysterical buzzing of insects, seemed total. “Know something? I have no idea where we are,” said Nina. “I’m looking forward to getting the hell back to the river. You can shake your stuff at the Bucket for me alone.” “I don’t like it here,” Nina said, slapping a mosquito that had crept up underneath her sleeve. The heat rose up from the road, suffocating in the stillness. “You want to wait for me in the car?” She visualized herself in the Mustang, alone with her imagination in this atmosphere. “No.” “Well, then. Ready?” He waited until she started up again. An old Chevy van blocked the entrance to the clearing. They walked around it, peering inside. Nina’s heart jumped. It looked like she imagined a kidnapper’s van might look, filthy tan, paneled, full of ratty bits of rug and trash. “Ugh,” she whispered. “Paul, the Cat Lady thought she saw a beige van.” “I’m looking, I’m looking. Hold my stick.” He brought out his penknife and, glancing at the motionless flaps of the tent, quickly scraped something behind the front fenders into a baggie. A boy in a plaid lumberjack shirt walked across the muddy meadow toward them, cap pulled low, head down, limp animal hanging by its ears loosely from his left hand, stick in his right, a day pack on his back. A dark stain made a blot over the pattern on the front of his shirt. As he got closer, Nina could see the animal was a skinny gray jackrabbit. “Who are you?” he asked. Shaking hands didn’t seem like a good plan, so Nina smiled and said, “I’m Nina Reilly and this is Paul. I’m a lawyer. And you?” “Nate. A lawyer helped my mother once. Look what I have.” “You shoot it?” Paul said. He was looking for a weapon. “Trapped it. Trapped it and wrapped it.” “Make a good dinner,” Paul observed, as if he and Nina routinely ate dead animals for dinner, which they did, but Nina didn’t want to think about that right now. “My brother makes stew.” He looked confused. “Used to. Not anymore.” “Let’s all sit down and talk for a minute,” Paul said. “Aren’t you Coyote’s brother? Nate?” “When I was.” Nate perched on a rock not far from them and plunged the stick into the ground. What he might be thinking, with the eyes she couldn’t see and the shaggy hair and the general air of being off-kilter, Nina couldn’t imagine. “Have you lived here long?” “Why do you want to know?” “Uh, just wondering.” “It snows up on the mountains here, sometimes. Bet you didn’t know that. When it snows I stay in the tent. Bent in the tent. But I don’t know what to do now. He doesn’t like me.” He dropped the rabbit, which plopped to the ground without complaint. Nate pulled on his eyebrow and commenced an alarming series of loud moans. “I vote we go get Coyote,” Paul said hastily. “Nate? Nate? We want to see your brother,” Nina said. More groans. Nate rocked back and forth. “Where’s your brother?” Paul asked. “Gone.” Another groan. “Where?” He stared at them. “That’s the mystery. My mother told me a story. About a train. Trains are a strain.” “Let’s go look anyway, okay?” Paul said. Nate followed with his rabbit and stick, docile enough, as they moved cautiously up the track to the sprawling tent, still emitting the occasional moan. “Nate’s not well,” Nina said to Paul in a low voice. “No shit.” “Someone ought to be helping him. A doctor.” As if hearing this, and deciding against it, Nate suddenly disappeared. “Nate?” Nina called. A tall, tan young man with an ugly pink-nosed white dog built like a tank stepped out of the tent about fifty feet away. He wore the kind of T-shirt her son, Bob, called a wifebeater, white and sleeveless, jeans, and a brown cowboy hat low over his eyes. When he saw them, he seemed to jump back a step, but the dog jumped forward, growling. Thank God, Nina thought, that thing’s on a tight leash. Actually it was a chain, but Coyote was holding it looped several times around his knuckles. Nina swallowed. Paul liked her to take the lead in these encounters, saying, heck, let the sexists feel safe because you’re a woman. Why not use it to our own advantage, this sexism stuff? “Your brother trapped a rabbit,” she said. “So we eat tonight. That’s good.” Next to him, the pit bull at the end of the chain made no sound, waiting. “Meanwhile, I politely say, just the one time, get the hell off our property. Now.” “Are you Coyote? We’d like to talk to you about Danny.” “Beat it. Or I let the dog go.” “We’re leaving,” Paul said. He swung around back toward the road, but did not completely turn his back on the man or his dog. Nina stumbled behind. As she followed Paul back to the car, she reminded herself, “Stay away from the poison oak,” but really, all she could think about was the muzzle of the pit bull and that poor boy standing by the tent, eyes searching the distance for answers. “Did you see?” Paul said, as they reached the Mustang, started it up, turned on the AC, and sank gratefully into its leather seats. “See what?” “Up in the tree.” “See what?” “Nate built a nest up there.” “No. I was too busy watching Coyote’s fingers on the dog chain. He’s perfect, Paul. He’s got the van. I see him setting the fires and driving away. It’s no stretch of the imagination.” “So who’s the second dude, then?” Paul said. “The second guy in the van? We’re operating on the assumption that the second guy isn’t Danny.” “Doesn’t have to be,” Nina said. “Simple. Danny found out from Coyote, and decided to get the reward. He’d know to look for the van up on the ridge.” “He was going to finger his buddy?” “His buddy was an arsonist.” “To tell the truth, no one could be this dude’s buddy,” Paul said. “Drinking partner, yes. But-” “But what?” “But who did he drop off on Siesta Court that night? Who’s his partner?” “Someone Danny hooked him up with,” Nina said, excited. “Another reason to kill Danny.” Paul patted the baggie in his pocket and said, “Hope this is ash.” They drove back to the turnoff for the Bucket. The sun was low and the shadows had lengthened, but the temperature was still in the nineties. “Look for a hole in the fence just before you see the iron gate with a Stone Pine sign.” They got out of the car, sloppy and tired. “This it?” Paul asked. “I think so.” They clambered down a steep path. Following the trail, they wended their way through a fifty-foot grassy field to a fork in the path. “We go right,” Nina said. They crossed one creek, and minutes later, arrived at the rocky shore of the swimming hole Nina remembered so well. No one else had lingered so late in the day. “Oh. It doesn’t look the same.” Floods had devastated the scene, tearing at the protective foliage. “My gosh. It was all hidden! Oh, well. I’m too hot to care.” She peeled off her jeans, shirt, and underwear. Paul took off his boxers. He kissed her hungrily. She ran her hands down him, admiring him. High above, on the highway, those who knew to look could see the tiny embracing figures in the twilight next to the pond. Nina felt the heat rising from the stones and a late-afternoon breeze stirring on her bare skin. Birds called to each other in the laurel trees. They slid gratefully into the Bucket’s gold-and-silver water, and the light split and shattered across its surface, then gathered itself and followed behind as they swam. |
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