The Wolf Border(15)

Yep.

They cross the parking lot to Kyle’s truck. Salt and grit crunch underfoot on the pathways and bolsters of ploughed snow lie along the sides of the runway. The propellers of the Dash that brought her from Seattle start up, gain pitch and volume. The aircraft jolts into action, buzzes away from the terminal building, turns down the runway, and rises after only a short distance. It will barely reach five thousand feet before landing in Pullman, then will head on to Sea-Tac. Kyle unlocks the truck.

I can drive if you like, she says. I’m not that tired.

Hell, no. You’ve been on the wrong damn side all week.

She opens the passenger door but lingers outside. The cold air nips her ears, refreshes her lungs after the stale air of the plane.

So, how was it? he asks over the roof of the truck.

You mean did I take the job?

I meant seeing your mom. Been a while.

Fine. The care home is nice. It’s private.

That’s good.

They get in and shut the doors. Kyle starts the engine and turns the heating on. She adjusts the passenger seat’s setting – one of the long-legged male workers at the centre has been in before her. He glances over at her and reverses out of the bay.

Still wearing those nice pants, I see.

Funny.

What did you bring me?

Actually, I’ve got you an article on the Chernobyl Grays. It’s pretty interesting.

Oh, nice. Lupus radio-activus – am I right?

I took Latin, you know.

Go on, then, impress me.

Inter canem et lupum crepusculum.

Fancy. What does it mean?

Between the dog and the wolf, twilight.

You are wasted on the colonials.

Kyle pulls out of the airport exit onto the highway and heads towards the bridge. Traffic is thin. The truck purrs over the arching concrete span. Below, the river is a deep wide cut of blue.

I never get used to it, she says.

What’s that?

Seeing Rainier so close from the plane. There’s nothing like it back home.

Yeah, she’s not too ugly.

After ten minutes they leave the highway and follow a convoy of empty timber trucks north. Kyle indicates and overtakes. The lead truck flashes its lights as they pass. They stop at a roadside diner and order burgers. They talk about the volunteers, the forthcoming conference in Montana. The local news. A body has been found dumped near Lolo. A senator has been caught in bed with a rent boy; KTVB reporters have been sitting outside the wife’s hotel.

You weren’t even tempted to work for the prince, then? Kyle asks.

Earl. No. I don’t know. Not really. He’s a – She picks up the sugar dispenser, fiddles with the lid.

He’s what?

He’s crazy, probably. But very ambitious. He’s got a lot of clout.

Clout?

Yeah. Politically. It’s a good scheme. But a mad hope-and-glory project – he wants to re-wild, eventually.

Sounds good.

Maybe. Britain has a history of wealthy eccentrics who love grand schemes, especially if they can be named after themselves. They think they can do whatever they want. Maybe they can – a few handshakes with old-school friends in Parliament and off they go. It’s not like here.

Kyle jerks a thumb over his shoulder.

Ha. Who do you think is living out there? The democratic anti-corruptionists? The communist party? Gandhi?

She laughs, shakes her head.

Tax dodging is different. In Britain there’s a set at the top. It’ll never change, no matter who is in power or how many proletariat rock stars get knighted by Her Majesty.

Liam Gallagher is a Sir?

Probably.

Well now I feel confused. I’ll have to get rid of my CDs.

She takes the remaining pound notes out of her wallet, folds them, and slips them into a side chamber. They eat their food quickly, split the bill, leave a good tip, and head for the door. Kyle takes a mint from the dish next to the cash register.

I’m going to Coeur d’Alene next weekend to fix the boat. Want to go?

Is Oran going?

Nope.

OK.

Kyle shakes his head.

I hope you keep quit. That guy is like a dog. He thinks if he trots along faithfully, one day you’ll fall in love with him and everything. It’s not going to take much to f*ck him up again.

He doesn’t think that. I’ve assured him.

If you say so.

Back on the road the day is almost gone, leaving an immense plain of grey sky. The dark, arboreal wings of the road flash past, vast trunks, interstices where the forest has been clear-cut. No lights are visible but in the trees there are compounds and sawmills, factories, swimming pools, and hunting lodges.

You know Scotland really might vote for independence, she says.

Is that so?

It’s looking that way. The No campaign is floundering.

Will it be a republic?

No. They’ll keep the Queen.

Would you vote for it?

I don’t know, she says.

She leans back in the seat, stretches her legs out. She is glad to be back. Tomorrow they will start analysing the month’s data, video footage from the den, audio recordings from the pack’s patrols along the buffer zone. She will email Lawrence and apologise for not managing to see him while over. While the visit is fresh in her mind she will look on Amazon for a Christmas present for Binny. She’ll make the introduction between Stephan Dalakis in the Carpathian rescue centre and Thomas Pennington – she will be a friend to the Annerdale project; she’ll help get him his wolves.