Reality Check (2010) (16 page)

The light still glared on Mrs. McTeague's glasses, a pearly sheen that hid her eyes. "Oh dear me, no," she said. "What with all this snow, it's apparently not realistic to think of finding anything."

Cody didn't get that at all. What difference did snow make if Clea was holed up in a cave, or some cranny in the rocks, as Sergeant Orton believed? Wasn't that Sergeant Orton's true belief? He tried to go over their last conversation, Cody standing in the cold beside the cruiser, the sergeant talking to him through the open window. All Cody remembered clearly was Sergeant Orton's probing gaze. At that moment a realization struck him, abrupt and hard: Sergeant Orton didn't believe Clea was holed up in some natural shelter--that wasn't his true belief at all. They were no longer looking for a living person. That was why searching after the snowfall made no sense.

Cody felt his face growing hot. They were wrong, pure and simple. "Does Mr. Stein know about this?" he said.
"Mr. Stein?" Mrs. McTeague said, looking confused. "Yes, certainly--a school-wide email went out first thing this morning. Why do you ask?"
Why did he ask? Because, goddamn it, Mr. Stein had said that Clea was resourceful; bright and resourceful, to quote. And not just that, but she was tough, too, strong and physical, unfazed by things that fazed other girls--and some boys--like taking that long leap at the Black Rocks quarry. Cody kept all that to himself--too complicated to explain, at least for him-- and just shrugged.
Mrs. McTeague reached for the mounted photo of Clea, the one with him missing from the right-hand side, and laid it facedown in the cardboard box. "So," she said, "about that job?"
Cody thought: I'm missing from the picture, and now Clea's missing, period. "Yeah," he said. "I'm interested."
"Wonderful," said Mrs. McTeague. "Welcome aboard." They shook hands; Mrs. McTeague's hand was soft and warm, her grip not strong at all. "If you'll help me load these boxes in my car, I'll show you the ropes."

"Means muckin' out," said Ike, following along behind them, a three-pronged rake his hand. Cody wasn't afraid of mucking out; he'd done it before, helping Clea in Bud's paddock at Cottonwood.

Mrs. McTeague went over the chores: feeding and watering the horses, walking them, answering the phone, fire prevention, a few others he didn't catch the first time around. "This is the tack room," said Mrs. McTeague. "The competitive season is over now, but the riders still come to the barn three or four times a week to exercise the horses. They're responsible for saddling their own mounts, so you don't have to worry about that. Here's a list of important numbers, starting with 911 of course, and the vet." Cody scanned the list. Number three read Chef d'Equipe. Perhaps Mrs. McTeague saw him pause there, guessed his confusion. "That's the coach," she said. "But he won't be around--he's working with the Argentine Olympic team right now. Ike--why don't you show Cody the living quarters?"

"The little room up top?" said Ike.
"That's the one," said Mrs. McTeague.
"Le's go," Ike said.
Cody followed him toward the door.
"One more thing," said Mrs. McTeague. "I'll need your

Cody knew it by heart, rattled it off. This job, plus the place to stay, had come along at the exact right moment. He had no idea what he'd have done with the search called off. But no matter what--even without this stroke of luck, if that was the right term--how could he have called off his own personal search?

"Never say it out loud," Ike muttered as they went outside, maybe to himself. "Numbers kill."
Cody said nothing. Ike slowed down to let him draw even, but then when he did, sped up again. He spoke over his shoulder. "Know how to shoe 'em?"
"Horses?" said Cody.
"They don't shoe pigs, do they?"
"No," said Cody. "I don't know how."
Ike made a little sucking noise between his teeth. He led Cody past the corral, around the back of the barn, toward a narrow plowed path Cody hadn't noticed before. It cut through the woods, opened into a clearing, and there stood a small cabin, smoke rising from the chimney, straight up in the still air.
"They like it," Ike said.
Cody took a guess. "Getting shod?" he said.
"Course not," said Ike. "How would you like it, gettin' shoes nailed into your feet? What they like is wearin' 'em, the shoes." How did Ike know that? Cody kept the question inside, but Ike seemed to answer it anyway. "Just like us," he said. "We're wearin' shoes. We're animals." Ike pointed to the front door. "That's my door." He walked around the side of the cabin, past a woodpile, stopped at a second door, much smaller. "This is your'n." He took out a key and opened the door. "Don't be forgettin'."
"I won't."
Ike turned to him. Cody noticed he was missing a few teeth. "I'm talking about us bein' animals, what not to forget," he said. Ike stepped inside, entering a tiny, closet-size entrance hall with a steep staircase rising to the right. Cody followed him up. Ike opened another door at the top, this one unlocked, and gestured for Cody to go in. "Know how to use a woodstove?"
"Yes."
"Easy on the wood. Room heats up quick."
Cody looked around. Not hard to see why: The place was tiny, with a narrow bed along one wall, a counter bearing a small square fridge and hot plate against the opposite wall, sink and toilet in one corner, woodstove in the other; hardly enough space left over for both of them to be inside at the same time. Frost coated the windows, and Cody could see his breath. A little wave of happiness took him by surprise: This was the first place he could call his own.
"Don't lose this," Ike said, handing him a key.
"I won't. Thanks."
"Easy on the wood."

Cody fired up the woodstove, went back to the car for his things. The room heated up fast, the frost melting off the windows. Cody gazed out at the woods and saw something red almost at once: a cardinal. It stood on a branch near the window, seemed to be staring right back at him; then, without any sign of preparation, the cardinal took off and flew over the forest, losing first its redness, then its shape, and finally vanishing altogether. Cody went downstairs, locked the door, returned to the barn.

