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Had Scotty that lean and hungry look? Tinker and Damien thought they saw it; saw the result in the fleshy roll around his belly.
In the morning, A
She thought of them sharing their narrow bunk. They must sleep curled together like kittens. It would be a good night to curl up with someone.
There’d been a man in Texas. Rogelio was a man to curl up with on hot nights. Not a Zachary, not someone to share a life with-or a narrow bunk bed-but a good man. “A warm body,” she said to those same stars. “I could do with a couple of those right now.”
Maybe Molly was right; maybe it was time to sprinkle Zachary’s ashes, give him to the lake. A
The lake, at least in the harbor, chose to be kind, and rocked A
FOUR
A
Dried and refreshed, she cadged a cup of bad coffee from the pot the dispatcher always kept hot, then wandered out to the dock to drink it in with the thin sunshine. The day was fair and promised to be warm-or warm for Isle Royale- somewhere in the sixties. A westerly breeze, smelling of pine and the loamy soil of the boreal forests, trickled in over the island.
A
She was down to the last gulp of coffee, the Cremora scum clinging to the Styrofoam, when Scotty Butkus stomped onto the dock, reminding her of her promise to Tinker and Damien. As always when in uniform, Scotty looked natty. The creases in his shirt were as sharp as if he ironed them instead of just snatching them out of the dryer before the permapress became permacrunch. His brass badge sparkled and his cowboy boots were polished to a fine gloss.
The boots were an absurdity. There wasn’t a horse for hundreds of square miles and anything but soft, white-soled shoes were forbidden on boats-they marked up the decks. But Scotty went booted in the Cisco, a nineteen-foot runabout he used for harbor patrol. He’d even worn them in the Lorelei the time A
Scotty was also wearing his side arm. Because of the low crime rate and the ever present danger of death by drowning, wearing defensive equipment on ISRO was optional. Butkus was the only ranger who opted to lug the heavy piece around. In concession to water safety he had struck a compromise that was strictly against regulations: he didn’t wear the full belt with cuffs and reloaders and holster, but just the pistol in a lightweight breakaway holster on the belt of his trousers.
Cowboy, A
She’d wondered why Pilcher never called him on his boots, why Lucas Vega hadn’t made him adhere to the defensive equipment standards. Then Christina, who worked as a part-time secretary in the main NPS office in Houghton, told her why the brass treated Scotty with kid gloves. When typing the minutes of the last Equal Opportunity meeting, Chris had discovered Scotty was suing ISRO for not giving him Pilcher’s position when he’d applied for it. He accused the park of discriminating against him because of his age.
The way he saw it, the fact that he refused to learn the long-range navigation device all the Bertrams were equipped with, and had let his scuba-diving license lapse was mere detail.
A
“Morning, Scotty,” she said, shading her eyes to look up at him.
“Morning. Lieu day?”
She nodded. He looked awful. His face was gray and puffy and his eyes were bloodshot. The skin on his neck hung loose. He looked like a man who was drinking heavily, sleeping poorly, and was badly hung over. A
“Where’s Do
“God damn him!” Scotty exploded. A
“No,” A
Scotty chose not to answer for a minute. He jumped into the Cisco with surprising agility. A
He busied himself checking the fuel levels, the lines, and a few other things that didn’t need checking. A
“The s.o.b. was pestering Do
“Is that why Do
Suddenly Scotty looked wily, his eyes narrowing in an almost cartoon fashion. Suspicious, A
A
A
The architect hadn’t catered to any north woods notion of romantic design. It was purely governmental: a low, boring, wooden building with a concrete walk, a square of exotic grass species mowed short, and a white flagpole flying the Stars and Stripes. Inside, it was made only slightly more interesting by the addition of maps and charts on the walls.
A