THE FERAL STRUT

Chapter 19

With the snow thigh-deep, the yurt didn't get many visitors. Hidden in a strip of forest next to a ski run, at the base of a south-facing cliff, it couldn't be seen by skiers except from below. Where the trail struck into the grove, you could catch a brief glimpse of the canvas and a flash of sun off the window. Occasionally, someone looking for Mary or Ginger came up from the parking lot on cross-country skis or snowshoes. Slim favored the latter: the run down through the woods was a bit much for him on skinny boards. So when Gris barked and they heard the crunch of snowshoes on frozen crust, they thought it was him.

Mary opened the door with a grin, that abruptly vanished.

She didn't recognize the bulky form, a man bent over to unbuckle his snowshoe bindings, until he straightened up: Pete Duckworth, the head rent-a-cop at the Village.

"Hey, Gin," she hissed over her shoulder. "Your Dad's chief enforcer."

She stepped past Mary, onto the board porch.

"So what's up, Duckers?"

His lip curled in an almost-snarl, before he damped his expression down.

"Got a report there's drugs being sold," he snapped.

"Probably true," Ginger said. "You've got some of the major cokeheads in western civilization bunking right down the hill."

"Huh? No, I mean here— this damn tent."

Ginger laughed. "Who told you that?"

He stepped up on the porch, clump-boomp, and started to bull through the door. Ginger stuck out an arm and barred his way. He grabbed her wrist. Bad move.

When he opened his eyes, Ginger was sifting fresh snow onto his face. Mary stood back, holding his gun.

"Sorry— you must've slipped on the ice," she said. "Thought we'd better keep this out of the snow— it might rust."

"Before you get up—" Ginger said.

He lurched to a sitting position, sputtering.

"Fair warning: I don't intend to be assaulted on my father's property."

"Bullshit— it's not his goddam property, it's National Forest."

"So what are you doing up here, Ducks? You're Village Security."

"The goddam tent's his property."

"He told you to come up and roust us?"

"That's not your business, goddammit. Give me back my pistol."

"Little update," Ginger said. "Dad gave me the yurt. It's mine, now. I don't recall giving you permission to come up here and threaten us."

"Who says I did?" he roared, stepping up onto the porch. Mary danced through the door of the yurt and shut it. He could hear the bolt click.

"Off my porch, shithead," Ginger roared back, her mouth two inches from his ear. He retreated, in disarray.

"Have you got 'em yet?" she called to Mary.

"10-4. Any message?

"Say we collared a prowler."

"Bullshit. There's no phone up here."

"Radio?" Ginger's voice crackled with scorn. "You've heard of that, right?" She pointed to the antenna mounted on a piece of lodgepole.

Mary's voice sounded inside: "That's affirmative, Dispatch. Stand by."