Mrs. McTeague, all her things, including maps, flyers and phone, even the desk: gone. Cody didn't understand. Was the search over forever? What if the snow melted? Didn't there have to be some backup plan? He saw Ike moving through the shadows at the back of the barn, on the way to the tack room with a saddle over his shoulder.

Cody went into the tack room. Ike was setting the saddle on the floor of one of the lockers. Open, stall-type lockers lined one wall, a locker with a name plaque for each member of the team. Clea's locker stood next to Townes's.

Ike dropped the saddle, whirled around. "Don't you be scarin' me like that."
"Sorry. I was wondering what the chances were of the snow melting."
Ike blinked a few times, seemed to compose himself. "Always does."
"Soon?"
"By May," said Ike, "at the latest." Was that meant to be a joke? Cody couldn't tell. A wall phone rang. Ike answered it, listened for a moment, said, "Yup," and hung up. He turned to Cody. "Know how to polish a bridle?"
Cody nodded. He'd seen Clea do it once or twice.
"Polish them ones up," he said, pointing with his chin to a couple of bridles lying on a workbench. "I'll be back."
Ike left, putting on his plaid hat with the ear flaps sticking out to the side. Cody went over to the workbench, picked up one of the bridles. From the doorway behind him came Ike's voice, startling him the same way he'd startled Ike. "Wash those bits," he said. "And get the dirt out of the leather first--no point oilin' otherwise. 'Cause why? 'Cause you're just oilin' in the dirt, is why."
Ike went away. Cody soaked the bits, washed the leather with saddle soap, patted it dry with a towel, applied neat's-foot oil from a bottle on the shelf. Not bad work; in fact, he kind of enjoyed it.
Ike hadn't returned by the time he was done. Cody examined Clea's locker. What he saw: saddle, bridle, reins, halter. What he didn't see: boots, helmet, anything personal. She'd been wearing the boots and helmet, of course, a good thing, the helmet especially. He carried Clea's tack to the workbench, cleaned and polished it all. Still no Ike. Cody left the tack room, walked through the barn, stopped at Bud's stall. He had two or three sugar cubes in his pocket--but also the halter in his hand, so a certain plan must have been forming in his mind all on its own.
Bud snorted, rolled his eyes.
"Hey, Bud," Cody said, "it's me." He stroked Bud's face. Bud calmed down. His big brown eyes looked unhappy, but Cody knew it was more likely he himself was just--what was the word? projecting?--yeah: He was projecting his own mental state into Bud's eyes. Except that Bud really did look sad. "What happened, Bud? Where is she?" Bud stood very still. At the other end of the barn a horse neighed, a high-pitched sound that sent a funny feeling down Cody's spine.
He looked around, saw no one; only the horses, a calming sight, for some reason. They were all watching him in a trusting kind of way; or at least that was how Cody interpreted their expressions. He went to the window. His car was the only one in the lot; nearby stood the Bobcat, untended; beyond, the empty lane leading back to campus, snowbanks lining both sides. No one in sight.
A minute or two later he was leading Bud out of the barn. The halter looked a little lopsided on Bud's head--Cody had never put one on before--but he didn't seem to mind, following along without protest, applying no pressure at all on the reins.
Cody walked Bud across the yard, by the riding ring and onto the loop trail. Snowmobiles had already passed through, packing down the snow. Cody glanced back, saw that Bud wasn't having any trouble, certainly less than he was, with snow already invading his sneakers. "I know you remember," he said. Bud snorted, tossed his head a bit; Cody felt Bud's tremendous strength through the reins. He held out a sugar cube. Bud grasped it with those big, loose lips of his. They walked on.
The woods had changed, were quieter now, snow muffling all their sounds, also coating the evergreens and toning down their greenness, leaving a simple world of brown and white. All that whiteness covered the horseshoe prints Cody had seen before. Was it possible there was something distinctive about Bud's hoofprints, some mark that could have left a trail right back to where things went wrong? A question too late in coming, but had the searchers thought of it, back on day one when it might have done some good?
"Whoa," Cody said.
Bud halted, gazed straight ahead. Cody dropped the reins, went back to examine Bud's hoofprints. Loose snow had obliterated most of them, but he found a few sharp-edged impressions, nothing distinctive about them. Bud twitched his tail, stamped his right front foot. Was he impatient to get going? Cody picked up the reins, stroked Bud's face. "What happened?" he said. Bud's eyes didn't look sad anymore, were just big brown liquid pools, revealing nothing.
They kept going, past two or three trails entering the loop, smooth unmarked snow covering all of them, and came to the house-size mossy rock with the big crack down the middle. Snow had somehow filled in the crack, leaving a jagged white mark on the rock face, a sight that for some reason made Cody uneasy. He gazed at it for a while; then came an idea. Maybe, around the back, this rock concealed one of those crannies Sergeant Orton had mentioned. Had anyone looked?
Cody dropped the reins. "Don't go anywhere," he told Bud. Bud stood still. Cody circled the rock, up to his knees in snow right away, saw no cranny, no hole, no hollowed-out depression. He bent down, dug through the snow with his bare hands, and found underneath nothing but dead leaves, stiff and frozen.
He took the reins, led Bud along the loop, got used to the warm feeling of Bud's breath in the small of his back. A few minutes later, he spotted the sign nailed to a tree up ahead: