David Dun: At The Edge

Reluctantly she had admitted there was some good in this timber-industry mouthpiece. Maybe it wasn't much, but something. Then she had seen him at the demonstration, where they had argued. But as ugly as their verbal sparring became, spurred on by her bloodred anger and his I-fear-nothing determination, she still secretly liked him at the end. It was something she didn't understand about herself and didn't want to understand.

Getting involved further with him, even in casual conversation, would not be practical, she knew. Practical. According to her father, she wasn't at all practical, and she was still trying to figure out exactly what that meant.

Living in an Alaskan cabin wasn't practical, but it was good, it was uncluttered, it was simple, and it enabled her to form visions of herself and her life. She lived free of the noise of civilization. The hardness of the place, the relentless cold, the backbreaking work, the isolation, the energy that she had to expend on preparing a simple meal, all had enabled her to see things that couldn't be seen on a hillside mansion in southern California. The impractical sometimes bore fruit. She wasn't sure that she ever wanted to be practical.

For a good part of her life, she had been considered attractive. Perhaps before her teens people thought of her as an ungainly and skinny tomboy with braces. Later, she became beautiful, but still it was a beauty that was off the beaten path and depended to some extent on her smile and an inner something that beamed out of her countenance. Some said she was vivacious, others that she was a natural inspiration.

Maria's mouth was a little large, her lips full, and after the braces her teeth were sensational. If anything was ordinary about her, it was her brunette hair and a hairline that was not perfectly clean when she pulled it up atop her head. But she never did that, except on Saturday while she read.

There was her scar. She called it Amy's scar, in honor of the little girl she had been rescuing when injured. A full six inches long, it was an inch wide, right across an otherwise perfect belly. Everybody had something-well, almost everybody. If you were lucky, it was only flat feet. But Maria wore her scar with gratitude. She was thankful that she had been there to collect it. Two-piece bathing suits were out and she was a tad shy about the scar when it came to men.

Maria craved new ideas and new ways of thinking. She was like a walking investment bank for creative thought. Stubbornness was the other side of that equation, and she had not yet learned to tolerate ideas that challenged her fundamental beliefs. In truth, she had only a handful of fundamental beliefs: She should practice yoga; she should save old-growth forests; her mother was inherently wise and good, and to whatever extent she might fail, it was probably due to her father; she should be doing unto others what she would have them do unto her except when she lost her temper; anything worth doing was worth doing passionately; children were sacred trusts. And she believed fervently in love, but wasn't sure she'd ever find it.

Certainly, the man before her was puzzling and had aroused a heated curiosity about two basic issues: Did he want to save the planet-more specifically the trees? And did he look as good naked as he did clothed?

As he watched the waitress return with their check, there seemed a sadness about him. It was a peculiar contrast to the square-jawed maleness that he exuded.

He caught her noticing him. "You wanna have coffee sometime?"

"No," she said. "Not exactly. I mean maybe if we weren't so, well, opposite. We're just about as opposite as two people can be."

He nodded and she could see the sincerity in his eyes. She pondered that one. Something about this man reminded her of her father-the way he used to lavish attention upon her before their great falling-out and her migration, as she called it, to Alaska. Old feelings stirred inside as she reminded herself: This isn't my father. And it isn't my boyfriend.

As the crowning complication to her life, Maria was still her father's daughter and hadn't yet decided how she would finally deal with business and materialism. Nor had she decided how to deal with her predictable, maybe even boring boyfriend.

"Hey," Dan said. "I gotta go. But I did enjoy your company." He nodded at the door as she reached for the briefcase. "Maybe you should go first."

Dan followed her out of the pub, concerned about her decision to go alone to the bank, even though it was only a couple of blocks. The easy way she had with him, her passion for everything, the trees, life, her work-it was attractive. Watching her move briskly down the sidewalk, he found himself wishing there were a way to prolong then-contact. But reason prevailed, and he walked to the right and she to the left, he fighting the impulse to follow. It was a slow morning, the shops just preparing for the onslaught of afternoon foot-traffic-traffic that might not come on this noticeably quiet Saturday.

Maybe because he was uneasy about the money, or because he had more to say, or because of that damnable intrigue, he turned to watch her one last time. As he did so, a figure in a long brown leather coat and cowboy hat came at her rapidly from behind.

He didn't actually reason out that it was too warm for a long coat; it was more that everything about the situation appeared wrong.

Then it hit him.

The briefcase.

"Wait," he shouted. And ran.

Maria jumped as if stabbed. He imagined her eyes widening with the realization of the coming assault. From under the leather trench coat a policeman's side-handled baton appeared. Her attacker, his face hidden under the brim of his hat and a nylon stocking, swung the weapon. Maria was quick, though, and she deflected the baton with the briefcase. The assailant moved in. A swift jab of the baton caught Maria hard in the ribs. As she staggered, the assailant snatched the case and ran.

Dan sprinted, reckless from adrenaline, but he was too late. A black Chevy with a shine on the chrome came to a squealing stop, the assailant leaped through the open rear door. Inside, the thief's head turned, partially revealing through the nylon stocking the finer details of his profile- the nose and a slender face and jaw. In that moment, as Dan's fingers missed the closing door by inches, he realized that the assailant was a woman.

Tires squealed, and the Chevy raced away.

Dan took Maria's arm, looking her over to make sure she was all right.

A couple stood befuddled across the street, a shopkeeper shook a small carpet in front of his store.

"Follow her," Dan screamed. "Where?"

Somehow she understood that he was asking about her car. She pointed even as he moved toward the Ford Taurus.

''Keys," he said, watching the black sedan turn the corner.

He opened the passenger side and slid across to the driver's seat. "Stay here."

"I'm coming." She slid in as he hit the accelerator.

The car's momentum slammed the door. He squealed around the corner. No black sedan. Maria fastened her seat belt as he accelerated through a red light.

"Take it easy," she shouted.

"Not while they've got the money."

They were on Fifth, the main street through town, going north.

"There." Maria pointed at the black car's tail end, which was disappearing around another corner far ahead. The car had turned off onto an old two-lane highway that eventually headed into the mountains. Dan swerved into the oncoming lane, passing a young woman whose mouth went wide in shock.

"Let's call the cops. For once they could do some good."

"We can't do that," he said. They went around a curve; the rear tires broke loose and started to slide.

"Will you be careful!" she screamed as the car fishtailed from an overcorrection. "Why can't we call the cops?"