Nevada Barr - Winter Study

“What happened?” she meant to ask, but it was a demand.

“Robin’s been pretty upset since Katherine’s accident,” Bob replied, his voice warm with concern.

“And?”

At the end of the hallway, he turned right. Anna quickened her steps; she didn’t want him out of her sight. He stopped in the last doorway, the corner office with a view of the lake. A plastic name-plate, printed with DISTRICT RANGER, was in a faux-brass holder to the right of the doorframe.

Blocking the entrance with his bulk, big on a bad day, bigger still with the down coat, he said: “Not everybody can handle violence with your aplomb, Anna.” He used his nice-fellow voice, but the intent to insult was clear. Anna was not insulted. With guys like Menechinn in the world, she was liking the idea of violence better and better.

“Robin,” she called. A retching sound trickled on a moan from the dark room.

“Step away from the door,” Anna said.

“She’s been drinking pretty heavily,” Bob said. “I think she started sneaking it not too long after you left for your ski outing.”

“Move away from the door.”

“Aren’t we the officious little woman,” he said, but he moved.

The office reeked of wine. Robin was on the floor, her long legs curled up, knees under her chin. She was hatless and her hair fanned out around her head. Damp strands stuck to her face.

Half her attention on the young woman, half on Bob’s hulking shadow, glimpsed in stripes and washes as the beams of their lights moved, Anna knelt. “Robin, it’s Anna. Can you talk to me?” she asked gently as she pried open one eyelid, then the other, and shined her light in. Both pupils reacted sluggishly. Dilation could have been caused by drugs or darkness. Robin’s skin was cool to the touch and diaphoretic. Any number of things could account for that.

“I went out for a walk,” Bob said. “When I came by the V.C., I heard noises and came up to see what was going on. I found her back here with a box of the wine she’d taken from the bathroom fridge.” He played his light to the box of merlot on the floor a few feet from Robin. A mason jar was tipped over next to it, a stain spreading on the carpet. “I was trying to get her up and take her back to the bunkhouse, so she wouldn’t freeze to death, when I heard you come in.”

Anna flicked her light to his face. He threw up an arm as if the beam was a blow. With the cut of shadow, she couldn’t read his expression.

“Yeah, well, here’s your chance.”

Between the two of them, they got Robin to her feet and out of the Visitors Center. The trail from the bunkhouse to the V.C. and dock was swampy in summer. A wooden walkway, two planks wide, had been built to keep foot traffic from tearing up the muddy ground. Snow hid the planks, rendering the path tricky in much the same way the downed trees made traversing the cedar swamps tricky.

“Better let me carry her,” Bob said. “You walk ahead with the light.”

Anna hated that idea. Hated the idea of Bob doing a good deed, hated the idea of Bob touching Robin, hated the idea of being helped and hated the idea that she didn’t have the strength to carry the girl herself.

“Thanks,” she said, wondering what it was about Bob – or about having one’s life saved – that was so irritating. “Watch your footing.”

Bob picked Robin up easily. The biotech was tall, but slender as a blade of grass. “Go on ahead. I can light your way better from behind,” Anna told him. This was marginally true; with an effort, she could shine the lights around him.

As she followed in his tracks, the size of the man, the unconscious woman in his arms, the flickering of the two flashlights, brought to mind a dozen derivatives of King Kong and Frankenstein; the beast, lumbering from the torchlight, the damsel clutched to his chest.

Anna opened the door to the bunkhouse and Bob shouldered in with his burden. At the computer on the rear wall of the common room, Adam glanced over his shoulder. Then he was on his feet. Anna didn’t see him gather himself and stand – one moment, he was sitting; the next, standing.

Jonah stood as well. “Ridley,” he called without taking his eyes off them. “Get in here.”

Bob didn’t put Robin down on the couch or move toward her room but stopped a moment to savor the spotlight. “Drunk as a frat boy on Friday night,” he said.

“Robin’s drunk. Passed out. Drunk,” Adam said tonelessly, his face gone the color of ashes, his hands knotted in fists at his sides, knuckles hard-boned and sharp.

“Yep,” Bob said. “I guess this wog business was getting to her. I, for one, will be glad when the Forest Service gets us off this island. Sooner is better.”

To Anna’s amazement, the permafrost that had replaced Adam’s skin melted and his fists uncurled. “I’m glad you were looking after her, Bob. She’s a good kid.” Adam reached to take the unconscious girl. His arms were as stiff as a Hollywood mummy’s.

Bob wasn’t about to have his prize snatched away. Anna stepped in before they started fighting over Robin like dogs over a bone.

“Jonah,” she said as she pried Robin from Bob’s embrace and draped one of the girl’s arms across her shoulders. “Would you mind making a pot of coffee?”

“I’m on it,” he said.

Supporting the younger woman, Anna began their stumbling way to the bedroom. Bob and Adam followed. She stopped, braced Robin against her hip, turned and held them with her gaze for a moment.

“When the coffee’s done, ask Jonah to bring it to me.”

They didn’t recognize the dismissal.

Anna made it clearer. “Go away.”

Having no idea how much Robin had consumed, what her tolerance was or if she was on any other drugs or medications, Anna had no intention of letting her sleep until some of the effects wore off. At a guess, besides the wine she had taken a barbiturate of some kind. Tranquilizers or sleeping pills from her mother’s medicine cabinet secreted away for emergency meltdowns. If her system was too depressed, sleeping could push her from unconscious to dead. Coffee, poking, prodding and making witty conversation were all Anna had in the way of antidotes.

She settled Robin on her bed, back against the wall, legs out straight. Like a Raggedy Ann, Robin’s head cocked to one side and her arms limp, palms up. Twice she blinked, then her eyes opened preternaturally wide. The beneficent image of Raggedy Ann was replaced by that of Chucky. The illusion lasted long enough for Anna’s adrenaline to spike one more time.

“You’re in our room. You are safe,” Anna told her. “Whatever demons are chasing you will have to come through me. Can you tell me how much you had to drink?”

Robin didn’t answer. Her eyes drifted closed and she mumbled, “Demons.”

“No demons,” Anna said with obnoxious good cheer, her voice pitched sharply enough to penetrate the biotech’s fog but not to carry beyond the closed door. “How much did you drink?”

“Drink,” Robin parroted. “Ish.” Fingers numb with whatever was in her system, she began fumbling at the hem of her sweater, unable to clutch it hard enough to lift the wool over her head. “I’m wet.”

“You have wine spilled on you. That sweater is soaked in it. You smell like a wet dog,” Anna told her. “A wet, alcoholic dog.” She moved to help Robin off with her sweater and she batted at Anna.

“No. No. No.” Each was a single, pitiful cry, as if against an inevitable and familiar evil she was helpless to stop. Anna sat back down. Women who had been raped or sexually abused, either as adults or as children, occasionally exhibited a fear of having their clothes removed by anyone else, even an EMT or physician. Most overcame the instantaneous terror, at least enough to hide it when they were sober. Drunk or drugged or distraught, it often resurfaced.