Goats, Boats, and Killer Cutthroats Page 7

  “Don’t get in such a hurry,” she admonished me. “Do you have a reservation?”

  “No, I don’t. I need a room, but I don't have my purse. If I can make a phone call, I can get you a credit card number to use.”

  “We don’t have a public phone anymore. They took it out.”

  “Well, then can I use your phone?” I asked.

  “We’re not allowed to let guests use our phone.”

  “But I can’t even be a guest until you let me use your phone. I need to call somebody to get you a credit card number to charge a room to.”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t let you use the phone.”

  “I’m trying to pay you money! Don’t you understand?”

  The woman sighed. “Is it a local call?”

  “No, it’s not local. If it were local, I wouldn't need a hotel, would I?”

  She screwed her lips up into a thin, hard line.

  “If you’re going to get sassy with me, you can leave right now.”

  “I want to speak with the manager,” I said.

  “He’s not here.”

  What the hell is it with managers going AWOL in this place?

  “Then call him.”

  “I’m not going to disturb the manager—”

  “If you don’t call him, then I'm going to come back here tomorrow and find him and tell him that... Donna,” I read the name on her badge, “wouldn’t let me give her a hundred dollars for a room tonight, and she sent me away instead.”

  “You’re going to give me a hundred dollars?”

  “Well, whatever a room costs.”

  “You said a hundred dollars,” she insisted.

  “Fine, a hundred dollars. But I have to call someone to get their credit card number.”

  “Okay, but this better be for real.”

  “It is, I promise. Now may I please have the phone?”

  She picked up the receiver and handed it to me. “What’s the number?”

  I froze. I couldn’t think of Jack’s number. I had it programmed in my phone.

  “Well?” the lady asked.

  “Hang on. I don’t know it.”

  “Give me that phone back,” she said, reaching out for it.

  “No! I’ll call my mother.” I gave her my mother's phone number and waited for her to pick up.

  Three rings. Four. Five. My mother doesn’t have voice mail. I swore to fix that as soon as I got home. I also swore to never go anywhere again without my cell phone.

  “Wait! I know! Here, hang this up,” I said handing her the phone receiver. “Do you have the internet on this computer?”

  “I can’t let you use this computer either, but we have a business center next to the elevators.”

  I took off in the direction she indicated.

  “But you can’t use that unless you’re a guest,” she called out to me as I ran down the hall.

  I returned a minute later with Jack’s phone number that I had gotten from his website. She called and he answered. She handed the phone to me.

  “Jack, Jack! Are you there?”

  “Yeah, I'm here,” Jack said through the phone. “Where are you?”

  “I’m at a Holiday Inn Express in North Browning.”

  “Just Browning,” the woman behind the desk said.

  “What?” I said to her.

  “I said ‘where are you?’” Jack thought I was still talking to him.

  “This is just Browning here,” the hotel woman said. “North Browning is up the street.”

  “That doesn’t matter,” I said to the woman.

  Another tight-lipped scowl dripped onto her face.

  “No, not you,” I said to Jack. “I’m in a hotel in North Browning—no, just plain Browning. Where are you at?”

  “I'm in Saint Mary, right outside the park. You weren’t at the visitor center, and I was scared. I just got my phone out to call you when it rang.”

  “I don't have my phone with me. It’s in my purse. Do you have your credit card with you?”

  “Yeah—”

  “Can you come to Browning right now? Look for the Holiday Inn Express. If you can’t find it, ask somebody.”

  “Okay, I'll be there in about a half hour.”

  I let the first trickle of relief ease into my mind.

  Jack walked in through the front door, and I was so excited and nervous at the same time. I ran up to him and squeezed his neck so hard I think I hurt him. He paid for a room, and we dragged our stuff in from the car.

  I plopped down on the bed and he knelt in front of me. Through tears of mixed emotions, I said, “I need to call the police.”

  “He brushed a stray strand of hair out of my face and said, “Let’s wait until we’ve come down a little.”

  I nodded and he hugged me—the best hug I have ever had.

  We traded stories, both of us in disbelief of how deep we’d gotten ourselves into whatever this mess was. After we’d both vented, I retrieved my phone from my purse and called the next lodge on our agenda to explain why we weren’t there and try to get our reservation shifted forward one night.

  It was the same situation as at the last place—my credit card had already been charged. But they had a cancellation for the following night, and the very nice man made me a new reservation for then. He said that they would have to transfer the charge when I got there, that he would leave them a note and it shouldn’t be any problem. Canadians are so nice.

  After I ended the call, Jack said to me, “This is the same town where the Bureau of Indian Affairs office is. I’m thinking we should just go over there tomorrow morning and tell them what’s happened.”

  “They’re going to want to know about the man in the parking lot who got shot,” I said.

  “Good. Tell ’em. This is all tied together, anyway.”

  “Okay,” I said. I leaned against Jack and loosely hugged his neck. “When’s the last time you ate?”

  Spending an evening away from the lodges did me some good. It put me in a different mindset and somehow helped me relax and feel safer. We got a good night’s sleep, ate a big free breakfast in the morning, and drove to the Indian Affairs office. When we got there, the door was locked. Jack asked a man up front if he had seen either of the agents that morning, but he hadn’t. Jack called the number on the agent’s business card but it went to voicemail. Jack opened his mouth to speak; then lowered his phone and touched the red button to end the call.

  “This is too much for voicemail,” he said.

  We drove to the gas station where the guy got shot, to see if the agents would be there. Orange cones were set up with yellow crime scene tape connecting them, but no people were around. Just a big dark spot on the pavement where the guy went down. We parked and went inside, but the only people in there were the clerk and one customer.

  “What now?” I asked Jack.

  He looked at his watch. “It’s almost lunch. Let’s give the officers time to get back from what might be their only time to relax and I’ll give them a call. Meantime, we just keep on track with the real reason we’re here.”

  I nodded my head. There wasn’t much we could do really, and I still had my article to finish. We got back onto the highway and headed north to the Canadian border.

  Glacier National Park extends into Canada, but the Canadian part is called Waterton Lakes National Park. Collectively, they’re called Waterton-Glacier International Peace Park. I learned this from the border agent at the customs office. He asked us why we were going to Canada, where and how long we were staying, and if we had any food or guns. That was pretty much it. I guess we looked stereotypically safe.

  Less than an hour of gorgeous views later, we were in front of the Prince of Wales Hotel—our next stop on the lodge trail.

  This place looked like a giant gingerbread house sitting on a hill overlooking a beautiful lake with rugged mountains in the background. Inside, it looked newer than the other lodges but still quite dated. Maybe fifty years old instead of a hundred
. The lobby was big and open, but not nearly as much as the others. This one had a flat ceiling only two stories high instead of extending all the way to exposed beam peaked roofs like the other lodges, and the pillars holding up the roof on this one are big square posts instead of the whole tree trunks that the other lodges have.

  A tall man in a kilt walked by. We both followed him with our gaze as he walked to the front desk. He seemed to know the attendant on duty. Apparently, that’s the way they dress here?

  We walked over to the registration desk to check in. I had to go through my explanation about calling in last night to switch my reservation from last night to tonight, and this guy, although he was polite, was having nothing of refunding last night’s room charge. I asked if the manager was in, and he said, ‘yes,’ but he was at tea now. He explained that they serve High Tea every day from one to five p.m.

  “We serve sandwiches and pastries—it’s quite nice.”

  Sandwiches and pastries sounded good to me right now, so I ended up paying for a second night for the time being, and asked him to tell the manager that I was here a day late for our interview and hoped to have some time with him right after lunch … or tea … whatever.

  High Tea really was—like the kilted man said—quite nice. Someone was playing classical music on a piano, and it reverberated throughout the lobby wonderfully. I found it very relaxing. I had sent Jack out to the car to get his camera equipment, so he took pictures of our plates of food before we dug in.

  The view out the picture window showed another big lake surrounded by mountains. On the lodging side, this week was one breathtaking setting after another. It didn’t matter that it was all part of the same unbelievable scenery, it never got old.

  Jack volunteered to take our luggage to the room while I interviewed the manager. The manager was very accommodating with his time and gave me the full history of the hotel. It turns out that all four of these lodges that the magazine selected as the primary lodges of Glacier National Park—and Waterton in Canada—were built by the same Great Northern Railway, with this one the newest, being completed in 1927—not quite the time difference I thought when I first walked in. Wind from the lake was a problem when they built this lodge. It blew down three times during construction, but the manager assured me that the engineering was modified and it was quite solid. After all, it had been standing for nearly a hundred years.

  He recommended a boat cruise of the lake below. It was just a short walk from the hotel, and I might have time to still catch a tour today.

  I brought up my problem with refunding my credit card when I had to move my reservation out one night, and he was very firm that no refunds are ever given. All of the lodges in the park are run by a corporation out of Colorado. They are very firm about their policies, and he has no authority to override them. Seemed like a very convenient excuse to me. He asked if I knew the name of the person I spoke with last night, and of course I didn’t. Lesson learned for the future.

  Jack returned, and we walked outside to get some pictures. This lodge sits on top of a big hill that looks out over the lake. We walked down to the boat dock so Jack could get some pictures looking up at the lodge from water level. It’s an impressive sight from down there, like some castle where the overlord keeps tabs on his subjects. But a nice overlord.

  There was a boat cruise that left at four o’clock. I wasn’t really expecting to want to take one, but Jack and I looked at each other and decided, ‘when in Rome...or Canada anyway.’

  We were on an old wooden boat that looked exceptionally well maintained. It fit in well with the old lodges we’d been staying at, although the boat company is not related to the lodges or the national park. The tour guide talked almost the entire trip. I was impressed with his stamina. And his humor. He had a lot of funny well-practiced comments. His banter nearly matched Jack’s.

