Yula’s Ark - Chapter 4

Scott made a list: camera, tripod, film, tape recorder, tapes.

The possibility that the loggers were behind the nightly phenomena turned Scott’s curiosity to seething anger. Maybe they’ve come up with some new technique to cut off-limits lumber. Scott would just have to put aside his fear.

Buy a shotgun. The idea was ridiculous. He hadn’t shot a gun since he was fifteen years old–a .22, not his, firing at tin-cans. He’d shot a couple of frogs, too, and still felt guilty about it. Still, there was something out there and he was vulnerable in his cabin.

“Is that a good one?” Scott asked, pointing to the least expensive shotgun on the rack behind the counter.

“It’s okay,” the gun-shop owner told him.

Here it comes, Scott thought. He’s going to try to sell me the more expensive model. The same thing had happened at the camera store.

“I just need it for show really,” Scott told the gun man.

“Scare off the baddies?”

“Something like that.”

“Except if you have to use it, that one’s more likely to do the job.”

Actually using the gun hadn’t occurred to Scott. He envisioned himself standing on the cabin porch, shotgun cradled over his arm, protecting what was his.

Scott bought the one the store-owner recommended. It was his life he was buying, after all, and he shouldn’t short-change himself. That’s what the gun-shop man said.

Scott stepped inside the cabin and made sure he was alone. He spread the shotgun shells over the floor and picked a couple. Scott clicked them into the double chambers of the shotgun, half expecting it to explode in his face.

Scott breathed again. The thing felt good in his hands, he had to admit. He pointed it across the room and even touched the twin triggers before carefully putting the weapon on the floor.

Scott picked up the plastic bag that contained the camera. Be more forceful next time. Unnecessary plastic, a bane to the environment. Find a bag, backpack maybe, to take into stores. Eccentric, but what the hell–the environment is at stake. They all think you’re nuts anyway. Be brave–for once in your life–about what people say about you.

Scott loaded film into the camera. On the porch, he spread the tripod’s legs and set the camera in the direction of the lightning flashes. Scott set the f-stop to eleven and the shutter for 1/125th of a second; the sun was still high in the sky. Later, after dark, he’d stop down to 2.8 and leave the shutter wide open all night. The film would record anything that shed light.

Scott put a cassette in the tape recorder, tested it with his own voice and confirmed that it worked.

After retrieving his shotgun from inside, Scott pulled out the one chair in the cabin and sat down on the porch.

From this vantage-point he could see the long valley and the mountains beyond. He put his feet up on the railing and reached to the camera. Arm’s length. Scott tested his reach to the tape recorder, too. He’d record first, then shoot with the camera, then, if needed, shoot the shotgun.

Scott sat that way for an hour, listening to the woods and watching for signs of life. Is it paranoia if someone is really after you? Maybe, even so.

“Can’t do this alone,” Scott told himself aloud as he drove down the road, past town to The Redwood Inn. Liquored laughter drifted out from the dimness inside the restaurant. Tourists, Scott figured, up from the cities, seeing the forest and the trees, breathing good air, then ending up in the bar–same thing they do at home.

Scott peeked in briefly. No environmentalists–money required.

In the motel office, Scott waited, pretending to peruse the forest posters on the walls. The sleepy-eyed innkeeper appeared, coughed, cleared his throat and wiped his hands on near-white pajama-bottoms. Charming.

“I’m looking for someone,” Scott said.

“You don’t want a room?”

“No–I’m trying to find–”

The motel owner pushed the registration book across the counter and shuffled back through the door.

The names in the book meant nothing to Scott. Which is the one with the light brown hair–the slim, beautiful one in the loose shift?

A crowd, all from San Francisco, had arrived the same day, a week earlier. The nicest handwriting would be her. Kerry Inglesol, room 207.

Scott stepped into the cool air and climbed the stairs. Knock on a stranger’s door, tell a fantastic story. Becoming quite a life.

Scott listened at the door. She’s asleep. Has to get up early to hand out those leaflets and face the loggers on Main Street. Praying he’d picked the right room, Scott knocked.

Kerry answered the door herself. Her face was clean and clear, her brown hair was wet from the shower, her body was wrapped in terry-cloth.

“Yes?” Kerry said, voice breaking slightly at the sight of Scott. She’d hoped she would see him again.

Maybe she doesn’t even remember me. Perhaps she’s handed leaflets to hundreds of men, even thousands. Scott couldn’t help a twinge of jealousy.

“Kerry?” Scott asked.

