hasn’t. Either side, housing developments colonize the bulldozer-leveled shelves. Getting out took me all my life. Buenas Yerbas dwindles to a bristling smudge in Napier’s rearview mirror. You can’t stop Lester’s daughter playing Wonder Woman. You gave it your best shot. Let her go. She ain’t a kid. He sifts the radio waves, but it’s all men singing like women and women singing like men, until he finds a hokey country station playing “Everybody’s Talkin’.” Milly was the musical half of his marriage. Napier revisits the first evening he saw her: she was playing fiddle for Wild Oakum Hokum and His Cowgirls in the Sand. The glances musicians exchange, when music is effortless, that was what he wanted from Milly, that intimacy. Luisa Rey is too a kid. Napier turns off at exit eighteen and takes the old gold miners’ road up toward Copperline. That rattling isn’t getting any better. Fall is licking the mountain woods up here. The road follows a gorge under ancient pines to where the sun goes down.
He’s here, all of a sudden, unable to recall a single thought from the last three-quarters of an hour. Napier pulls over at the grocery store, kills the engine, and swings out of his Jeep. Hear that rushing? The Lost River. It reminds him Copperline isn’t Buenas Yerbas, and he unlocks his Jeep again. The store owner greets his customer by name, delivers six months’ gossip in as many minutes, and asks if Napier’s on vacation for the whole week.
“I’m on permanent vacation now. I was offered early”—he’s never used the word on himself before —“retirement. Took it like a shot.”
The store owner’s gaze is all-seeing. “Celebration at Duane’s tonight? Or commiseration at Duane’s tomorrow?”
“Make it Friday. Celebration, mostly. I want to spend my first week of freedom resting in my cabin, not poleaxed under Duane’s tables.” Napier pays for his groceries and leaves, suddenly hungry to be alone. The Jeep’s tires crunch the stony track. Its headlights illuminate the primeval forest in bright, sweeping moments.
Here. Once again, Napier hears the Lost River. He remembers the first time he brought Milly up to the cabin he, his brothers, and his dad built. Now he’s the last one left. They went skinny-dipping that night. The forest dusk fills his lungs and his head. No phones, no CCTV or just TV, no ID clearances, no meetings in the president’s soundproofed office. Not ever again. The retired security man checks the padlock on the door for signs of tampering before he opens the shutters. Relax, for Chrissakes. Seaboard let you go, free, no strings, no comeback.
Nonetheless his .38 is in his hand as he enters the cabin. See? Nobody. Napier gets a fire crackling and fixes himself beans and sausages and sooty baked potatoes. A couple of beers. A long, long piss outdoors. The fizzing Milky Way. A deep, deep sleep.
Awake, again, parched, with a beer-swollen bladder. Fifth time now or sixth? The sounds of the forest don’t lullaby Napier tonight but itch his sense of well-being. A car’s brakes? An elf owl. Twigs snapping? A rat, a mountain quail, I don’t know, you’re in a forest, it could be anything. Go to sleep, Napier. The wind. Voices under the window? Napier wakes to find a cougar crouched on a crossbeam over his bed; he wakes up with a yell; the cougar was Bill Smoke, arm poised to stove Napier’s head in with a flashlight; nothing on the crossbeam. Is it raining this time? Napier listens.
Only the river, only the river.
He lights another match to see if it’s a time worth getting up for: 4:05. No. An in-between hour. Napier nestles down in folded darkness for holes of sleep, but recent memories of Margo Roker’s house find him. Bill Smoke saying, Stand guard. My contact says she keeps her documents in her room. Napier agreeing, glad to reduce his involvement. Bill Smoke switching on his hefty rubber flashlight and going upstairs.
Napier scanning Roker’s orchard. The nearest house was over half a mile away. Wondering why the solo operator Bill Smoke wanted him along for this simple job.
A frail scream. An abrupt ending.
Napier running upstairs, slipping, a series of empty rooms.
Bill Smoke kneeling on an antique bed, clubbing something on the bed with his flashlight, the beam whipping the walls and ceiling, the near-noiseless thump as it lands on the senseless head of Margo Roker. Her blood on the bedsheets—obscenely scarlet and wet.
Napier, shouting for him to stop.
Bill Smoke turned around, huffing. Wassup, Joe?
You said she was out tonight!
No, no, you heard wrong. I said my contact said the old woman was out tonight. Reliable staff, hard to find.
Christ, Christ, Christ, is she dead?
Better safe than sorry, Joe.
A neat little setup, Joe Napier admits in his sleepless cabin. A shackle of compliance. Party to the clubbing of a defenseless, elderly activist? Any dropout law student with a speech impediment could send him to prison for the rest of his life. A blackbird sings. I did a great wrong by Margo Roker, but I’ve left that life. Four small shrapnel scars, two in each buttock, ache. I went out on a limb to get Luisa Rey wised up. The window is light enough to discern Milly in her frame. I’m only one man, he protests. I’m not a platoon. All I want out of life is life. And a little fishing.
Joe Napier sighs, dresses, and begins reloading the Jeep.
Milly always won by saying nothing.
Judith Rey, barefoot, fastens her kimono-style dressing gown and crosses a vast Byzantine rug to her marble-floored kitchen. She takes out three ruby grapefruits from a cavernous refrigerator, halves them, then feeds the snow-cold dripping hemispheres into a juicer. The machine buzzes like trapped wasps, and a jug fills with pulpy, pearly, candy-colored juice. She pours herself a heavy blue glass and slooshes the liquid around every nook of her mouth.
On the striped veranda sofa, Luisa scans the paper and chews a croissant. The magnificent view—over Ewingsville’s moneyed roofs and velveteen lawns to downtown Buenas Yerbas, where skyscrapers rear from sea mist and commuter smog—has an especial otherworldliness at this hour.
“Not sleeping in, Cookie?”
“Morning. No, I’m going to collect my stuff from the office, if you don’t mind me borrowing one of the cars again.”
“Sure.” Judith Rey reads her daughter. “You were wasting your talents at Spyglass, Cookie. It was a squalid little magazine.”
“True, Mom, but it was my squalid little magazine.”
Judith Rey settles on the arm of the sofa and shoos an impertinent fly from her glass. She examines a circled article in the business section.
“ENERGY GURU” LLOYD HOOKS TO HEAD SEABOARD INC. In a joint statement, the White House and electricity giant Seaboard Power Inc. have announced Federal Power Commissioner Lloyd Hooks is to fill the CEO’s seat left vacant by Alberto Grimaldi’s tragic death in an airplane accident two days ago. Seaboard’s share price on Wall Street leaped 40 points in response to the news. “We’re delighted Lloyd has accepted our offer to come onboard,” said Seaboard vice CEO William Wiley, “and while the circumstances behind the appointment couldn’t be sadder, the board feels Alberto in heaven joins with us today as we extend the warmest welcome to a visionary new chief executive.” Menzies Graham, Power Commission spokesman, said, “Lloyd Hooks’s expertise will obviously be missed here in Washington, but President Ford respects his wishes and looks forward to an ongoing liaison with one of the finest minds tackling today’s energy challenges
