like it or not, they are what they are.'
28
The sun was edging toward the west but still high enough that Lake Mead's ripples caught its light and kicked them out in sharp-edged fragments.
That had been a happier occasion, the wedding of a former student and one of his student aides, who had met because of Ray. One of the perks of a university career, he knew. Crime-scene investigators tended to encounter people at their worst, not when they were young and enthusiastic and brimming with life's possibilities but when they were witnesses, victims, or suspects. Funny how one career shift – albeit entirely within his area of expertise – could so dramatically alter the circumstances under which he interacted with his fellow human beings.
He went to the ticket window and bought a ticket for the dinner cruise, then went back outside and stood on the dock, watching waves lap against the pilings, listening to the excited chatter and the echoing clomp of people crossing the gangplank to the big steamboat. The air smelled like most lakeside docks he had visited, except those in remote wilderness areas, that fishy undertone trying with only limited success to cut through the oily fumes of boat engines.
Ray was waiting for Keith and Ysabel to show up. He had promised to meet them there if he could, and he had made it with time to spare, before the ship even steamed in from its previous cruise, its paddlewheel carving a wide wake behind it. He had watched the passengers crowding the rails on all three decks, sunburned and tired – the littlest kids fussing, teenagers bored or pretending to be, talking or texting on mobile phones as they neared the landing. Children in between those ages, their parents, and lovers young or old, unencumbered by family responsibilities, seemed to have enjoyed the excursion the most. Gulls wheeled around the ship, looking for last- minute handouts, calling out their plaintive cries.
When the ship was cleared of its passenger load, hands swabbed and wiped and polished, working with practiced efficiency, and in no time it was ready for the next batch. Dollies of food and beverages, paper products, and galley supplies were loaded aboard. Then the crew boarded, the rope was taken down, and passengers were invited aboard.
He saw them as they approached from the parking area, Keith walking slowly, one arm out for Ysabel to hang on to. She wore a long skirt and walked with slow, even steps, so from a distance she seemed to be floating toward the landing. Above the skin, she had on a blouse and a light leather jacket, and in one hand she carried a canvas bag with a wolf's-head design. Keith, ever the college professor, wore tweed, an Oxford shirt, jeans, and loafers. Ysabel saw Ray first and tugged on Keith's arm, an unself-conscious smile lighting her face. Keith's grin was less committed but appeared just as heartfelt.
'You made it!' he shouted as they neared.
'I said I'd try,' Ray replied. 'I'm glad I got here before she shoved off.'
'We have to pick up our tickets,' Ysabel said.
'I'll do that,' Keith offered. 'Why don't you wait here with Ray? You have yours yet, Ray?'
Ray showed his ticket. 'I'm good.'
Keith turned Ysabel over to him, and she took Ray's arm instead of her husband's. She barely needed the support; either that, or she weighed less than Ray had thought. She had definitely lost a lot of weight, and it was more apparent there than it had been when she was sitting in her bed. She seemed shorter, less solid – less present, somehow. Her gaze flitted about from one spot to another, as if afraid she might miss something.
'I love it here,' she said. She swept her free hand across the landscape. Ray looked out at the hills ringing the blue, blue water: dun-colored, brown, gray, and purple at the farther reaches. 'It's so different, isn't it? Like someone turned on a hose one day and decided to fill a desert valley with water.'
'That's not far from the truth.' Ray reminded her. 'Except it was the Hoover Dam, not a hose, that filled it.'
'I know, it's unnatural. It doesn't belong here. But water is life, and so much of it in one place… I can't help it, it just makes me smile.'
'That makes me smile,' Ray said. 'Here comes Keith.'
He started toward the gangplank, walking at her pace. Keith joined them. 'We're all set,' he said. Something about his enthusiasm for the journey seemed forced. 'Let's see if we can stake out a good spot on the deck.'
The boat launched a few minutes later, the two men flanking Ysabel as it went. Her grip on the deck rail was firm, Ray noted, and Keith kept a hand on her the whole time they stood there watching the landing recede. Ysabel enjoyed the gentle rocking motion of the boat, the smell of the water, the sight of desert mountains slipping into shadow as the sun sank farther.
After a while, they took her inside the main cabin to their reserved table. 'I'm going to get a drink,' Keith said. 'You sit here, Ysabel.' She sat down, and he wandered off toward the bar. From her bag she took a partially completed basket and her basket-making kit. She loosened the ties and unrolled it on the red tablecloth, revealing her weaving tools. 'Will you sit with me. Ray?' she asked.
'I will, in a few minutes,' he said. 'First I'm going to talk to Keith a little. But let me ask you – that kit you have? What's that made of?'
'Oh, the tools? They're bone and antler and -'
'No,' he interrupted gently. 'I mean the outside, the pan that holds everything in.'
'Oh, that's just plain yucca. It's pretty old, but it does the job.'
'Thanks, Ysabel. I'll be right back, okay?'
'I'll be here,' she said. Her voice was as cheerful as ever, with the singsong quality that everybody who knew her came to love.
Ray reluctantly left her and started toward the bar. He encountered Keith on his way back to the table, caught his friend's arm, and nodded toward the exit. 'Can we go out on deck for a few minutes?' he asked.
Keith tensed, but only for a moment. 'Sure,' he said. He freed his arm from Ray's grip and went out the hatch. They stood together at the rail, Keith taking occasional sips from his drink. Water shushed past the bow, relatively smooth until it caught the paddlewheel's choppy wake.
'You've had silver hair as long as I've known you,' Ray said.
'It turned early. I started going gray while I was still in college.'
'To be fair, you spent a long time in college.'
Keith laughed once, in a startled way. 'I never wanted to get out. I guess I never did. From student to teacher is a short trip. I guess I've never not been part of academia.'
'It isn't a bad life,' Ray admitted. 'Constant intellectual stimulation. A lot of politics to deal with, but what workplace doesn't have that? Decent salary, good benefits.'
'Administration is where the real money is,' Keith said. 'You know that. In these days of budget cuts, education cuts, we mere professors are an endangered species. Not only were there no raises the last couple of years, but fully a quarter of the department's faculty was phased out. Class sizes are getting insane, and -' He stopped, took a sip, looked at Ray. 'You didn't bring me out here to get the same old lecture about university life, did you?'
'I've seen pictures of you from when you were younger,' Ray told him. 'Your hair was light then. Blond, right?'
'Yeah, I was always pretty sandy-haired. I guess that's why I didn't mind the gray so much – it didn't seem like that much of a change.'
A breeze blew up from nowhere, fluttering Keith's silver hair, wafting the smell of bourbon from his cup.
'And your eyes,' Ray said. He waved his hand at the water. 'Always been as blue as Lake Mead.'
The sun had dropped more, streaking the sky with salmon and orange, colors repeated in the rippling lake surface. 'Not so blue right now.'
'The lake, no. Your eyes, yes.'
'I'm glad you admire my physical perfection so much. Ray,' Keith said. 'Is this leading up to something?'
