"The Gorge Road" Chapter 2

 2.  Encounter 

“They actually said that to you? Sorry, who are these people again?”

Deon was skeptical as we drove away from the party and I recounted my experience. I had spent the rest of the evening chatting with Richard and Angela (their different investment ventures, Daniel’s interests) until Deon intercepted me on the way to the bathroom and suggested we hit the road, or Sarah would be worried. 

Jesus, married people.

“Richard and Angela DiAnnon,” I repeated to Deon, in the car. “I figured they were Denner & Birch clients. They live somewhere out past Corbett?”

“They probably are clients, but I’ve never heard of them,” Deon said, bemused. “Damn, that’s out in the Gorge.”

“The what?”

“The Columbia River Gorge. Good hiking out there, supposedly. They didn’t say what they did for a living, other than investments?”

“I didn’t ask. I was sort of sick of that topic, honestly. Sometimes it’s more interesting to focus on who someone is, beyond their job title.”

“Uh huh, sure. But they just offered you a job -- working with their kid -- on the spot? They didn’t ask for references or your resumé or anything?”

“I offered to email them all that. They didn’t really seem to care one way or the other, but I’ll probably give them hard copies for good measure. And I’m not necessarily starting right away. I have to meet the kid first.”

“And you’re doing that on Monday?”

“Yeah, they seemed ready to get the ball rolling.”

“Ok, well don’t forget: you told Sarah you would go buy more of that special shampoo she likes from the organic market.”

Would it kill you to congratulate me, man?

“Yeah, I know she was pissed when I used the last of it. I’m sorry, I thought it was cool if I used some since I hadn’t bought any of my own.”

“I mean, is it really that hard to go out to the store and grab a bottle of your own shampoo, Alex? You’ve been here for several weeks.”

He’s right, you know.

I studied the floorboard, embarrassed, but also feeling a twinge of anger.

What’s with Deon talking down to me tonight?

“Really, it wouldn’t have been so bad if you had just replaced it sooner,” he continued. “We can’t be stuck without toiletries, late at night, when stores are closed. Some of us actually have jobs to get to in the morning.”

A pool in one corner of my stomach started to boil, but I swallowed and looked his way. He needed to know I was sincere, and not pouting like a scolded child. At the end of the day, he and Sarah didn’t have to take me in.

“I understand. And I’m sor-“

“Shit!”

Deon stood on the brake pedal and the tires screeched. We were both thrown into our seatbelts; I felt the nylon cut into my neck as the car lurched to a stop.

“What?! What is it?” I looked frantically out the windshield.

“There was something in the road! Something’s out there, something big!” Deon’s normally calm demeanor was gone. I could hear real fear in his voice. He punched on the hazard lights and threw the car into Park.

“Oh God, did we hit someone?” I whimpered.

“No, it just ran out in front of me! It kept moving that way.” He pointed out his window and rubbed his other hand over his heart.

“What was it? Are you ok?”

“Yeah… yeah. Just.. give me a minute. I don’t know what it was… a deer, maybe.  Are you ok?”

“Yeah.” I put a hand to my raw, stinging neck. “Maybe a seatbelt burn, but I’m fine. Really, a deer? In the middle of the city?”

“Hell if I know!  Let’s just get out of the intersection.”

Luckily, at that hour, the street was deserted. Deon put the car back into gear and drove one block down, to an all-night gas station.

“I’m just gonna pull in here for a second and take a leak. I swear, I nearly pissed myself.” He laughed nervously.

I looked around at the dark street. The gas station, complete with bars on the windows and doors, seemed to be the only thing functioning for several blocks. Most of the other storefronts were boarded up and many of the streetlights were broken. Gentrification hadn’t quite reached this area yet.

I opened my mouth to ask if we could stop somewhere else, but Deon was already out of the car and headed inside, the car door slamming behind him. I turned in my seat to look for the pump attendant, but no one was there. I was alone in the parking lot.

