Clear Cut Page 4

  "No," Carter said meekly.

  "Lucky you." He eased the paper towels away from Carter's scalp and then threw them casually onto the floor. He had to separate sticky strands of hair to see the cut, which was really just a little gash. "Bleeding's pretty much stopped. Might leave a scar."

  "That doesn't matter. Who's going to see it?"

  Nate stepped around Carter and went over and stood near the couch. "I'm gonna give you one more shot at this, Carter. That's it. And the only reason I am is because, believe it or not, dealing with you is easier than telling my boss that I have to kick you out of here. But if you ever pull a stupid move like that again, you're gonna be out the door so fast you won't know what hit you."

  "I'm sorry," Carter said. "I didn't realize..." He trailed off and reached a hand up to touch his head.

  "Leave it the fuck alone," Nate snapped. "It's clotting -- you mess with it, it's just gonna start bleeding again. Leave it be. Didn't realize what? That this is a fucking dangerous job that people wouldn't be doing if it weren't necessary?"

  "I wasn't thinking about the -- "

  "Didn't realize, weren't thinking," Nate mocked. "Didn't realize that the average annual fatality rate in the logging industry is twenty-three times higher than for all other workers? Didn't realize that ninety percent of logging-related deaths happen when workers get hit by trees or parts of trees? Weren't thinking that you could be one of them, wandering around on a side when you have no clue what you're doing and aren't even bothering to look where you're going?"

  Carter just sat and looked at him. "I didn't know," Carter said finally.

  "Well, maybe you should use that brain of yours -- assuming you have one -- to do a little bit more research before you come into a situation like this. Because it's gonna get you fucking killed, one way or another, if you keep stumbling around in the dark. Open your eyes, Carter. The world isn't some simple place, everything all good guys versus bad guys. The bad guys are just trying to make a fucking living, too, you know."

  "Making a living by killing seems pretty black and white to me."

  Christ. Nate wanted to punch Carter but settled for saying, loudly, "Fuck you, Carter. You don't know anything about it." He stomped back out and got into his car. He avoided the temptation to back into Carter's little Saturn and even while he was fuming he patted himself on the back for his great restraint. That could have gone much worse.

  * * * * *

  Carter had just sat there, stunned, while Nate recited the statistics about how dangerous logging was. Not that he'd mind if a huge honking tree fell on Nate and knocked him dead -- well, of course he'd mind in a karmic sort of way, although right then all he'd wanted was for Nate to get out of his face. But when he applied those statistics to the guys on the crew who'd made at least an effort to be friendly -- James, Jeff -- the idea was a lot more sobering.

  When Nate swore at him and stormed out, slamming the front door behind him, Carter thought that it couldn't have gone much worse.

  He got up and picked the bloody paper towel wad up off the floor, threw it into the nearest trash bin. Jeez, his head hurt. Nate was probably right about not touching the cut, though. It'd just bleed more.

  Normally he wouldn't take painkillers, but in this case he'd make an exception. Assuming he could find any. He went into the bathroom and rifled through the shelves until he found a bottle of ibuprofen. Then he realized he was still holding the glass of water that Jeff had given him in a fit of didn't-know-what-else-to-do and had to put it down on the edge of the sink to open the childproof cap on the pill bottle.

  After he'd taken the pills, Carter combed his hair back with his fingers, wrapped it with a scrap of hemp he often used to keep it out of his face, and went back to the room to get his laptop. He'd gotten bloody fingerprints on the folder he'd taken to the side with him, but they didn't matter.

  It was still sinking in that he could have been killed. He definitely hadn't realized how dangerous this job was -- what the loggers were doing, he meant, not his own job -- and it still felt like something he'd read about in articles. And he'd read a lot of articles. Stuff about protest groups going to logging sites and standing up against trees so that the loggers couldn't cut them down, stuff about people sabotaging equipment to delay work. At the time he'd thought the people had balls and wondered if they weren't perhaps a little bit misguided -- if it might not be better for them to concentrate their efforts toward something a little bit less illegal.

  Of course, that could have something to do with the lovely night he'd spent in jail after an adventure in the local animal testing lab during his junior year of college. After that he'd focused his energy toward changing things from the outside, instead of the inside. Writing articles, writing letters to the editor of local and national newspapers, attending peaceful protests and the occasional sit-in.

  Carter shook his head to clear it, winced, and then settled down on a chair to type in the notes he'd managed to scribble down about what James had said.

  At around two he noticed he'd missed lunch, and went into the kitchen to forage for something to tide him over until dinner. Which Nate hadn't said anything about, so he assumed that his performance the night before had gotten him off of kitchen duty for the remainder of his stay. At least no one else had complained about the meal -- not to his face, anyway. Who knew what they'd been thinking.

  He was just biting into an apple when he had a thought. Even if someone came back to prepare dinner, chances were good the place was going to be empty for several hours yet. Was it possible that Tavaras might have something incriminating in his office? Paperwork that would be valuable to Carter -- forms, notes, anything?

  There might not be time to wait and think about this. For all he knew it could be days before he'd be alone in the bunkhouse again -- someone could get sick, or Nate could end up deciding he shouldn't be left alone, or something else reasonable but equally annoying. Or Nate could kick him out. This might be his only chance.

  Carter went quickly down the hallway and into Nate's office. He looked around carefully before he touched anything -- he didn't want to leave stuff in a different place than it had started out, even though from what he'd seen of Tavaras he didn't think that the guy was too meticulous or would notice if some things were out of place.

  He went through the filing cabinets first, starting at the back of each drawer on the theory that stuff Nate wanted kept hidden would be in the back. All of the forms he came across seemed pretty standard, and most of them were copies as if Nate was keeping them to protect his own ass -- invoices, check stubs, government forms labeled USFS that talked about stuff like YUM and had other acronyms like TOS on them. From what Carter could tell they were all filled out properly. Nate was more organized than he would have guessed, even though some of the filing didn't make a lot of sense to him.

  He moved on to the desk, going through the papers that were piled on top of it and then looking through the drawers. Damn. It looked as if Tavaras might actually be following all of the rules, which Carter sure wouldn't have thought was like him. Nate seemed more like the type to cut every corner and... well, damn.

  Carter tried to make sure everything looked the same as it had, and then went out and closed the door to Nate's office. He wasn't sure if he felt relieved that Tavaras was actually honest, or disappointed that he hadn't been able to dig up any dirt on the man. On the one hand it made it easier to stay, and on the other it would have been nice to have a legitimate reason for his instinctive dislike of the guy. It wasn't that he didn't think Nate deserved respect; Carter just didn't like him. Nate was too cold, or too shuttered, or too something. It was like he was walking around with a false front, his real self hidden away. Unless, of course, his real self actually was the asshole he acted like. In which case Carter could feel perfectly justified in failing to like him.

  Okay, he really just needed to focus on this project. He needed to find out from the men exactly what they thought of the environmental impact
their industry was having on the planet, what they thought of both moderate and radical environmentalist groups, and whether or not they were adhering to the standards set by the government. The goal had also been for him to try to observe first-hand how logging was affecting the local environment, but at this point he wasn't sure that Nate was ever going to let him back up to the side.

  His head hurt. He'd go lie down for a little while, and talk to the men after dinner.

  4.

  "Carter?"

  He swum up out of the foggy darkness that had claimed him and groaned. This was why he didn't usually take painkillers. Over-the-counter medication just didn't seem to agree with him. Not that it could have anything to do with the bump his head had taken.

  Carter opened his eyes and saw Jeff crouched on the floor near his bed.

  "You okay?"

  He groaned again and then sat up. "Yeah, I'm fine."

  Jeff looked worried. "I thought maybe you were in a coma or something. Aren't you supposed to stay awake after you hit your head?"

  "That's only if you have a concussion. I just have a bump and a gash." Carter cleared his throat. "What time is it?"

  "A little after seven. We just got back -- we were gonna have dinner. Come on."

  The other men had left him the same seat he'd sat in the night before, which was welcoming in a strange sort of way. Or would have been, if everyone's plates hadn't been loaded with dripping hamburgers. The smell of fried meat was heavy in the air, and Carter's stomach did a little flip. He wasn't sure if it was just the smell of the meat, or a combination of the smell and his head, but suddenly he wasn't too keen on the idea of sitting at the table while everyone ate.

  Carter was afraid he might be sick. He excused himself quickly and bolted from the room, heading for the front door and the yard where hopefully he could either recover in the fresh air or throw up in peace.

  He was leaning over the porch railing, breathing deeply and trying to think about nothing in particular, when he heard the front door open and heavy footsteps make their way over to where he was standing. He opened his eyes and looked down. Boots.

  "You okay?" Nate asked.

  Carter almost picked his head up in surprise, but another wave of nausea rolled over him and he sucked in a lungful of cool air. "Yeah," he said finally.

  Nate leaned in on the railing next to him. "Don't sound it. Think you ought to go to the hospital?"

  "Are you worried I'm going to die and get you in trouble?"

  There was a pause, long enough that Carter knew he'd hit the target dead-center. Pardon the pun. "Don't want you dead," said Nate. "Gone would be an improvement, though."

  "Believe me, I'm not too keen on being here myself, just now."

  They stood there silently for a while.

  "Go eat," Carter said after a few minutes. "I'm fine."

  Nate shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "You gonna be sick?"

  "Not as long as I don't have to go back in there and smell the meat, no. I don't think so."

  "It was the meat?" Nate sounded surprised. "I thought it was the knock on the head. I didn't realize..."

  "What? That me being a vegetarian wasn't just for show? That I wasn't just trying to be a jerk when I wouldn't cook meat yesterday?" Carter was tired, which was pretty pitiful considering he'd slept half the afternoon, and somehow it was worse that Nate was actually being almost civil.

  "Never mind," Nate said shortly, and there, that was better. That was more like what Carter expected. "Do whatever you want. Eat, don't eat. I don't give a flying fuck." Nate turned and stomped back into the bunkhouse.

  Carter sighed, and focused on breathing.

  * * * * *

  You could have knocked Nate over with a feather when Carter said it was the meat that made him feel sick. It had never even occurred to him that someone could honestly be that grossed out by the smell of a hamburger. Heck, there'd been days when he'd thought hamburgers had saved his life.

  It pissed him off that Carter sounded so disgusted with him. If the guy wasn't going to make an effort when Nate was trying to be nice, then screw him. But when Nate turned and stomped back into the bunkhouse, taking particular satisfaction in slamming the door behind him, he couldn't help but think that Carter brought out the fucking worst in him.

  He was becoming some kind of cliché, damn it.

  He went back to the table and ate his dinner in complete silence, trying not to share his anger with the room, but not sure he was being successful. The crew, at least, managed to keep up a steady stream of talk, and that gradually made him feel better. They were a good bunch of guys -- he wouldn't have kept them on if they weren't. Even Jeff, who was new and green as all hell, was cooperative and a hard worker. He listened to what he was told and he remembered, which was even more important. In their line of work, having to repeat something over and over again until it sank into someone's thick skull wasted time and money. And it was damn frustrating, too.

  Nate went off to his room and closed the door, taking a deep breath and finally feeling like he could relax for the first time that day. He'd accepted long ago that he was just a wound-up kind of person -- he thought it was what they called a Type-A personality, not that he went in for any of that psychobabble mumbo jumbo -- but sometimes, at the end of a day, he could relax. It always felt kind of alien and wrong, but at the same time he wanted it, even looked forward to it, sometimes.

  He spent a couple of hours doing paperwork he should have done days ago. He hated not being caught up, and being able to go to bed with a clean slate resulted in a much better night's sleep. Which he sure needed. Nate stripped down to his T-shirt and underwear, crawled into bed, and was asleep within minutes.

  * * * * *

  There was a soft knock on Nate's door -- three little taps -- and he jerked upright with a pounding heart.

  "I'm awake," he said, and his voice was rough. Sunlight was creeping in under the blind of the one window in the room, and his crappy clock said 6:12.

  Jeff went away without saying anything. Ritual stood that the newest guy had to wake Nate in the mornings -- he didn't trust alarm clocks and he fucking hated to be behind schedule. The rule was, as soon as Nate said he was awake, the designated person was absolved of his duty. If Nate went back to sleep, it was his own fault.

  He dragged his sorry ass out of bed and into the bathroom, bumping shoulders with Big Mike on his way past the sinks. They grunted at each other in apology. He got into the shower and let the hot water run over his face, letting it wake him up enough so that he could start to think again.

  They all ate breakfast in near silence, as usual. While they could be rowdy at other times of the day, the morning meal just wasn't one that included much in the way of conversation. Nate watched Carter stealthily -- the other man sat in a corner nursing a cup of coffee like it was replacing his blood or something. He looked pale but otherwise okay.

  When Keith shoved his chair back that was the sign to everyone that it was time to go. Nate paused near Carter's seat. "You coming?"

  Carter looked up and his face registered his surprise plainly. "Can I?"

  Nate shrugged. "If you want." He figured the guy had probably learned his lesson yesterday -- and if he hadn't, better to find it out sooner rather than later.

  But Carter was already shaking his head. "Thanks, but no. I think I'll pass today. I have plenty of stuff I can work on here."

  "Suit yourself."

  Nate drove up ahead of the crummy and when he rounded the corner and saw unexpected cars parked near the landing his foot tapped the brake involuntarily. Christ, just what he needed. For the first second or two he thought it was some kind of surprise inspection, but he quickly realized that the two vehicles were both covered with hippie bumper stickers and then he knew what was up. Protesters.

  You never knew when they were gonna show -- sometimes they were just a bunch of disorganized people convinced you were out in the woods letting trees fall on baby deer and c
hopping off tree limbs covered with birds' nests. Other times they were part of an organization, serious and prepared to fuck up your day as best they could. You couldn't always tell just by looking at them.

  He climbed out of the car and approached the small crowd of people warily. They were mostly young -- couldn't have been any older than twenty-five or so -- and they looked like some kind of time-machine throwback to the sixties: long loose hair, not unlike Carter's come to think of it, wire-rimmed glasses -- also like Carter's, and what the fuck was it with these people thinking they needed to look like John Lennon? -- natural fabrics, smelling like those fucking crystal deodorants. He hated people with a cause.

  "This isn't public property," he announced.

  Two of the young men exchanged glances. "We were just going for a drive. I guess we took a wrong turn."

  "Guess you did. We're trying to do a job here, so I'm gonna have to ask you to leave."