“Yes,” Kerry said.

Leigh appeared beyond Kerry. Scott shifted uncomfortably. A cigarette dangled from Leigh’s mouth. Her short, dyed-black hair stuck straight out in all directions.

“Yeah?” Leigh said roughly.

“I’m Scott Felton…”

“So?”

“I need your help.”

“What for?”

“If I could just explain…”

Scott watched Kerry step back shyly, giving way to Leigh.

“Go on,” Leigh said.

“Someone’s cutting down the trees near my cabin. I want your help to stop it.”

An unspoken argument convened between Leigh and Kerry. Leigh accused with her eyes and Kerry’s blinked innocence.

Suddenly, Scott felt that whatever he thought he’d shared with Kerry–when she handed him the leaflet–was gone now. Kerry casually walked to one of the twin beds, sat and pulled her robe over her knees.

Leigh stepped back from the door.

“Come in,” she said.

The door shut behind Scott. Leigh sat next to Kerry. Scott realized then that the two were actually about the same age, around twenty, though the woman with the spiked hair acted so much older. Opposites attract. The mighty and the meek. Big and small. Bold and beautiful. Are they lovers? Scott sat in the motel room’s single chair.

“I’m Scott Felton,” he began.

“You said that,” Leigh answered.

Kerry’s face scrunched in anger. She wished Leigh would be civil for once.

“Yes,” Scott continued. “I’m new here. I rent a cabin up in the mountains. I mean I just started about a week ago.”

Scott kept his eyes on Kerry. She seemed sympathetic again, the way she had that first day. Scott smiled at her.

He’s wonderful, Kerry thought. So what if he’s too old?

“You said someone was cutting down the trees,” Leigh interrupted.

“Yes.”

“Growth Lumber?” Leigh asked.

“I don’t know,” Scott admitted.

“So they’re logging,” Leigh shrugged. “We’re trying to stop them but it isn’t working.”

“But that’s supposed to be protected area up there.”

“And they’re just cutting them down?” Leigh asked suspiciously. Despite her cynicism, Leigh couldn’t believe the lumber company would boldly break the law.

“Well, they’re not exactly being cut down,” Scott explained hesitantly. “More like pulled up by the roots.”

“Who’s doing that?” Kerry asked, appalled at the idea.

“That’s the trouble–I don’t know,” Scott told her.

“It’s really weird.”

Scott wished he hadn’t said weird. What’s she like? Are they lovers?

“They do it in the middle of the night,” Scott told the two women. “Every night.”

“Where were these trees?” Leigh asked.

“About a half mile west of my cabin. Six miles north off Ontario Road. I’ll show you.”

Scott scurried across the room, found a sheet of Redwood Inn stationery and drew a quick map. Years of drawing schematics had given him a practiced hand and it was clear to Leigh exactly where he meant.

“That’s protected area,” Leigh said.

“That’s what I thought,” Scott blurted out, excited something was going to be done finally. “Come up and look at it. If there’s illegal logging going on, we have to stop it.”

Kerry canted her head. Scott wished he could talk to her alone. Kerry hoped he wasn’t crazy. There was that look in his eye she’d seen with Gault sometimes, when the intensity got to be too much for him. Are all men like that? Kerry wondered.

“You aren’t FBI are you?” Leigh asked suspiciously.

“Leigh!” Kerry admonished.

“No,” Scott almost laughed. “I went to the sheriff,” Scott added.

“The sheriff?” Leigh asked, now even more suspicious.

“Yes. He wasn’t interested.”

There was a long pause and Scott found himself staring at Kerry. That’s you: the planet’s in danger and you’re thinking abou–

“We’ll call a policy council,” Scott heard Leigh say. “We’ll take this into consideration.”

“Good,” Scott said, not having the slightest idea what she was talking about.

That’s just like her, Kerry thought. Go to Gault and his stupid organizational folderol. Let the men decide. Then complain about the decision. Let them make all the mistakes, give them the responsibility, then gripe about it. Kerry shook her head, wondering at the bitterness Leigh held in her heart for men.

Leigh stood and headed for the door. It took a moment, but then Scott realized he was being asked to leave. He stood, imprinted Kerry’s face in his memory, said goodnight and stepped out into the cold evening. Scott buttoned his coat and soon the lights of town were only a memory in his rear-view mirror.

Copyright 2007 Brenda H all rights reserved

[tags]Brenda H, sci-fi, thriller, ecology, environment, novel, excerpt, thriller[/tags]