The Serpent's Bite (25 page)

She giggled, and they moved stealthily beyond the camp to the edge of the meadow where Tomas had hobbled the horses.

“Just don't scream,” he whispered, putting a hand over her mouth as they made love.

“As good as it gets,” she said, her mouth close to his ear.

“Better.”

“Time to crash,” Scott said, when they disengaged.

“Me, too,” Courtney said. She lifted her face, and Scott kissed her. Again he recalled their earlier problems. He knew it could happen again, the compulsive attachment. Love! Maybe that part would never be over for him.

“Let's not push it, Courtney. Let's call this trek the swan song. No more. Once and for all,” he said. “Besides, if Dad comes across, we'll both be pretty busy. Why look for trouble?”

“Poor Scottie,” she said. “Always worried. Hell, it's been two decades. Consider it pure recreation. Nothing more.”

“Once out of here. Over. Agreed?”

She nodded and squeezed his crotch.

“Bye, bye, Birdie,” she sang in a whisper.

They made their way back to camp and with a brief wave to each other crawled into their tents.

After a while the camp grew quiet, except for the sound of snoring coming from Harry's tent. Scott must have slept, but some inner sense of alertness awoke him, as if he had been waiting for the sound. Scott struggled out of his sleeping bag and peeked through the flap. He saw Tomas quietly digging at the edge of the campsite where Scott had observed him the night
before, and he watched as the Mexican lifted a bottle from the hole then covered it up again. Moving stealthily, Tomas placed the bottle through the flap in Harry's tent then went back to his own.

Keeping his breathing shallow, Scott waited and watched. The camp grew quiet again. He needed to think. Courtney was right. Despite his promises, Harry was not going to stop. His little speech of contrition was contrived.

Scott turned a number of scenarios over in his mind. All of them spelled danger. Then an idea struck him.

He left his own tent and crawled into Courtney's and gently awakened her, putting a hand over her mouth. He bent over and whispered in her ear.

“Don't make a sound.”

“Really, Scott. Talk about risk. We could wake Dad.”

“Not that. Tomas just delivered another bottle from Harry's stash. Get dressed. We have to talk.”

She nodded, asking for no explanation.

He waited outside the tent as she dressed. When she appeared, he put a finger to his lips, and they moved silently outside the perimeter of the camp out of earshot.

“I got an idea,” he whispered.

“Don't try to take away the booze. He'll go bananas. Get nasty. Make things worse.”

“I'm talking dilution not deprivation. He won't be completely sober but maybe not drunk enough to get us the fuck out of here in one piece. Unfortunately he's got his fifth for tomorrow.”

“So let's not stray tomorrow. Stick to camp. Take a little hike. No danger of getting lost. It's the home trek that worries me.”

“Next day he gets half his quota. Lesser evil.”

“We'd have to break the seals,” Scott said, as the thought crossed his mind. “He might catch on.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

“Let's hope he doesn't. That's our risk.”

Scott, followed by Courtney, moved in the direction of where he had seen Tomas uncover the stash. He reached the spot, behind a shrub, well hidden. He felt around with his hands and dug his nails into the soft dirt.

They dug with their fingers, piling handfuls of dirt beside the hole. The bottles were well covered but close to the surface. Scott felt around, counting four bottles.

“Probably has a stash at every camp,” Scott said.

“As he says, he knows the turf. Resourceful son of a bitch.”

Scott carefully removed the four bottles, gave two to Courtney, and moved toward the stream. It wasn't far, and the path was well trod. They kneeled next to the stream, carefully broke the seals, and poured out more than half the contents of each bottle.

“Wild Turkey,” Scott noted.

“Think we'll make drunks out of the goddamned trout?”

“They'll have to dip the flies in booze to get a strike.”

“It'll piss off the tree huggers.”

“Let's just hope we don't piss off old Harry.”

They filled the bottles from the stream, tightened the tops, and tried their best to make the seals look as if they hadn't been broken. Then they silently retraced their steps, put the bottles in the hole the way they were found, and carefully covered them with dirt, patting it down.

They made their way carefully back to their tents.

“A couple more days, and we're home free,” Courtney said, squeezing Scott's hand.

“I think we got what we came for,” Scott said.

She put her mouth close to his ear. “There's still Muriel.”

“He says this was all her idea.”

“That's the problem. Seems like everything from now on will be her idea.”

They headed back to their tents.

T
hey hiked for a mile or so along the bank downstream until they found a spot where the stream widened, and it struck Courtney as a good place to wash. The sun was rising orange through the tree line.

They had informed Tomas, who had served them eggs, bacon, toast, and coffee, to tell Harry whenever he awoke that they preferred that today be a down day. Their father had told them that he would be spending most of the day taking pictures around the camp, and they had all agreed that they would meet for dinner. Tomas had packed them a lunch of cheese sandwiches, apples, and cokes.

They both carried a towel, a change of underwear, and socks and fresh shirts. Before attempting to wash in the icy stream, they sat on the bank and waited until the sun warmed the cold air.

Courtney had stayed awake after their return from diluting Harry's bourbon, contemplating their financial future. Something had begun to nag at her concerning her father's generosity. Other implications began to surface. Danger signals had emerged. She put it directly to Scott.

“You realize, of course, that Dad's apparent generosity could all be a ploy to placate us, while Muriel gains the bulk of his estate when he dies.”

“Not that again,” Scott said.

Courtney paused, ignoring his comment.

“Considering that his current will probably names us as principal heirs, he's sure to make changes when dear Muriel gets her hand on the tiller. We might be selling ourselves short.”

“For crying out loud, Courtney, we can't stop him from making changes.”

“Just thinking out loud.”

She was fully aware where her thoughts were taking her. Was he getting the point? She looked at her brother, who turned away.

“Let's clean up,” Scott said, obviously avoiding the subject.

They undressed and moved cautiously into the cold water.

“Colder than a witch's tit in hell,” he said, soaping himself. She did the same.

“Let me do you,” she said, laughing, splashing him with water, soaping his body, particularly his genitals. He did the same to her. They splashed water on each other like children, giggling and screeching.

Blue with cold, they ran out of the stream and toweled each other dry, but their teeth still chattered from the icy water.

“It looks lifeless,” she laughed, caressing him. “Needs a warm-up.”

Soon they were both aroused and making love in whatever postures they could devise. Naked, they enjoyed the sensation of doing it in the wilderness, which heightened their enjoyment. She screamed out the intensity of her pleasure.

“You'll scare the grizzlies,” he said.

“Bring ‘em on. I feel as if I could fuck a bear.”

He doubled up with laughter. They found a grassy knoll nearby and warmed themselves in the sun.

“I love this freedom,” she said. “Don't you feel like an animal?”

He roared and beat his chest.

“We are animals,” he said.

“They have no taboos, no distinctions. Everybody screws everybody.”

She turned and got on her hands and knees.

“Let's do it their way,” she said. He got down behind her, and she drew him into her.

He obeyed, and they were locked together in an animal sexual pose.

“Bark for the audience,” he cried.

“Woof. Woof.”

Finally it was over, and they disengaged and lay down while the sun warmed them.

“Lady Chatterley's Lover,”
she said, laughing, nestling in the crook of his arm. “Remember?”

“The book?”

“She was fucking the gardener. Fancy lady of the manor. Having a ball in the garden. Just like us.”

“Life outside the box,” he whispered. She knew what he meant, and it added to the thrill of it.

“Abandonment,” she said, conscious of the purity of its definition.

He embraced her. They were like two fitted spoons now.

“I'll never forget this day,” she said, sure of its endurance in her memory. “It's like stepping into another dimension. Letting go. Getting down to the nitty-gritty. Shrugging off all so-called civilized behavior. I feel like …,” she paused, “pure flesh and spirit.” She turned and looked into his eyes. “And you?”

“Different,” he said. “Weird, but as you say…pure flesh and spirit. One with nature.”

“That's it. Yes, Scottie. One with nature. How could this be wrong? This is as right as it gets. We're…well, Adam and Eve. Can you imagine what she must have thought, seeing that damned thing rise, stiff and hard?” She looked at him. “Like now.”

This time she rose and mounted him, making strange sounds like talking in tongues as she rotated on his body. Again, they felt extreme pleasure together, and she screamed out her ecstasy. When the spasm was over, they lay together in an embrace and, without speaking, dozed. When they awoke, they dressed and started back to camp.

“No one would believe this,” she said to her brother.

“Who would we tell?” Scott asked.

“Maybe,” she said, “we could meet somewhere, say once a year, and be together like this. Our secret life, our deliriously wonderful secret life.”

“Over when it's over, sis,” Scott replied. “Let's keep it as an idea.”

“You're right,” she said, remembering the angst of years ago. “Let's not get carried away. Keep it in your memory bank.”

They dozed then copulated yet again. It was getting late, near lunchtime.

They dried themselves and dressed, then headed back toward the camp. She felt energized and alert, calm and confident. A sense of well-being filled her with optimism. Walking beside her, Scott looked at her, winked, and nodded as if he had read her mind.

They walked for an hour in silence, and when they arrived in the camp, they saw only Tomas working the fire, obviously preparing lunch. Neither their father nor Harry was anywhere in sight.

“Dad,” Courtney called. She inspected her father's tent. It was empty. Then she turned to Tomas who shrugged.

“Went riding,” he answered, in an indifferent noncommittal voice.

“Where?”

Tomas shrugged and continued to work preparing the food. He was making some kind of bean concoction, probably chili, and toasting leftover bread. A pot of coffee was beginning to boil. For some reason it struck her as somewhat late for making lunch, long past noon. She let the idea pass. Her concern was for her father, who had planned taking pictures around the camp in the morning.

“He go with boss,” Tomas informed them.

“Without us?” Scott asked.

Scott beckoned Courtney, whispering.

“Guy gives me the creeps,” he said.

“They say when they would be back?” Courtney asked.

Tomas shrugged.

“No say.”

“That's unusual, isn't it, Tomas?” Scott pressed.

Tomas didn't answer but continued preparing the food, mixing the chili with a ladle.

“You eat now?” he asked.

“We'll wait for them,” Courtney said, moving with her brother to the edge of the camp to a spot overlooking the stream.

She felt a rising sensation of anxiety but fought it off. It was not a logical feeling at that point. But after an hour had gone by, both she and Scott became more concerned. Tomas squatted near the fire. From time to time he mixed the chili, looking toward them.

“I'm really concerned, Tomas,” Courtney said approaching the Mexican. “Shouldn't we go and look for them?”

“They be fine.”

“Hey, don't start that routine,” Scott said angrily. She knew, of course, to look for them on horseback could not be a course of action. They would lose their way quickly.

“I'm getting really worried,” Courtney said, when another hour passed. The sun had fallen behind the highest treetops. But beneath her anxiety was yet another thought. What if something did happen to their father? What then? No Muriel to spoil their inheritance prospects. The thought was strangely comforting.