anxious tone as before.
'Yeah?'
There came a pause that seemed longer than it was.
'Thanks. See you soon,' she exhaled, and ended the connection.
I had a feeling that wasn't what she'd started out to say.
I hadn't forgotten my encounter with Mr. Bobcat. Before I left the cabin, I got out the loudest, most powerful pistol I owned: a.45-caliber government-issue Colt 1911 that my father had brought back from the Korean War. It had seen a lot of use; the bluing was worn and the action was limber, well broken in. I knew he'd been in a fair amount of combat, but he'd said very little about all that; I didn't know if he'd ever killed anyone with it, or if it had even been his. Still, I had a feeling that the usage hadn't all been on the firing range. I didn't shoot it often-a couple of times a year, for the hell of it-and I'd cleaned it not long ago. I checked to make sure the clip was loaded, the chamber was empty, and the safety was on, and carried it out to my pickup truck, a '68 GMC that was yet another of the valuable gifts that my old man had passed on to me.
The afternoon was waning as I started down the narrow dirt road of Stumpleg Gulch toward Helena. It was late March, the time of year when spring was encroaching but winter still clung to a hold, and the two conspired together to turn the outdoors into a tedious, unwinnable mud-wrestling battle. The roads were covered with a layer of self-perpetuating muck, snow that had melted and refrozen dozens of times and all the dirt that got trapped in the process. If you bothered to wash your vehicle, it would only highlight the greasy black splotches that reappeared as soon as your wheels started turning, like shooed flies flitting back to a picnic lunch.
The snowfields that blanketed the higher mountains were taking on a worn look, and the buds on the trees lower down were thickening. Patches of ice clung to the shoreline of Canyon Ferry Lake, but most of its solid freeze-over had broken up, and its miles-long expanse reflected the slaty gray sky in the afternoon light. Soon there'd come a couple of days when the sky cleared for hours at a time, the temperature climbed enough to make you break a light sweat, and you could almost feel the grass and foliage greening around you. Leaves would start competing with pine needles for sunlight, and insects would start tormenting mammals and delighting fish.
Then, just about when you figured that winter was done for, you'd wake up early one morning to six inches of fresh snow driven by a howling, subzero wind doing its best to tear your roof off.
That was a quality of this country that I respected to the point of reverence. If you took anything for granted, you were likely to end up regretting it.
4
Helena had a fair number of stately Victorian houses, most of them dating back a century or more to when the area had been awash with mining money. The Callister home was one of them, up in the foothills toward the city's southeast edge. It was set comfortably apart from its neighbors, with a backyard giving way to forest that thickened as the terrain climbed.
The quietly elegant old neighborhood looked directly over the state capitol grounds, which were dominated by the grand, high-domed, gray stone main building. Before it stood a statue of ex-territorial governor Meagher, on horseback with sword raised like he was charging back into action in the Civil War. His fate remained one of Montana's fondest mysteries-he'd vanished off a ferryboat on the Missouri River at Fort Benton one night, and was never seen again.
North of the city, the land flattened out into the plains of the Helena Valley, bounded on the west by the foothills of the Rockies and on the east by the dark springtime glimmer of the Missouri. There was a lot of newer development that wasn't so attractive, but that was the price of living in a place that was becoming known.
Out of long habit, I started assessing the condition of Renee's house while I was still driving up to it. It had suffered neglect during the years that the Professor had been in the nursing home. The eggshell white paint was dingy and peeling, the bottom courses of clapboard siding and the front steps needed replacing, and there were other similar concerns common to such places. But by and large, the exterior seemed in pretty good shape. The roofing looked fairly new, and while the foundation was rock and mortar like most its age, there was no visible sagging or other structural damage. The inside might be a different story.
I parked on the street out front-leaving the driveway clear for the homeowners was another longtime habit- got out of my truck, and walked up the pave-stoned footpath to the house. As I got close, I glimpsed Renee's shape through a window, hurrying to the door. She must have been watching for me.
Then, when she stepped out onto the porch, I had an odd instant-a sudden wash of familarity, almost like a deja vu. Maybe it was only because I'd known her long ago. But more than suggesting the past, this had an intriguing sense of here and now. It was a pleasant little shock, gone too soon.
She was trim, verging on slight, with dark brown hair cut above her shoulders and eyes about the same color. She still gave off the solemn gentleness I remembered from childhood. I wasn't sure whether she was thinking of me as an old friend or a carpenter there to look at a job, so I only offered a handshake. But she clasped my hand in both of hers, fine-boned and warm, then drew me into a light embrace.
We segued into small talk for a couple of minutes, catching up on our families and a little of our current lives. She was here alone; her mother was ailing and didn't travel well, and her brother was teaching in Japan and hadn't cared to make the long journey. Career-wise, she was doing well; she'd gone into science like her father, and was doing pharmaceutical research.
She was also wearing an engagement ring that looked like it would add up to a pile of my paychecks.
The strain she was under showed in her face, and she seemed nervous, like she'd sounded on the phone. I reminded myself that besides her worries, she was probably used to men whose clothes weren't stained with construction glue and who didn't drive the kind of vehicle you usually only saw in old Clint Eastwood movies. I changed the subject to the house, trying to put her more at ease.
'What I've seen so far doesn't look too troublesome,' I said. 'Paint and a little carpenter work. I'd say go for it. Jack your curb appeal way up.'
'Thanks, that's good to know.' She hesitated. 'But there's another reason I called. Come on, it'll be easier to explain if I show you.'
She led me back down off the porch and around the side of the house, across a tree-dotted lawn that I remembered as lush and well kept but now was just a grass-stubbled mud patch, past flower beds gone to ruin.
At the rear of the property stood a smaller building that the Callisters called a carriage house, but which probably had been quarters for the domestic help. Her father had converted it into his study.
When Renee opened the door, I faced the most dismal sight I'd ever seen.
The place had been infested by pack rats. Books, carpeting, upholstery, insulation-anything they could get their teeth into-they'd chewed to shreds and used to build their warrens or just strewn around. Worse, almost every surface was layered with their foul pelletlike dung.
While I stared, she told me how this had happened. During the past years that her father had been in the nursing home, the main house had been occupied by a lowlife shirttail relative. He'd run it into the ground, using it as a crash pad for cronies and girlfriends, and when the pack rats invaded this outbuilding, he'd never lifted a finger to stop them.
Renee had made a game start toward swamping out the mess, clearing pathways here and there and trying to rake it up. But it was unpleasant work, and heavy-a hell of a lot to take on for a woman to cope with by herself, while mourning her father to boot.
I had to admit, realizing that this why she was courting my assistance was something of a comedown.
Ordinarily, I wouldn't have touched it. I was no prima donna, and I'd done my fair share of grunt work through the years. But by now I was well qualified in a range of skills that were much in demand, from heavy highway and commercial concrete work through any kind of framing-my specialty-to high-end remodels. About all this called for was a flat shovel and a strong stomach.
Then again, I didn't know anybody else who'd touch it, either; she'd be stuck with it herself. I decided that a day or two of slogging through rat shit wouldn't kill me. In a metaphorical sense, I did it often.
'I could start tomorrow, if you don't mind me banging around on Sunday,' I said. It would probably take
