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The inuksuk was buried under the snow. (“Never a good sign,” the writer could imagine Tireless saying.) And Da
If Da
Da
Outside, the wind-borne snow stung Hero’s wide-open, lidless eye; the dog kept pawing at his face. “Just four buckets, Hero-only two trips to the bay and back,” Da
The dog’s spirits had notably improved. Da
There was a lot of venison in the freezer. Two steaks looked like too much food, but maybe one wasn’t quite enough-Da
Da
“Under the logs,” the writer said aloud to Hero, testing the phrase as a chapter title. It was a good title for an opening chapter, Da
“It’s the bear, Hero!” Da
“I thought I better check up on you,” the builder said. “How are you and Hero surviving the storm?”
“Hero and I are surviving just fine-in fact, we’re very cozy,” Da
“Not pla
“I’m not pla
“That’s good,” Andy said. “You’ve got whiteout conditions at your place, have you?”
“Total whiteout,” Da
“Not even from the back dock?” Andy asked him.
“I wouldn’t know,” Da
“You and Hero might want to go see what you can see off the back dock, Da
“What am I looking for, Andy?” the writer asked.
“A visitor,” the builder told him. “There’s someone looking for you, Da
“Real determined,” Da
SHE’D SHOWN UP at the nursing station in Pointe au Baril, asking for directions to Turner Island. The nurse had sent her to Andy. Everyone in town knew that Andy Grant was protective of the famous novelist’s privacy.
The big, strong-looking woman didn’t have her own airboat; she didn’t have a snowmobile, either. She didn’t even come with skis-just ski poles. Her backpack was huge, and strapped to it was a pair of snowshoes. If she’d had a car, it must have been a rental and she’d already gotten rid of it. Maybe she’d spent the night at Larry’s Tavern, or in some motel near Parry Sound. There was no way she could have driven the entire distance from Toronto to Pointe au Baril Station-not that morning, not in that snowstorm. The snow had blanketed Georgian Bay, from Manitoulin Island to Honey Harbour, and-according to Andy-it was supposed to snow all that night, too.
“She said she knows you,” Andy told the writer. “But if it turns out that she’s just a crazy fan, or some psycho autograph-seeker, there’s enough room in that backpack for all eight of your books-both the hardcover and the paperback editions. Then again, that backpack’s big enough to hold a shotgun.”
“She knows me how-she knew me when, and where?” Da
“All she said was, ‘We go back a ways.’ You’re not expecting a visit from an angry ex-girlfriend-are you, Da
“I’m not expecting anybody, Andy,” the writer said.
“She’s one powerful-looking lady, Da
“How big is she?” Daniel Baciagalupo asked.
“We’re talking giantess category,” Andy told him. “Hands like paws-boots bigger than mine. You and I together could fit in her parka; there would probably be room for Hero, too.”
“I suppose she looks like an Arctic explorer,” the writer guessed.
“She’s sure got the right clothes for this weather,” Andy said. “The snowpants, the snowmobiler’s gloves-and her parka has a big old hood.”
“I don’t suppose you saw the color of her hair,” the writer said.
“Nope-not under that hood. I couldn’t even be sure of the color of her eyes,” Andy said.
“And what would you guess her age was?” Da
“Nope,” the builder said again. “She’s way younger than you are, Da
“With all the clothes she had on, how could you tell she was fit?” the writer asked.
“She came into my office-just to look at my map of the bay,” the builder told Da