rift in this state, and probably in the nation. Missoula was widely perceived as the Berkeley of Montana-home to the state university, and a hotbed of 1960s-type alternative lifestyle and activism. Some found the atmosphere positive and exciting; many others saw it as a cesspool of decadence and subversion. The two edges of that sword were getting sharper all the time. I had friends from there who had actually become nervous about driving in other parts of the state with license plates that began with the telltale number 4, which identified them as residents of Missoula County.
What a lot of people didn't know was that the original hippies there were mostly working-class kids from small towns, ranches, and reservations around the state-tough, hardworking, many of them war veterans-and that while some were educated, they were far from effete intellectual snobs. I'd always thought that the true underlying reason for the establishment's wrath at them was that they refused to walk any company line and they were very canny about seeing through bullshit. In general, they had a lot more in common with old-time people like my father than either group did with the newer Montana that was springing into being.
I had always loved Missoula, and I'd had a lot of good times there. The old bars-Eddy's Club, Charley B's, The Top Hat, Luke's, The Turf, The Flame-were the kinds of places where you might meet people who'd led lives you could hardly imagine, fall in love, and get the shit kicked out of you, all in the same night.
But my ambivalence about growth kicked in again every time I visited. The funky old downtown had been gentrified and was thronged with tourists in summer. The university-once a modest, well-run operation that was mostly attended by Montana residents-had doubled in size and turned into a moneymaking venture, largely designed as a party school for rich kids from out of state. The city itself was exploding at the fringes with commercial strips and industrial parks, while a policy known as 'infill' had invaded quiet older neighborhoods, with second residences shoehorned into back and side yards, many of them cheaply built rentals. It was getting to look more and more like someplace in California. But there again, I had to recognize that all those elements would serve more human beings in many ways; and personally, I didn't feel that I had any claim to locational purity.
The drive from Helena to Missoula was about two hours. It would have been sensible and politically correct for us to take Renee's comfortable, economical Suburu instead of my truck. But I felt cramped in smaller vehicles, I liked sitting up high, and I liked having a lot of metal around me.
I stowed our gear under the pickup's seat, and we headed for town.
41
Evvie Jessup's office was a ground-floor suite in a mini-mall off Eleventh Avenue, toward the east edge of Helena. I wasn't particularly anxious to exchange small talk, so I pulled up in front to drop Renee off. I could see Evvie through the large plate glass windows, sitting at her desk. As soon as she spotted Renee, she rose and hurried to the door, waving excitedly.
I backed up and swung the pickup around in the parking lot. Just before I turned onto Eleventh again, I glanced automatically at my rearview mirrors. I was compulsive about that, checking them constantly even on deserted roads. My glimpse showed Renee stepping into the office, with Evvie embracing her.
A third figure had also come into view, a burly bearded man wearing tinted eyeglasses-Evvie's husband, Lon. He must have been in the rear of the suite and had opened the door to come into the main room. But a few seconds later, when a break in traffic allowed me to pull out, he was still standing there motionless.
A tiny tick registered in my brain. As often happened, it was gone before I could make sense of it. But I'd started learning to pay attention to those occurrences, and to remember where I was and what I was doing at the time. Sometimes they came to light later, with interesting results.
While Renee took care of her house business, I had a matter of my own to attend to. Having her around had opened my eyes to things I hadn't noticed for years. This had started when she'd chipped a fingernail unpacking, and realized that she hadn't brought a nail file. The only help I could offer was the tool I used to round off my own manicuring snags, an automotive file for cleaning the points in my truck's distributor.
My awareness had escalated from there. My twenty-year-old shaving brush had shed almost half its bristles; my only belt was worn thin and stained with construction glue; the shower caddy I'd cobbled together out of tie wire and welding rods was functional, but lacked an aesthetic je ne sais quoi; and so on. Most of my other possessions, clothes, and furnishings were in equivalent shape, but that was too much to worry about now. I figured I'd start by upgrading a few personal items and try to grow with the job.
Renee had given me her cell phone so she could call me to come pick her up. I was just getting downtown, on my way to DeVore's Saddlery to buy a belt, when it rang. That surprised me mildly-I hadn't thought she'd be done so soon. It also flustered me; I barely knew how to operate the things anyway, and I didn't dare to try while I was driving, so I steered the truck over to the curb.
But the caller was Tom Dierdorff, with the news that he had scored-located his former client, who was not only willing to talk about the Dead Silver incident but jumping at the chance.
'He's still got a hard-on about it,' Tom said. 'Sounds like if anything, you're going to have trouble shutting him up.'
His name was Buddy Pertwee; he was still living in Missoula. I wrote down his phone and address-I recognized it as being on the north side, the core enclave of the old hippie scene and still home to a fair share of holdouts from those days-thanked Tom, and went on about my rounds until Renee called me to come get her, a half hour later.
I'd hoped I could just swing by the realty office and pick her up outside, the same way I'd dropped her off, and when I pulled up in front I stayed in the truck. But Evvie came out, too, and practically fluttered over to me; obviously, my stock with her had risen dramatically. She reached in through my window, pressed my face between her palms, and planted a kiss on my lips, eyes shining beneath her nuclear sunset hair.
'We are so grateful to you for saving our dear one,' she said. She seemed as sincere as she was capable of being.
Lon Jessup shuffled outside, too, hanging back, as seemed to be his style. When Evvie let me go, he stepped in and offered a hearty handshake.
'Nice work, pardner,' he said. 'My hat's off to you.'
Then Renee and I hit the road for the bright lights of Missoula.
42
It was still morning, and we weren't in any rush to get there. Buddy Pertwee worked for a landscaping business and wouldn't be available until late afternoon. I decided to avoid the Interstate and take a longer route that was one of my favorite drives-all two-lane roads, first northwest to the Blackfoot River corridor, and then following the Blackfoot west to Missoula. There'd be hardly any traffic most of the way, and the landscape was a showcase of what I loved about Montana.
The day was typical for this time of year, with big billowy clouds that put a biting edge on the breeze when they darkened the sun, but then would part for a tantalizing burst of warmth. Canyon Creek was still iced along the banks but mostly rippled fast and free, so clear it made me thirsty. The forest thickened and the patchwork of snow became a solid quilt as we climbed the hairpin curves up Flesher Pass. From the top, the view stretched for miles, ended only by mountains or the horizon.
'I didn't sleep with Ian again, since us,' Renee said. Her words came out of the blue; she'd hardly spoken for the last half hour, and she hadn't mentioned him at all until now. The Continental Divide seemed an odd place to suddenly bring him up. But then again, maybe it was exactly right.
I got one of those pleasant little tingles that I'd gotten with her before, a mix of emotions and physical sensation that brushed across my skin, or maybe rose up through it.
'I figured that was none of my business,' I said. 'But it's nice to know.'
'I told him about you and me.'
'I've been wondering about your ring.'
