William Rabkin - The Call of the Mild

Shawn pressed the map to his forehead, then dropped his hands to his sides and called out to Helstrom, who was inventorying food supplies with his acting troupe. “You guys got a menu figured out yet? Because I’m good with anything that doesn’t require ketchup.”

He turned back to see the lawyers all staring at him. “What’s up?” he said to them.

“What did he say?” Gus said.

“Who?”

“The spirit of the mountains.”

“Oh, nothing,” Shawn said. “Apparently I didn’t leave him anything to talk about.”

The lawyers looked away, disgusted, and went back to arguing among themselves. Except for Mathis, who marched up to Shawn.

“I am ordering you to surrender that map,” Mathis said.

“Just as soon as we’re done with it,” Shawn said.

“You are going to let a murderer escape,” Mathis said. “And I will see that you are charged as an accessory after the fact.”

“My mother always said don’t be afraid to accessorize,” Shawn said.

“I think that was Tim Gunn,” Gus said.

“Really?” Shawn said. “I keep getting those two confused.”

Mathis’ face, already red with sunburn, crimsoned even more. “You’d better know what you’re doing.”

“I don’t see why,” Shawn said. “I never have before, and it’s worked for me so far.”

Across the camp, a bell rang. Bron Helstrom was summoning them to the table. The smell of charbroiled steaks hit them right after the clang of the bell.

“I think that concludes the conversation part of this evening’s entertainment,” Shawn said. “It’s time for food.”

“Of course,” Shawn said once he and Gus were back in their tent, safely nestled among the down pillows and feather beds, “when you’re with a bunch of lawyers, the conversation portion of the entertainment is never truly over.”

Gus couldn’t argue with that-except maybe over the part about entertainment. He hadn’t found anything amusing about the conversation that had taken place at the dinner table. Well, maybe the beginning, when the lawyers were so intent on cramming as much food as possible into their mouths that their cogent legal arguments, witty retorts, and dire personal insults were all reduced to a mess of indecipherable consonants and the occasional projectile of beef lingually launched across the table.

But once the appetites had been partially sated and etiquette had been restored to the group, the conversation quickly spiraled down into paranoid accusations and angry threats.

For the most part, Shawn and Gus stayed out of the table talk. For one thing, this meal, although much more quickly put together than last night’s, was even better than the one from the night before. Neither of them felt compelled to use their mouths for anything less pleasurable than eating.

And of course Shawn and Gus didn’t have to contribute to a discussion of who would hold on to the map. They would, and there didn’t seem to be any compelling reason to change that situation.

Even now that everyone had retired to their tents, Shawn and Gus could still hear isolated pockets of bickering coming from across the camp as a killer argument occurred to one of the lawyers just before they all fell asleep.

Gus waited until several minutes had passed since the last triumphant exclamation, and then he whispered to Shawn, “So what is our plan?”

“Sleep,” Shawn muttered.

“Yes, we’ll go to sleep in a minute,” Gus said. He was exhausted, too, but he knew he’d spend a much more pleasant night if he had an idea what to expect in the morning. “But first, what’s our plan?”

“Sleep is our plan,” Shawn said.

“How can sleep be a plan?” Gus said.

“It can’t, if you keep talking,” Shawn said, pulling his pillow around his ears. Within seconds he’d started to snore.

Gus lay awake trying to work out options for the next day. But even before he could form bullet points in his head, he was snoring, too.

When he woke up, the sun was streaming through the light nylon of the tent. And he discovered that Shawn’s plan was not bad at all. He felt infinitely better than he had the night before. He rolled over to see that Shawn was already up and dressed.

“I can’t believe I’ve been using a regular bedroom,” he said, pulling on his shoes. “A tent in the mountains is so much better. In fact, I’m going to have one installed in my own place as soon as we get back home.”

Gus felt all his good feelings swirling away. It took him a moment to figure out why. And then it hit him. It was that last phrase: as soon as we get back home.

“That brings up an important question,” he said. “About the whole ‘as soon as we get back home’ thing. And that is: how?”

“Well, once we’re off the mountain, it shouldn’t be a problem at all,” Shawn said. “We left your car at Rushton’s office, but I’m sure we can get someone to give us a ride over there. Worst-case scenario, we can get a cab from the police station, if Lassiter won’t arrange for a squad car to drive us. Do I smell pancakes?”

Shawn started out of the tent, but Gus jumped up and grabbed his arm. “Once we’re off the mountain?”

“I don’t think we can get Lassiter to send a squad car all the way up here,” Shawn said. “Yes, he owes us for all the cases we’ve solved, but I don’t think he’ll be willing to spring for the extra mileage.”

“Maybe I didn’t phrase my question precisely enough,” Gus said. “When I asked how we were going to get home, I meant how we were going to get home from here. Which would include the sub-question of exactly how we were going to get down from this mountain.”

“The way I see it, we have two choices,” Shawn said. “We can set out on a hard, grueling trek through the blasted wasteland, facing the constant threat of thirst, hunger, bears, or desperate villains protecting their illegal marijuana fields.”

“You mean hike down,” Gus said.

“Or we can stay here and gain weight,” Shawn said. “I’ll go whichever way you want. We can think about it over bacon.”

Gus had known Shawn long enough to realize that if he didn’t feel like explaining, nothing was going to make him do so, not even the hundreds of lightning strikes Gus was wishing down on him from the heavens. He followed Shawn out of the tent and to the table and allowed one of the waiters-it was either Coty or Bismarck; Cody was off juicing oranges, and waitress Miranda was nowhere to be seen-to slide a plate of fried eggs, bacon, and hash browns in front of him. There was a small bowl of ketchup in the center of the table, but as much as Gus usually liked to put the stuff on his potatoes, somehow he couldn’t bring himself to do so today.

As they ate, the table began to fill up. Gwendolyn was first to arrive, and Bismarck or Coty presented her with a plate. A few moments later, a smiling Balowsky took a chair, and almost immediately was presented with a brimming mug of coffee by Miranda, who seemed to have materialized out of nowhere.

“It is a grand morning, isn’t it?” Balowsky boomed cheerily. “I feel like I’ve been sleeping on a cloud.”

“Is that what you call it?” Gwendolyn said. “I’ve never seen one up close, but I always assumed a cloud would be a little less bony.”

“Pierced to the heart,” Balowsky said, clutching at an imaginary arrow through the organ. “Your great wit has claimed another victim. Just like my great-”

“Hi, everybody,” Jade said as she came shyly up to the table. “I hope everyone slept well.”

“If we didn’t, it’s only because we found something more relaxing to do,” Balowsky said.

To Gus’ surprise, Jade seemed to be blushing as she took her seat. She stared down at the tablecloth, apparently trying to hide a smile.