One Smooth Stone. Marcia Lee Laycock

the roof. Would the cops in Vancouver have contacted the cops in Seattle? Not likely. They’d have no reason to. Maybe going back would be worth the risk. Images floated through his mind again—those dark eyes pleading, the sound of sirens. He rolled out of bed and scrubbed at his face. No. Don’t let your mind go there. And don’t go to Seattle.

      He scratched his beard and thought briefly about shaving. If I’m going to…no. I’m not going anywhere. He didn’t bother digging out the razor. He had to get ready for winter. No time for chasing ghosts. A sudden urgency hit him as though if he rushed to prepare, winter would come more quickly. And when winter came he’d be harder to find.

      By the time he lit the fire and made coffee he’d repeated that No to himself several times, but kept coming back to the questions he wanted answered. He stared out the front window and watched the flood of silt-laden water stream by. Eddies and undertows, swirls of gray in the early light. Will there be answers in Seattle?

      Pulled by the energy of sudden decision, he tugged his pack out from under his bed and tossed in a change of clothes and a few other things. He fed his dogs an extra large portion and made sure their water bowls were full. Tacking the standard “Use what you need, replace what you use” note to the front door he shouldered the light pack, pulled on a battered floppy-brimmed felt hat, and headed for his boat.

      * * *

      Alex was sweating by the time he reached the small round-ended trailer sagging into the side of the hill. Sal’s huskies let out enough howling to wake the dead, but no one came to the door so he knew she wasn’t home. He pulled out a scrap of paper from his pack and wrote a quick note, asking her to check on his dogs. Then he trudged back down the long hill toward the center of town.

      The thud of his boots echoed along the boardwalk. The streets were quiet, the sharp gusts of wind stirring up dust devils as they whipped around the false fronts of clapboard buildings, sighing as grit scrubbed at wood and window. He nodded at a girl sweeping the entrance to one of the tourist traps. They’d be closing for the season in a few days. The town was reverting to its previous ownership. The tourists were gone. A pickup truck rumbled slowly by as Alex stepped into the street. He gave the driver a short salute, though he didn’t know his name. Everyone was a local now. He stopped in front of the Downtown Hotel, stared at the front entrance and sighed. He glanced down the street. The streets of Seattle will be nothing like this.

      * * *

      The flight out of Dawson was noisy so neither man made much attempt to talk at first. Alex peered out the window, catching glimpses of the spectacular Yukon scenery through flat-topped clouds. He’d flown over it a few times in small planes and helicopters, canoed its rivers and tramped over some of its mountains, but it never ceased to make him catch his breath. The most beautiful place on earth. A good place to get lost in. A good place to hide.

      But now I’ve been found. His stomach flipped and twisted into sudden panic. This was a mistake. It’s too risky. I’ll get off in Whitehorse and tell Bronsky I’ve changed my mind. But then the what-ifs filled his head again, and he wondered if at least some facts and figures might be found—facts and figures that might answer the questions he’d asked all his life. Are my parents really dead? Or did they abandon me? What were they like? Where were they from? Where am I from? Where do I belong? He let out a sigh that was almost a groan. Letting his mind wander in that direction made him feel adrift with no way to anchor himself. But now, maybe…. Alex felt his pulse quicken. Do I really want to know? What if the answers only give me more nightmares? More questions?

      He thought about the money. One million dollars. What would it be like to go out and buy anything I wanted? Anything at all? Alex sighed. There wasn’t really anything he wanted that badly. A new boat and motor, maybe.

      A tap on his arm made him jerk. He turned to see George holding out a package of gum. Alex popped one out and nodded his thanks.

      “Beautiful country!” the lawyer yelled.

      Alex nodded again.

      “Good fishing, I bet!”

      “The best.” Alex started to turn away.

      “I’d like to come back some time!”

      Yeah, with an R.V. and all the conveniences of home. The territory flooded with tourists each summer. Alex avoided them as much as possible.

      But Bronsky surprised him. He pointed to the rugged landscape below, the wide ribbon of the Yukon River snaking through it. “Any whitewater on that river?”

      Alex shook his head. “Not much, but there are others.”

      “Ever done any whitewater rafting?” Bronsky asked.

      Alex shook his head again. “Too much money!” he shouted.

      Bronsky grinned at him. “Not anymore!”

      Alex shrugged and turned back to the window. His chest felt tight and he shifted in an attempt to relieve it. Not anymore. He closed his eyes against images that swirled up like the stench from a rotting carcass. Those were some of the last words his foster father said to him as they waited for the cops to come and take him away. “Time for a dose of reality, kid,” he’d said as he held him down. “No more soft touch. Not anymore.” He remembered the man’s scheming look, remembered how he’d suddenly released his grip. “Or…you could run….”

      And those small dark eyes, pleading.

      He rubbed at the pain in his temple, then laid his hand over the long scar on his neck.

      Soft touch. Right. No more back-handed blows or belts that snapped like a whip. No more nights when he lay rigid, hoping, even praying, that the man’s footsteps wouldn’t stop at his bedroom door. It was a huge relief to be out of that house, even though it meant living on the streets, eating out of dumpsters, running scared every time a police cruiser drove by.

      He opened his eyes and scanned the landscape again. It looked dark, the thick growth of spruce, birch, and poplar flowing over hills, encroaching on mountainsides, and crowding down to the edges of rivers. The memories crowded him too, even here. Alex sighed. Just when I was getting used to being a hermit and now they’re telling me I’m a rich man. Maybe. What if I get all the way to Seattle and find out they’ve got the wrong guy after all? What if I end up in a jail cell instead? That’d be typical—another one of God’s cruel jokes. I’ve been the brunt of enough of those. Pastor T said that God doesn’t play those kinds of games, but I know better. Experience had taught him better. He glanced sideways at the lawyer. Something about the man kind of reminded him of the pastor who’d tried to help him long ago. He slouched into the seat again. And how would I get back? He had enough in the bank to make it through the winter, if he was careful, but that didn’t include a plane ticket from Seattle to Whitehorse. It’d be a long way to hitchhike. He began to seriously regret getting on the plane.

      They touched down at the airport in Whitehorse and took a taxi into town. On the way Alex voiced his concerns. “What if this is all a mistake? How do I get back?”

      Bronsky smiled. “My firm will take care of you. Don’t worry.”

      “I’ve heard that one before,” Alex mumbled.

      Bronksy peered at him. “I’m hungry. Know a good place to eat in this town?”

      “You like pizza ‘n beer?”

      “I’ll skip the beer, but pizza will work.”

      They sat across from one another at a small table. The bar was crowded, the music loud. Bronsky pulled his tie off and slipped out of his suit jacket. He stretched and grinned at Alex. “Don’t tell my boss. He insists on the professional look, no matter where, no matter what. I think he’d send me to Timbuktu and insist I go in a suit and tie.”

      Alex noticed the difference the lack of jacket and tie made. The lawyer looked even younger. Younger, and more friendly, though still way too trendy by Yukon standards. Bronsky stared at him for a moment, then extended his hand.