But Deon had left the keys. I decided I would rather go inside, lock the car behind me, and maybe buy a bottle of water than stay out in the dark in Deon’s new car like a sitting duck. I would likely not intimidate anyone determined to mess with the car, and the car would not stop anyone determined to mess with me.

Even if Deon does keep a loaded gun in the glove compartment.

Grabbing the key fob, I opened the door and stepped out into the stillness. The parking lot smelled predictably like gasoline and urine. But there was another smell, one I couldn’t quite place… 

I suddenly remembered the stray cat I’d adopted as a kid. My dad had refused to pay to have him neutered, but then pitched a fit when the cat marked the hall closet where my mother’s nice fur coats were stored.

The car beeped as I locked it remotely. It should have scared off whatever was out there. 

Instead, it only drew its attention to me.

As I turned to walk across the lot to the convenience store, I detected motion out of the corner of my eye. I looked up the street.

A mountain lion was trotting down the pavement toward me.

I froze. One third of my brain questioned what I was seeing, another third was entranced, and the final third seized control of my vocal chords and prevented me from screaming.

It’s not looking at me. It’s after something else….

Against my will, I met eyes with the big cat. Its lips curled up, exposing fangs, and its pace increased to a bound. It leapt over the curb and into the parking lot.

No, IT IS AFTER YOU.

The urge to run seized me like an electrical current, and I stiffened against it. Running would confirm the cat’s instinct that I was prey. 

There was a house key attached to the car fob. I steeled myself to stab it into the cat’s eyeballs as hard as I could.

This is gonna hurt, and there’s going to be a lot of blood.

But a jagged black blur jumped across my vision. It collided with the cougar and latched its jaws onto the cat’s neck. They rolled across the asphalt in a snarling tangle of fur, paws and teeth. The cougar’s tail whipped about like an angry snake.

It was a shaggy black dog, about the size of a large golden retriever. I didn’t see how it stood a chance against the wild cat’s armory of teeth and claws, but it stubbornly kept its grip on the puma’s throat, growling ferociously all the way while I stood by, gaping.

That dog saved me. I have to do something.

Like what? Are you crazy?

Deon’s gun.

I was not a good shot, but I could use it to scare the cat off. I sprinted back toward the car, fumbling with the key fob to unlock it. I wrenched the door open, and heard the dog yelp in pain.

I looked over my shoulder in time to see the puma fling him across the pavement. The mutt scrambled to his feet, every muscle tensed to fight, but I could see a wet patch of blood on his fur. The mountain lion circled him, closing in.

I dove into the passenger seat and jerked the console open. The handgun gleamed back at me, lying casually on top of Deon’s title and insurance card. I seized it and scrambled back out of the car, releasing the safety as I stood. I looked up and saw the lion tackle the dog to the ground, both paws lodged in the mutt’s midsection.

“Leave him alone, bitch!” With a two-handed grip, I pointed the gun at the sky and squeezed.

BAM.

The gun kicked into my palms and the cat whirled to face me, fangs bared. I fought the instinct to lower the firearm and shoot at it.

This is not a videogame. This is a gas station with other living things close by. 

“Get the hell out of here, you piece of shit!” I yelled, trying to be intimidating, and determined to avoid firing again.

The dog wriggled free while the cat was distracted, barking and snarling furiously, as if in agreement with me. With its attention divided between me and the mutt, the lion recoiled, then let out a cry of anger and frustration. 

It was the most haunting, otherworldly sound I’d ever heard in my life. Like a woman screaming, as I’d heard described; but perhaps layered over the cry of a velociraptor ready to slice open your gut and start eating. 

 And still, the cat didn’t move.

What kind of wild animal doesn’t back off at the sound of gunfire?

At that moment, Deon came barreling out of the store, followed by the gas station employee, who was brandishing a baseball bat.

“SHOO!”

“Get outta here, fuckface!” cried the employee.

“Alex!” Deon cried “Alex, don’t run!”

“I know,” I muttered, not taking my eyes off the cat.

“We can’t act like prey, we have to try to intimidate it!”

“I know, Deon. That’s why I got the gun.”

The lion’s gaze moved, calculatingly, from the dog, to me, to the station employee’s bat, to Deon waving his arms over his head. I could’ve sworn it squinted skeptically at Deon, before deciding that the odds were no longer in its favor.

The dog stopped snarling long enough to bark, definitively. I had the uncanny feeling the dog was telling the cat off. The cat let out another hissing yowl, then turned and bounded away.

Barely breathing, we all watched the animal until the darkness swallowed it up.

“Holy shit,” Deon exhaled.

“Yeah,” I agreed. “It just came out of nowhere.” As if on a delayed reaction, my hands started to shake.  I forced them to hold still long enough to put the safety back on, and then handed the gun to Deon. I somehow felt guilty.

The gas station employee, a gaunt and slack-jawed man in his fifties, was still squeezing the ball bat. His bloodshot eyes were wide, and peering at the two of us and the dog.

“I’m sorry about the gunshot,” I said to him. “Should we wait while you call the cops? Do you need to file a report or anything?”

“Naw,” he said quickly. “Naw, the cops don’t care. Especially in this neighborhood. That fuckin’ thing, though…” he looked back off in the direction the puma had gone. “That was unreal. That sumbitch wasn’t scared of us for shit.”

“But you gave him a run for his money, didn’t you?” I said to the dog, trying to ease the tension.

The mutt turned and grinned at me. Or, at least, he let his mouth hang open and his tongue loll out.

“Weird,” muttered Deon. “His shoulder’s bleeding a fair bit. But he acts like he’s fine.”

“Maybe we should try to get him to a vet?”

“At this time of night? Where would we go?”

As if in response, the dog gave a nonchalant snort of a sneeze, shook himself, and gingerly started to walk away.

I had the urge to go after him and scratch his ears in thanks, but decided against it. He was injured, and likely still on guard. Even if he seemed friendly, he wouldn’t appreciate a stranger rushing up behind him.

“Good dog,” I called out, and then felt stupid.

He looked back at me, blinked, and walked on.

Did he just say “You’re welcome?”

Deon let out a huge sigh, and looked over at me.

“I’ve seen enough weird shit tonight. Let’s get home. I guess we could report this to Animal Control tomorrow, but I don’t know what good it’s going to do.”

“Fair point.”

“Just do me a favor. Try not to mention this to Sarah.”

 

***

 

“So! How was your and Deon’s night out on Saturday?”

Sarah had bounded into the kitchen on Monday morning, full of excitement I couldn’t understand.

“Honestly, it was pretty boring,” I lied through my teeth while I packed a sack lunch. I’d spent all day Sunday in my room, mostly to polish my resumé and plan for my interview, but also to avoid having this conversation.

 I scanned back through the night for something to talk about other than the freak cougar encounter. “I got to meet Benji –"

“Oh yeah! He’s cool. We’ve had him over for dinner before. We could invite him again, if you want?” She gave me a sneaky sideways look.

“Um, you know. Whatever,” I said, unwilling to go into the details of why he turned me off so much. “That’s your call.” If she ever did invite Benji over, I would make up an excuse to be elsewhere, I decided, before changing the subject.

“Did Deon tell you? I got a lead on an art therapy job.”

“Yes!” she said, excited for me. “But he said it’s a bit of a drive, and that there’s still some details to iron out.”

“Yeah, that sounds like Deon.”

Leave it to him to be pragmatic to the point of skepticism. 

“I’m off to go grab more of your shampoo, then I’m gonna make my way out to the Gorge for the job interview.”

“Where in the Gorge?”

“I’m not sure. I looked up their address on Maps, but didn’t get a hit. She – Mrs. DiAnnon, I mean – said they lived out past the Vista House –”

Sarah squealed and put her hands to her mouth.

“Ohmygosh! I’ve heard of that. I wonder if that’s the burned-out bed and breakfast where they filmed that vampire movie all those years ago? Ohmygod, that would be so cool!”

It was an effort for me not to wrinkle my nose. Taste in movies was not something that Sarah and I had in common. I shrugged.

“Either way, she gave me some directions. I’m sure I’ll find it. Thanks for lending Deon to me the other night,” I joked.

“Anytime!” she smiled back.

Once outside of the townhouse and into the overcast morning, I checked my watch. I had plenty of time to run errands and make the drive, but not a lot of time to get lost.

Thankfully, my beat-up old Honda started easily. As I steered it through streets lined with modest farmhouse-style homes and the occasional bungalow, I wondered if the engine would get fussier as the weather got colder. With no small measure of dread, I thought about having to navigate the hillside town in the snow.

You’ve got a couple months to figure that out. For a Craigslist purchase that emptied your meager savings account, at least it’s gotten you this far.

I turned right at the weather-beaten-but-cozy Highlander pub, and out onto the old curving highway that went into downtown Willamette Falls. I took in the view as the car rumbled down the riverside bluff.

180 years ago, long before Portland was even a speck on the map, the Oregon Trail settlers had arrived here and said “good enough.” Probably because the conjunction of rivers is always a good place to set up a town, but also because they were entranced by the small Niagra that had given the town its name. 

After weeks of trekking across high desert, who wouldn’t be?

I glanced over to my left, toward the falls and out over the river. At the base of the falls, on either side of the water, lay the remains of an old hydroelectric power plant (the west side) and an old paper mill (on my side.) While parts of the power plant were still functioning, the dilapidated paper mill had been deserted and fenced off for years. The locals bemoaned the loss of jobs, but also looked forward to the day when a demolition would return the land to something resembling its pre-industrialization state. For now, it was a mass of darkened grey buildings, broken windows, and black pools of water gathering on the rooftops and in the overgrown parking lot.

But on the other side of the chain-link fence lay the main street of the town, much unchanged in one hundred years, at least structurally. Where once was a hat shop, a grocer and a general store now sat a bar, an antique market, and a nail salon/day spa. At the end of this main drag, off on a side street, was the organic market that Sarah and Deon frequented.

I parked in the small lot and made my way into the store, trying not to be distracted by displays of mouth-watering (and expensive) blueberries and raspberries. Marionberries would be in season soon, followed by Washington apples in every imaginable variety. I resolved to treat myself later.

Sarah’s special shampoo should’ve been with the other organic soaps and bath products on the shelf at the back, but I couldn’t find it. I was about to ask the cashier if they were out of stock, or had just stopped carrying the brand, when an odd movement caught my eye.

It was a beaded curtain that I’d never noticed before, hanging over a doorway in the back corner of the store. I nearly wrote it off as predictable Pacific-Northwestern-hippie decor, except that the wooden beads weren’t brown or green or tie-die. They were all carefully stained black.

Curious, I brushed my fingers through the strands, and then stepped through the curtain. 

The anteroom housed an entirely different type of business. Artwork, featuring a mix of fantasy, naturalist and Native American themes, crowded the walls. Quiet flute and drum music drifted out of speakers hidden behind the shelves. They, and several tables, were laden with odd jewelry, old leather-bound books, glass vials and small tins.

I bent over to read the label on a green clay amulet.

“Handmade with intention,” it read. “Columbia River clay infused with basil and natural chlorophyll to enhance virility and ensure financial success.”

I felt my nose wrinkle, though perhaps it was from the smell of a rosemary smudge stick burning in an abalone shell nearby.  I followed the trail of smoke with my eyes and saw a five-pointed star made of thrush branches, hanging like a wreath on the wall.

Ah. So it’s that type of store.

“You’re a witch, aren’t you?” came a matter-of-fact voice.

I turned to see if she was joking. Despite the warm smile on the woman’s face, she seemed serious about her question. She tilted her glasses up onto her head, pushing back unruly golden locks that had begun to whiten near the temples.

“You immediately find the most stereotypically-masculine –” she rolled her eyes “—piece in my whole shop, and call it out. Good for you. No one else has noticed.”

“I’m sorry,” I laughed nervously, by way of an introduction. “I let my feelings show on my face more than I should. I didn’t mean to criticize your product.”

“Honey, do not apologize for having an opinion, or for letting it show. We women do too much of that shit already.  I don’t make those necklaces anyhow – that’s another local crazy lady. But you know how we are.” She winked.

“Oh,” I chuckled. “I don’t actually practice Wicca,” I said, referring to her previous query.

She shrugged. “That’s doesn’t necessarily make a difference. But, I’m being a little presumptuous. Marie-Jean Abernathy,” she said, sticking out her hand. “Friends and coven-sisters call me MJ.”

“Alex Ross,” I said, shaking it. “I wandered in here because I was trying to find the organic shampoo. It’s not on the shelf where it normally is. Any chance you could help?”

“Oh sure! Yeah, I’m sorry about that. The owners of the market are good folks; they agreed to take competing product off the shelves a few months ago when I re-signed my lease. They realized that this little old space is barely rentable to anyone else in town. That, or they were afraid I would hex them.” She grinned at me.

“I see,” I said, unsure if she was entirely joking. “I’m hoping you have something similar? I just moved to town recently with little more than a car full of things, and I used the last of my roommate’s special shampoo that she bought here.”

“Gotcha. Well, welcome to town! What type of hair does she have?” Marie-Jean continued asking questions about Sarah’s hair type, while leading me over to a table that looked like it had been hand-hewn out of a tree stump. It was set all over with stoppered glass bottles in assorted shapes and sizes.

“I custom-make these shampoos,” she said, selecting a rectangular brown bottle and handing it to me. “I up-cycle the bottles; the different shapes also help me remember the client and their formula.”

“Um..” I hedged. “This sounds really cool. But a custom-made shampoo might be a little out of my budget.”

“Well, I won’t try to hard-sell you,” she said. “But I bet you’d be surprised. My ingredients are secret, but they’re not terribly difficult or expensive for me to come by. Tell you what: I’ll give you a new-customer deal.”

She reached over and tugged a strand of my hair away from my ear, examining it in the light and caressing the ends with her fingertips. Normally, such an intimate act would’ve put me on edge. But Marie-Jean’s manner was so straightforward – like that of a hairstylist or manicurist – that I didn’t mind.

“Buy one, get one free,” she said, releasing my hair after a moment and walking behind the cash register. She pulled a curvy, green glass vial from underneath the counter. 

“This is what you need for your hair type,” she said, handing it to me.  “Special batch, which is why I keep it behind the counter.” Then she quoted me a price.

“All right, cool,” I shrugged. “I suppose I’ve spent more for less. Sarah will probably be impressed that I bought her a customized shampoo.”

 “If you don’t like it, I wanna hear about it,” Marie-Jean said proudly. “I stand by my product, but I’m always working on little improvements to my brews. With a little luck, maybe I’ll make regular customers out of you both.” She grinned.

“I wouldn’t mind that,” I said, looking around at the old books and pottery. “It seems like a cool shop.”

“Can I ask what drew you back here? Did you hear the music?”

“No,” I shook my head and handed her my credit card. “It was the curtain with the black beads. It seemed out of place, somehow. Mysterious.”

“I see.” She fiddled with the point-of-sale terminal and then handed my card back to me with a smile. Then she turned to wrap up the two bottles. “Can I convince you to stay for a cup of tea? It’s cool out there today.”

“I’d love that, if I didn’t have a job interview to get to. It’s for a tutoring gig.”

“Working woman,” she smiled again. “I love it. Money is a bitch, but so am I.”

She walked back around the counter, handed me the parcel, and patted me on the shoulder.

“You go get what’s yours, girl. Stop by when you can and let me know how it went.”