thought was the main south entrance to the CN yards.
“Uh, Mac—”
“Yours not to reason why, brother.”
Brother
, I knew, meant I was getting in deeper.
MacDonald pulled in to an anonymous, recessed gateway in the chain-link fence surrounding the yard. A forested stretch of Raines. Got out, reached in the back seat for a massive pair of bolt-cutters, at which point the last drop of illusory legitimacy in all of this drained away.
“I suppose I’d best not ask,” I said as Mac got back in, pulled the car through the gate and a couple of car-lengths along the wooded road.
“Best not,” he said, walked back, drew the wings of the gate shut, and returned. The car rocked in the ruts, splashed through a couple of pools of water, the car frame creaking as the road roughened. Presently, as the woods began to open, he killed the lights, but still crept forward, just into the open area, parked behind a weedy pile of sand awaiting resumption of some forgotten construction project.
MacDonald looked around nervously as I gathered my stuff, now mostly shoved into a big daypack. “Ready?” he asked.
“Not at all,” I said.
“Good,” he said.
He walked me about fifty yards ahead, a narrow sand-and-gravel walk alongside a deep ditch emitting a rather rancid aroma. What little we said was whispered. We stopped beside an old barrel, a couple of staves missing.
“Another fifty yards,” he said, pointing. “You’ll see a second barrel, like this one, only tumped over. That’s where you’ll cross the ditch and go inside the fence. You’ll see a dirt pile and a big bush beside. You can set up there.”
“And how do I get across this ditch? Can’t really tell, but that water looks deep.” I said.
“You’re always telling me you’re ‘infantry,’ “he said. “Death-dealing son of a gun. First in the field, second to none, up the Guards, all that.”
“Yeah, but I’m
old
infantry.”
“Always thinking of you first, Jack. I done built you a little bridge myself, yesterday. Big old wide plank. Sturdy, too. You can’t miss it.”
“Don’t suppose you made me a gate in the fence on the other side.”
“Time, as it happens, Jack, did not permit. But, then, I know how much you enjoy the whole do-it-yourself thing.” I hadn’t even seen him carrying the bolt cutters till he handed them to me.
“Lucking fluvvly,” I said. “Break-and-enter.”
“I envy your ever-increasing repertoire of occupational skills,” MacDonald said. “Speaking of which…”
“What?”
“You’re not carrying your piece, are you?”
“Course I am.”
Even in the dark, I could see him hold out his hand. I pulled the clip-holster off my belt, handed it over.
“Geez, MacDonald.”
“Break and enter
with
a weapon?” he said. “That’d be like…”
“Burglary,” I filled in. “Can I keep my folding knife?”
“If you promise to think of it as a letter opener.”
“Remind me why I’m doing this?” I asked.
“Uh…truth, justice, and the American way?” MacDonald said.
“I’m not even an American, remember? What else?”
“Chinese buffets,” he said. “Saville Row shirts. Dates with fabulous babes.”
There was nothing I could say.
Except: “When will you be back to pick me up?”
MacDonald shrugged. “When I’m done.”
Her
, again. The bugger was going
back
. I’d be out here, and he’d be—
Now there was absolutely nothing to say.
I found the barrel, the plank-bridge. Got across without so much as a dampened boot. As luck would have it, a slice of fence was actually down, and I could step across. I stashed the bolt cutters back on the safe side of the ditch, under a piece of ancient scrap plywood, crossed back to the trouble side, set up my folding stool, and settled in for the night.
I knew what I was watching for. Watched. Yawned. Watched. And didn’t see a damn thing.
MacDonald came at dawn, as I sprang from half-awake to full, courtesy of some howling cur, somewhere
“Uh, Mac—”
“Yours not to reason why, brother.”
Brother
, I knew, meant I was getting in deeper.
MacDonald pulled in to an anonymous, recessed gateway in the chain-link fence surrounding the yard. A forested stretch of Raines. Got out, reached in the back seat for a massive pair of bolt-cutters, at which point the last drop of illusory legitimacy in all of this drained away.
“I suppose I’d best not ask,” I said as Mac got back in, pulled the car through the gate and a couple of car-lengths along the wooded road.
“Best not,” he said, walked back, drew the wings of the gate shut, and returned. The car rocked in the ruts, splashed through a couple of pools of water, the car frame creaking as the road roughened. Presently, as the woods began to open, he killed the lights, but still crept forward, just into the open area, parked behind a weedy pile of sand awaiting resumption of some forgotten construction project.
MacDonald looked around nervously as I gathered my stuff, now mostly shoved into a big daypack. “Ready?” he asked.
“Not at all,” I said.
“Good,” he said.
He walked me about fifty yards ahead, a narrow sand-and-gravel walk alongside a deep ditch emitting a rather rancid aroma. What little we said was whispered. We stopped beside an old barrel, a couple of staves missing.
“Another fifty yards,” he said, pointing. “You’ll see a second barrel, like this one, only tumped over. That’s where you’ll cross the ditch and go inside the fence. You’ll see a dirt pile and a big bush beside. You can set up there.”
“And how do I get across this ditch? Can’t really tell, but that water looks deep.” I said.
“You’re always telling me you’re ‘infantry,’ “he said. “Death-dealing son of a gun. First in the field, second to none, up the Guards, all that.”
“Yeah, but I’m
old
infantry.”
“Always thinking of you first, Jack. I done built you a little bridge myself, yesterday. Big old wide plank. Sturdy, too. You can’t miss it.”
“Don’t suppose you made me a gate in the fence on the other side.”
“Time, as it happens, Jack, did not permit. But, then, I know how much you enjoy the whole do-it-yourself thing.” I hadn’t even seen him carrying the bolt cutters till he handed them to me.
“Lucking fluvvly,” I said. “Break-and-enter.”
“I envy your ever-increasing repertoire of occupational skills,” MacDonald said. “Speaking of which…”
“What?”
“You’re not carrying your piece, are you?”
“Course I am.”
Even in the dark, I could see him hold out his hand. I pulled the clip-holster off my belt, handed it over.
“Geez, MacDonald.”
“Break and enter
with
a weapon?” he said. “That’d be like…”
“Burglary,” I filled in. “Can I keep my folding knife?”
“If you promise to think of it as a letter opener.”
“Remind me why I’m doing this?” I asked.
“Uh…truth, justice, and the American way?” MacDonald said.
“I’m not even an American, remember? What else?”
“Chinese buffets,” he said. “Saville Row shirts. Dates with fabulous babes.”
There was nothing I could say.
Except: “When will you be back to pick me up?”
MacDonald shrugged. “When I’m done.”
Her
, again. The bugger was going
back
. I’d be out here, and he’d be—
Now there was absolutely nothing to say.
I found the barrel, the plank-bridge. Got across without so much as a dampened boot. As luck would have it, a slice of fence was actually down, and I could step across. I stashed the bolt cutters back on the safe side of the ditch, under a piece of ancient scrap plywood, crossed back to the trouble side, set up my folding stool, and settled in for the night.
I knew what I was watching for. Watched. Yawned. Watched. And didn’t see a damn thing.
MacDonald came at dawn, as I sprang from half-awake to full, courtesy of some howling cur, somewhere
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