Джон Макдональд - More Good Old Stuff

Post sat and looked at his skinned knuckles.

He made himself yawn. He said, “I don’t give a damn whether I go up there or stay in town. I don’t care one way or the other. You’re nosy and you got a lot of cracked ideas. I don’t even know what you’re talking about. Make it easy for me and I’ll go on up. What’s the difference what I do?”

Drake grinned at him. “I’ll get through that shell yet. Meet me right here at eight tomorrow morning. You can catch a bus out from town. I think the one you want leaves at seven-thirty. Buy some work clothes. That’s all you’ll need. Try to be on time.”

He turned on the motor and yanked the little car around in a screaming U-turn. He didn’t speak on the way back to town. He dropped Post off at the corner of Plant Street. Post walked down the street, conscious of the stiffness in his legs, wondering whether he would bother to buy the clothes and show up at the appointed place. He doubted it. He wanted to rest for a while, and then get something to eat. It wouldn’t be convenient to buy the clothes. It was going to be too much trouble. There was something about the man, Drake, that he didn’t like. Something superior and cold.

He stood in a chill morning rain under a maple across the road from where Drake had parked. The water dripped through the leaves. He was still stiff and sore from the fight. He wondered for a moment whether or not Drake would come. He felt annoyance as he realized that he wanted Drake to come. He stood quietly and forced himself into a state of mind where he didn’t care whether the man came or not. Then he relaxed. A few cars whoomed by him, their tires making a tearing sound on the wet concrete. He was lighting a cigarette when the familiar maroon coupe bounced over onto the shoulder. He picked up his bag and strolled through the rain. He tossed it over the back of the seat.

“Good morning, Post.”

“Dandy.”

“I have things on my mind today. I won’t talk to you on the way up. It’s five after eight. We’ll get to the lake at about two. Just relax.”

“You’re hurting my feelings.” Drake didn’t answer. They drove up through the hills that grew almost to mountains. Post watched the road ahead until it made him sleepy. He wedged his head in the corner and went to sleep.

He woke up with a bad taste in his mouth and saw that Drake was getting gas. He glanced at his watch. It was eleven. He stretched his legs and in a few minutes they rolled back out onto the highway. Drake drove at a good rate. His nervous brown hands were firm on the wheel. He cursed softly when cars ahead were stubborn about moving over. Post went to sleep again.

Finally he woke up. Drake was saying, sharply, “Post! Snap out of it!”

“What is it?”

“Nearly there. It’s one o’clock.”

“Better time than you thought.”

“I never make careless estimates, Post. Get used to that. We have four miles to walk through the woods before we’re there.”

Drake glanced at the rear vision mirror. He slowed down to twenty. An old car rattled by. Drake watched the woods on the right side of the road. He slowed down to ten and then to five. The car ahead disappeared around a curve. He glanced in the rear vision mirror again.

“Now,” he muttered, and swung the wheel hard right. The little car lurched across a shallow ditch and scraped under low branches. The back wheels were spinning on the wet earth. He twisted it around another turn and the state road was out of sight. He slowed down. Directly ahead, across the faint trail, was a massive log, nearly a yard in diameter and about eight feet long. The lower third of it was embedded in the trail.

“Get out and move the log, Post.”

“Are you nuts? That thing weighs more than a ton!”

“That thing, as you call it, weighs precisely forty-five pounds. Hop along.”

Post got out of the car. The rain had stopped. The huge log looked immovable. He wondered if it was a gag. He grabbed the end of it and it lifted out of the soil. He carried the end around. It was a log. Drake drove past and he replaced the log the way it had been.

He climbed back in the car and Drake started down the narrow track.

“What is that thing? What kind of a tree is it?”

“Just what it looks like. I had it sawed into short sections and the center hollowed out. Then I had the boys fit the sections back together with glue and wooden pins. It’s strong enough to stand on. The marks are concealed. A stranger would have to kick it or try to lift it to find out what it is. It discourages visitors.”

“What are you running down here, Doc? A counterfeiting plant? What goes on?”

“Relax, Post. You’ll find out all the answers in time. I run a health farm and I like to keep it private.”

After a quarter mile of winding trail through dense brush, they came to a small clearing circled by tall spruce. Drake ran his car under the close branches. They climbed out. Post hauled his suitcase out. As they walked across the clearing, Post saw the rear bumpers of several other cars hidden deep under the trees. He wanted to ask Drake about it. Then he shrugged and followed along in silence.

For a long time the trail wound upward and the vegetation grew denser. Slim branches whipped back, lashing Walker Post across the face. He lowered his head and plodded along, considering only each step at a time. He began to imagine that if he had to stop, he would fail. He wondered where his ability to hike thirty miles in a day had gone.

Suddenly he stumbled against Drake’s back. The man had stopped. He stood calm and cool and pointed ahead down the trail. They stood at the crest of a hill.

“Meridin Lake,” he said with obvious pride.

It lay below them, a thousand yards away. It was small, possibly a mile long and a half mile wide. A large patch of the sky had cleared and the still water threw a deeper blue back toward the sky. It ran east and west. They stood above the west end. Wooded hills rose steeply from the lake on every side except the west. Ahead Post could see the outlines of weathered gray buildings against the evergreens. It was very quiet, strangely quiet. Post felt a momentary uneasiness.

“Like it?”

“It’s okay.”

“There’s one thing you should know about it. This is wild country. The only decent way to and from the lake is the way we’ve come. The thickets and brambles and hills are so bad on all the other sides that even hunters never come near us. Remember that.”

“So I’ll remember it.”

Drake started down the trail. The rest of it was easier for Post. It was downhill. He was so tired that his heels thudded against the hard earth with blows that jarred him. He wasn’t so tired, however, that he didn’t look around at the two buildings as they came out into the clearing.

They were two long, low buildings of wood weathered gray by the sun and rain and snow. They were of simple construction with gradual slopes on the peaked roofs and overhanging eaves. The square windows were netted. They appeared to Post to be each about forty feet long and fifteen to eighteen wide. They were set parallel, about twenty feet apart. Looking down the alley between them, he could see the blue glint of the lake about fifty feet beyond their farthest edge.

Drake shouted when they emerged into the clearing. There was an open door at the end of the building on the left. A tall man in faded blue denim with flame-red hair hurried out. A stockier dark man followed slowly after him.

They met in the middle of the clearing. Post dropped his bag with a hidden sigh of relief.

“Boys, this is Walker Post. Post, that tall one is Rob Strane, the man who has been with me the longest.”

Strane grabbed Post’s hand in his big red fist and said, “Hi ya, Post.” He was tall and rangy and looked as tough and hard as a pump handle. Post noticed that his eyes were a strange shade of faun, almost a yellow. He acted nervous and anxious to be liked.