The Serpent's Bite by Warren Adler Page B

present financial stance, Scott could not deny the old feeling of attachment, the old bond. He was doubtful that this feeling was replicated in his sister, and it pained him.
    â€œRemember what we voted her?” his father asked suddenly, breaking Scott’s concentration. He quickly found the memory.
    â€œMiss Congeniality,” Scott mumbled, feeling the tug of loss, remembering. His mother had doted on him, and for a long time he had resisted her possessiveness. Upon her death he had grieved briefly, although, at times thereafter, he had been surprised to suddenly feel a sharp pang of loss, far more powerful than he had felt at her funeral.
    Sometimes, images of her would surface in his dreams, inducing yearning and often tears. Scott wondered if the same feeling would surface when he remembered his father. Probably more so, one shrink told him, explaining that he had betrayed his father’s aspirations far more than his mother’s.
    They held out their cups for refills, and Scott obliged, warning: “Be careful. It has more punch up here in the high altitudes.”
    â€œHope so,” Courtney giggled, already showing the effects.
    She turned and watched Tomas cooking their meal. He was making some sort of elaborate concoction using onions, butter, red and green peppers, garlic and oregano, and sliced meat, which he simmered together in a pot.
    â€œWhat is that?” Scott asked.
    â€œTexicano elk,” the Mexican said in accented English, deep in concentration as he stirred, tasted, added salt and pepper, and turned his attention to cutting up lettuce and cucumbers into a large salad bowl. Then he opened up a plastic bag of what looked like cooked beans, put them in a skillet, and covered them with shortening.
    â€œI told you.” Harry’s whisky scent filled the air, announcing his presence. “Really knows hish cooking shit.”
    â€œSmells terrific,” Courtney said, her nostrils dilating.
    â€œTexicano elk, he calls it,” Scott said.
    â€œOnly it ain’t elk. It’s mountain lion. Tastes better’n elk or beef. Fuckin’ mountain lions all over the place. Screwing faster than the wolves. Tough immune systems.”
    â€œGood God,” Courtney said. “Mountain lion.”
    â€œWill it make us roar?” Scott joked.
    â€œTry it.” Harry turned to Tomas. “Cut ‘em a piece, Tomas.” He winked and lowered his voice. “Some say it’s better’n Viagra.”
    The Mexican cut a piece of cooked meat from the uncut portion and handed a sliver to each of them.
    â€œWhen in Rome …” Courtney said, chewing. “Not bad.”
    â€œShoot ‘em, eat ‘em. Right, Tomas?”
    Tomas nodded, busy with his chores, his face offering little expression of acknowledgement. He doled out the meal, and they ate with relish and washed it down with wine. Tomas spooned out some refried beans and tortillas and carried them yards away to eat, sitting on a log by himself. They ate in silence.
    â€œAm I right about the Mex’s chow?” Harry asked.
    â€œHelluva cook,” Temple acknowledged.
    â€œWe’ll sure make music tonight,” Scott said.
    â€œAt least the performance will be in your own sleeping bag.”
    â€œIt sure was good going down,” their father said.
    â€œWhat’s the program for tomorrow, Harry?” Scott asked.
    â€œFly-fishing. Got rods and flies. We’ll hit the Thorofare River. Cutthroats. Maybe some wandering brook trout if we’re lucky.” Harry burped, and Scott noted that he hadn’t eaten much. Gets his calories elsewhere.
    â€œHow far?” Scott asked, thinking of his knees.
    â€œSix and a half miles maybe. Two, three hours.”
    Harry stood up, slightly unsteady. “She you in the morning,” he mumbled, and then moved toward his tent.
    â€œHope he can handle it,” Scott said when he was gone, ignoring Tomas’s presence