  The scenery was beautiful, as expected, but the vantage of the boat added to the allure. We rode the entire length of the long, narrow lake, which extended back into the United States. A stone obelisk that looked like a miniature Washington Monument marked the border, and we could see where the trees were cut down in a straight line extending back into the distance. I asked our guide about the legalities of crossing the border, and he said that there is a port of entry in Goat Haunt, the name of the place where we dock at the American end of the lake, and there are U.S. Border Patrol agents there.

  The boat docked, and our guide took us to the ranger station, which also serves as the Customs office. Jack and I went inside, as did a few others. A map on the wall showed several hiking trails that head out in different directions from this point, but they’re all very long—several days’ hike, I’d think.

  We stayed long enough for everyone to use the restroom if they needed, then we reboarded for the return trip. Our new guide was a little less talkative but still kept the trip interesting. Several passengers occupied him with questions. A breeze had picked up, and I was starting to get cold. The sun was setting, making for an entirely new set of views all around. The mountains had a golden glow for about ten minutes and I thought Jack’s camera shutter might explode. The small town of Waterton was lit up, as was the lodge, and Jack got some good pictures of those as well.

  When we docked back in Waterton, we walked back up to the lodge to see if dinner was still available, and fortunately it was. Like the other lodges, the menu looked very elegant, with prices to match. I tried not to let my eyes bulge at the humongous numbers.

  Also, like the other lodges, they made an effort to provide local fare. Jack ordered the bison stew, and I ordered the salmon with shrimp.

  Jack liked his stew but didn’t think it was anything special.

  “Tastes like chicken,” he said with a wry grin on his face.

  My salmon was missing the shrimp. I didn’t want to complain—it was still good salmon—but I did ask to see the chef. I was too tired from our long day to do my usual full interview, and that felt like cheating a little, but I was going to add the boat tour to the article so I justified it to myself with that.

  The chef came out and explained that they were out of shrimp. I told him about the article I was writing and asked him about his personal input to the menu and how the food was prepared. He gave me short answers and explained that he had to get back to the kitchen. He asked if he could make up for the missing shrimp with a complimentary dessert, and before I could decline, Jack blurted out, “Sure!”

  The chef left, and a few minutes later, our server in a kilt brought us a bowl of vanilla ice cream, “compliments of the chef.”

  I was a little surprised that this was the best they could offer to compensate for missing shrimp.

  “A bowl of ice cream?” I asked, again hoping my face didn’t reveal my true thoughts.

  “Just one?”Jack asked, his face clearly showing his thoughts.

  “That’s fine,” I said before our server had a chance to respond. I gave the ice cream to Jack.

  I hadn’t even been in our room yet. We walked up there after dinner. It was nice, but dated—just like the rest of the lodge. Paneling lined the walls, just as paneling lined all the walls downstairs. A gust of wind hit the window and it rattled, straining to stay in place. I got out my computer to make some notes about the lodge and the lake cruise while Jack took a shower.

  Later, Jack and I were lying together in bed with the light still on, my head on his shoulder.

  “We need to figure out what we’re going to do with the rest of our schedule,” I said. “We allowed for one extra day to have fun or make up anything we missed, but we’ve already used that up, and I didn't get any interview at all in Lake McDonald, and we certainly haven’t had any fun yet.”

  Jack twisted his neck to try to look at me. “I had a lot of fun the night before last.”

  I smacked him on his belly.

  “What? I really did.”

  He rolled towards me so he could face me and put his arm around me, holding me close.

/>   He kissed me on my forehead and said, “We really should talk about this.”

  I felt instantly hot and my hormones went into high gear. A shudder ran through my body. “I don't know if I'm ready to talk about that yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “I was really scared and vulnerable, and you've been my hero since the first day I met you.” I worked my arm under his neck and squeezed him as hard as I could and started crying. I kissed his face and said, “Jack, will you make love to me again?”

  Our window rattled mercilessly that night. At one point, the wind blew so hard that I jerked awake and grabbed Jack. He had of course been sound asleep, but he now wrapped his arms around me. I slid on top of him in the total darkness and he instantly responded. Our relationship had unquestionably advanced to a new level. And it was wonderful.

  Secure. That word sums it up better than any other. And it's a feeling that I hadn't had for a long time. Certainly not since I graduated from college. I don't know how long before that. Living paycheck to paycheck, taking handouts from my dad. It hadn't been easy. And probably none of that had gone away, but somehow I felt this giant burden being lifted off my shoulders. I was thankful for the rattling window and hoped our neighbors thought that was the reason for the noises coming from our room.

  10

  Papers Please

  Breakfast was very formal in this lodge, so I ordered the eggs Benedict to see how they did with that. Jack ordered the okra cheese and kale omelet because he said it was the biggest thing on the menu. I’m not sure if he knew what he was getting into with so much greenery on his plate, but he wolfed it down quicker than I expected.

  After that, I went online to extend our return flights two days. The wireless connection here was incredibly slow, but at least they had one. Jack carried our luggage to the car, and I think he took some more pictures while I rescheduled the flights.