Cork nodded and looked impressed. “Tom Cruise? That must’ve been something.”
“It was sweet.”
“The river. Where does it go from here?”
“Keeps going northwest. In a few miles it becomes the west boundary of the Copper River Club.”
“All right,” Cork said. “Let’s keep going with the river.”
“You’re sure? Maybe we should look at your leg.”
“I’ll be fine, Ren.” He limped back to the ATV and climbed on.
Ren revved the engine and they took off.
A while later they came to a creek where the trail seemed to end. Ren killed the engine.
“This is Staples Creek, as far as we can go. Everything on the other side belongs to the Copper River Club.”
“So we’d be trespassing?”
“That’s right. And they have these guys who patrol looking for trespassers.”
“Have you ever trespassed, Ren?”
He had, lots of times. It was a kind of challenge. Because the area was so vast and he never did anything to damage the land, he thought of it as harmless and not really wrong. It wasn’t hard to avoid the men who patrolled. More often than not they traveled in pairs and talked, so you could hear them coming.
“Yes,” he admitted.
“What’s along the river?”
“Nothing. Well, almost nothing. A couple of miles from here there’s a cabin that belongs to one of the security guys. I’ve never really been any farther than that.”
“What happens when people get caught trespassing?”
“They just get asked to leave. These people, I guess they don’t want a lot of trouble.”
Behind him, Ren could feel Cork’s eyes steady on the forest ahead of them. Although the Copper River Trail ended, on the far side of the creek was another trail, so faint that unless you knew it existed, you probably wouldn’t see it. It was where the security guys walked when they patrolled. Secretly he hoped Cork would say to go on. Given the importance of their mission, and the fact that Cork was a sheriff and all, it seemed okay. Ren figured there was probably some legal right that allowed them to trespass in pursuit of answers to a crime.
Cork said, “Let’s see how far we get before we’re stopped. What do you say?”
“All right!” Ren lifted his arms as if they’d just scored a touchdown.
He eased the ATV ahead, through the foot-deep water of Staples Creek and onto Copper River Club land.
Before they’d reached the creek, they’d passed a number of “forties,” tracts of land forty acres each that had been logged. Ren knew that in the early days Henry Ford himself had walked those woods, handpicking the trees that would be cut and milled for the side panels on his early station wagons. The trees on Copper River Club land had never been cut, and the forest felt different there, sacred in a way. When he’d trespassed on foot, it had been all right because he’d been careful where he walked. Now he was conscious of the destruction the ATV wrought in its passage: the torn underbrush, the ugly tracks, the noise and smell of the engine, which seemed like a desecration in that quiet place. He slowed, stopped, and killed the engine.
“What is it?” Cork asked.
Ren didn’t quite know how to say it, and he mumbled.
“I didn’t hear,” Cork said.
“This doesn’t feel right.”
“Are we lost?”
“That’s not what I mean.”
Ren could hear the river to their left, a low steady murmur over stone. The sky was solid blue and out of it came a wind like a long breath exhaled. The trees swayed and the branches rubbed against one another with a sound that reminded him of old men complaining. He smelled the dank of wet earth and rotting leaves and felt the fullness of summer gone and the patient steady tread of winter coming from far beyond the horizon. All this belonged. The machine did not.
Cork was quiet, then said, “I understand. Let’s go back. I’ve probably seen everything I need to anyway.”
Before the boy could hit the starter again, a voice to their right commanded, “Hold it right there.”
Ren turned and said under his breath, “Oh shit.”
The man who’d spoken wore a green billed cap with Copper River Club in gold across the crown. He was dressed in a green uniform with a patch that said CRC Security on the shoulder of the right sleeve. Above the left breast pocket was stitched Calvin. The rifle he carried didn’t need a patch or badge or identification. It pretty much spoke for itself.
He came through the trees with the stock of the firearm resting on his hip and the barrel pointing skyward. He walked carefully and didn’t take his eyes off Ren and Cork. When he was a dozen feet away he stopped and let the weight of his glare sit on them. He was tall and thin. His pink, bloodless lips reminded Ren of the spongy underside of a mushroom.
“You’re trespassing on private property.”
“I’m afraid we got a little lost back there,” Cork said from behind Ren. “The trail we were on just kind of ended.”
“There’s a sign where that trail ends tells you to turn around.”
“Didn’t see it. Must’ve blown down in the storm last night.”
“I’ll check on that. Right now you just turn around and go on back the way you came.”
Cork nodded toward the rifle. “A Remington 7600?”
“It is.”
“That could do a lot of accidental damage.”
The man cradled the rifle lovingly in his hands. “Nothing accidental about the damage I intend to do with this baby. We got ourselves a mountain lion skulking around here.”
“No kidding?” Cork replied. “A cougar? You sure?”
“Saw it with my own eyes a couple of days ago. Came nosing around my place up the river. I got a shot off, hit it I’m pretty sure, but it didn’t go down. Means it’s wounded and real pissed off. I was you I’d stay clear of the woods for a while.”
“Thanks for the warning,” Cork said.
The thin man settled his gaze on Ren and squinted. “You’re Jewell DuBois’ boy.”
“Yeah.”
“Then you ought to know better than to be on Copper River Club land. I catch you here again, I’ll fry your skinny little ass, understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you,” he said to Cork. “Next time, the Copper River Club will press charges. Am I making myself clear?”
“Perfectly, Calvin.”
Under the security guard’s stern scrutiny, Ren made a careful U-turn with the ATV and headed back the way they’d come. When they crossed Staples Creek and were on public land again, Cork tapped his shoulder and called over the sound of the engine, “That guy, his name tag said Calvin. His last name wouldn’t happen to be Stokely, would it?”
“It is,” Ren said.
“Calvin Stokely.” Cork was quiet a moment as if he was thinking. “Your mom told me about him, said he used to scare her when they were kids.”
“He still does.”
“He’s got himself a uniform, a big rifle, and an inflated sense of authority. Ren, I can’t think of much that’s scarier than that.”
Ren laughed.
“You did great back there,” Cork told him.
“Really?”
