Don Winslow - Way Down on the High Lonely

“You know how to shoot one of these things?” asked Steve.

“Something to do with pulling a trigger, right?”

The rifle, Neal learned, was a Marlin 336. It had a lever action, a ten-round magazine, and shot 30/30 ammo. It weighed six pounds but seemed a lot heavier when Neal shot it and it bucked back against his shoulder. And it did make one hell of a noise.

“But don’t you need this?” Neal asked through the sound of cathedral bells tolling in his ears.

“No,” Steve answered. “I’ve got a regular arsenal back at the house. You collect these things over the years. You saw the Winchester. I have a Remington, a Savage combination, an old H amp;R twelve-gauge pump, even a few old handguns until the fed decide to collect them all. I guess I can spare you this one.”

I guess you can.

“You oughta practice with this a little bit,” Steve advised. “You never know.”

“True enough,” Neal answered.

He watched as Steve loped back across the sagebrush toward his place.

You never know, Neal thought.

He went back into the cabin, took a half hour or so to get a fire started in the stove, then another forty-five minutes to figure out the intricacies of an old-fashioned coffee percolator. By the time he made a pot it was dusk, and he took his hard-won cup out onto the small porch and watched the hard desert edges turn a soft rose. The Shoshone Mountains across the valley turned into indistinct silhouettes, first charcoal gray and then black. The sun blazed red for a finale and then dropped behind the mountains.

A moment later the coyotes started to howl.

Ed Levine was bored.

He was gazing out his office window at Times Square. He was leaning back in his chair, his feet propped on his desk, a cigarette smoldering in a saucer on the desk.

The flashing lights below were doing nothing for him. Neither were the sounds of the taxi horns and buses, nor the vaguely human sounds that reached up from the streets. He leaned over, took a drag of the cigarette, and leaned back again as the man on the other end of the phone went on and on and on.

The office door opened and Joe Graham walked in.

“Can you hold on a minute?” Ed asked the man on the phone.

He pushed the hold button, looked at Graham, and raised his eyebrows.

“It’s all set up,” Graham answered the unasked question.

“Good,” Ed replied. He took a closer look at Graham. “You’re worried.”

“The kid hasn’t been undercover like this for a long time. It’s risky.”

Ed nodded. “It always is.”

Graham rubbed his artificial hand into the sweaty flesh of his real palm.

“I want to get closer,” he said.

“It’s too soon.”

“I don’t want it to be too late.”

Ed frowned and gestured at the phone.

Graham set himself down in the chair across from the desk.

Ed frowned more and said, “If we get too close now we might burn him. Just be ready to go.”

“I’m ready now.”

Ed gestured impatiently toward the phone again. Graham showed no sign of moving from the chair.

“Okay,” Ed said. “Start working out a cover for yourself. Now stop worrying and go have a couple of beers.”

Graham got up. “I’ll have the beers,” he said from the doorway, “but I won’t stop worrying.” He closed the door behind him.

It is definitely time for a change, Ed thought.

He pushed the hold button again and started speaking before the other guy could. “Let’s get down to business,” Levine said. “Just what is it you need, Reverend Carter?”

Back out on The High Lonely, Jory Hansen sat at the bottom of the ravine. He was watching the moon.

When it was high and full, Jory hopped onto his horse, gave the mare a gentle kick in the ribs, and started across the rabbit brush, dull silver in the moonlight.

He reached the spur of the mountain, stopped for a moment to stroke the horse’s neck, and then let the animal pick its way carefully up the slope.

From the brush beside the narrow trail, small eyes glowing red in the darkness watched him. An owl left its perch and flew slowly above and behind him, hoping that the horse would flush a rabbit or a squirrel out of the brush. On a shelf of rock a hundred or so yards above, a cougar flicked its ears as it caught the hated scent of the horse and retreated into a deep stand of cedar.

A half an hour later the cougar growled softly as the horse passed by, a rabbit squealed in terror as the owl sank its talons into its neck and lifted it into the dark sky, and far out on The High Lonely a coyote sniffed the night air for the distinctive scent of death.

Neal picked up the heavy cast-iron skillet and poured the bacon grease into an old coffee can. He set the skillet back on top of the wood stove. As the thin layer of grease spattered and hissed, Neal broke two eggs on the edge of the skillet and opened them into the pan. He swirled the skillet gently until the eggs were set and put it back down on the cast-iron heater.

On the back burner, the bubbling of the old metal percolator slowed to a single blurp. Neal picked the coffee pot up with a hot pad and poured himself a mug. Prismatic residue floated on top, giving off that oily tang particular to old-fashioned perked coffee. Neal took a careful sip, scalding his lips only slightly as he stepped out onto the cabin porch.

The sun was rising behind him, starting to warm the cabin’s tin roof. Neal savored the sounds that he had first heard only as silence. Listening carefully, he now heard the western breeze ruffle the trees, the distinct crackle of the creek as it rushed over rock and sand. He heard that same old ornery crow scolding him from the same pine branch, the hammering noise of a downy woodpecker as it hunted for ants in a dead cedar, the rattling chirp of a ground squirrel.

And there were the smells. The dominant odor of pine needles, distinct from the muskier smell of pine pitch, the warm, acrid smell of the acidic dirt beneath the rabbit brush, the sagebrush itself, dry and sweet smelling in the crisp early morning. And now there was the aroma of the eggs frying in the bacon grease and the wonderful bread smell as it browned on the grill above the stove.

Neal walked back into the cabin and turned the eggs over, then pressed the spatula down until the yolks broke. He took the toast off the grill, buttered it, and placed it on the old, white, chipped plate with the little blue flowers around the edge. He watched the eggs until they turned solid, then flipped them onto the plate, poured himself more coffee, and sat down at the table, three wide pine boards hammered onto a frame of split logs. He pulled up his chair-another primitive pine job hacked out with a hatchet-and opened his Carson City Gazette to the sports page.

The newspaper was exactly one week behind. Neal hitched a ride to town with Steve once a week to buy his supplies and stocked up on his newspapers seven at a time. He had disciplined himself to read only one paper a day, and so his news was a week old, but it wasn’t long before that didn’t matter, and it wasn’t long after that that he took to only glancing at the hard news anyway, turning his attention to sports, book reviews, editorials, and the comics. He got very involved with the comic strips, actually feeling suspense at the fate of Gil Thorp’s baseball team and Steve Roper.

On this morning, as on every other morning, building a life was mostly a matter of maintenance. Joe Graham had taught him that a long time ago-that managing your life was about doing the small tasks well and doing them when they needed to be done. “People think that they’re ‘free,’” Joe Graham had lectured one time as he was browbeating Neal into cleaning his pigsty of an apartment, “when they don’t have any order in their lives. They’re not free. They’re prisoners of their own sloppiness. They spend a hell of a lot more time and energy cleaning up their messes than they do having fun, whatever they tell you. Now, if you just do the little boring things every day, in some kind of order, you leave yourself with more time to sit around, drink beer, and watch ball games on TV, which is, after all, what you want to be doing in the first place. Besides which, sloppy detectives tend to end up dead.”