THE FERAL STRUT

Chapter 56

—Hoback District, Browne.

—D-3 this is Browne, do you copy?

—No contact with D-3. Deer Creek Guard Station, Browne.

—Deer Creek, this is Mary Browne.

—No contact with Deer Creek. Burnham, this is Browne.

—Burn 'Em. This is the Virgin Mary.

—No contact with Burn 'Em. Holy Virgin clear.

So much for the new radio. It looked cool, small and shiny. But it didn't work any better than the old one. She had a five-watt set at the guard station, hooked to the big antenna, but it was a butt-cramp to haul around.

The season was off to a slow start. It had rained like mad the first couple weeks of June, with snow up high. Gris smelled like a pair of gym socks. She tried towelling him off and brushing him next to the woodburner, but that only intensified the reek.

The upper campground was dead empty. The lower one had three spaces filled. She gotten the water system turned on, but the guy from the S.O. hadn't run a test on the water samples, so she had to staple up warning signs that the water wasn't safe. The people complained, although it meant they didn't have to pay the nightly fee. That seemed like a good deal to her, with a nice creek nearby. Clear mountain water. But some people would complain about anything.

There was a VW camper tucked back in the pines by the forks, one of those pop-up things. Idaho plates: Famous Potatoes. She'd feel stupid driving around with that, front and rear. It had been there nine days and the limit was fourteen. She hadn't seen anyone around. Probably some fry cook, working at Granite Creek Lodge or the Bar Z. Trying to save money by not paying rent or campground fees. She could sympathize, as long as they didn't trash the place. Some people were slobs. Left big firepits full of scorched cans and bacon grease. Buried their troutheads and bones in shallow pits. With the grizzlies moving south, that was a real problem. A griz bear, Slim said, could smell a fish frying ten miles away.

God, she loved Slim. After he'd proposed, she saw him surrounded by golden light, with a pair of wings. But she knew she'd screw it up. There was too much crazy in her, still. If they were married, she'd take it out on him— all the nasty, low, cruel, spiteful things she'd breathed in, from her mother's air. Sometimes she could feel all that simmering inside, as if her blood was about to boil.

Music helped. Playing loud and fast and singing in a way that was nearly a scream. Maybe that's why I stuck all these holes in my head, she thought, touching the dimples where her studs fit into her flesh. To let the devils out.

But now the band was history. Gin was in Salt Lake, Wire in Vegas, and Krista was spending half of each day hunched over her high-tech toys, and the other half riding her bike. They still practiced, she and Krista, when she was off work. But it was more noodling and talking than practice. Louisa had practically adopted her, and she had to ease out from under dinner invitations to head out to the yurt, and be with Slim.

He was the best part of her life. Along with the woods. And books. And Gris. Except for the stink. Christ!

"Dog! Have you been rolling in some unhallowed thing?"

Gris looked at her in an anxious way, ears half-cocked, and laid a paw on the seat of the truck.

"Guess what, Ragmop— it's bath night at Elf Creek. First you, then me."