The bus came and went, and he didn't get on. He was watching something across the street—across from him, which meant it was on the same side as me. I looked around—the Twain Station bookstore was on the left of the burger joint, and Earl's Hunting Supply Store was on the right. The drifter was looking at the hunting store, which was a little ominous in itself. The street out front had a couple of cars, one of which '' looked familiar. Who did I know with a white Buick?
When Mr. Crowley came out of the hunting store laden with fishing supplies, I knew why the car looked so familiar—it spent most of its time fifty feet from my house. Forcing yourself not to think about people made even simple details like that hard to remember.
When the drifter stood up and jogged across the street' toward Mr. Crowley, I knew the situation had become very important, very suddenly. I wanted to hear this. I went outside, knelt down by my bike, and made a show of pretending to unlock the chain. I hadn't even chained it to anything, but it was next to some, pipes and I figured neither Crowley nor the drifter was paying close attention. I was a good thirty feet away from them—if I was lucky, they wouldn't pay any attention to me at all.
"Fishing?" said the drifter. He looked like he was about thirty-five or forty, weathered by wind and age. He said something else, but I was too far away to hear it. I turned my head to get a better angle.
"Ice fishing," said Mr. Crowley, holding up a chisel. "Lake froze over a week or two ago, and I figure it's safe to walk on by now."
"You don't say," said the drifter. "I used to go ice fishing all the time back in the day. I thought it was a lost art."
"A fellow fisherman?" asked Mr. Crowley, perking up. "Not coo many people around here are into ice fishing—Earl here had to special order the new auger for me. As cold as it is today, and with the wind picking up, I bet there won't even be skaters—I'll have the whole lake to myself."
"Is that so?" asked the drifter. I frowned—there was something in his voice that bothered me. Was he going to rob Crowley's house while he was out fishing?
Was he going to follow Crowley to the lake and kill him?
"You busy?" asked Mr. Crowley. "It gets awful lonely on that lake by yourself, and I could do with the company. I've got an extra pole."
Crowley, you idiot. Talcing this guy anywhere is a stupid idea. Maybe Crowley has Alzheimers.
"That's awfully kind of you," said the drifter, "though I'd hate to impose."
What was Mr. Crowley thinking? I thought about jumping up to warn him, but I stopped myself. I was probably just imagining things; this guy's probably fine.
Though Mr. Crowley was a perfect match for the victim profile—an older white male with a large build.
"Don't worry about it," said Mr. Crowley. "Climb in. You have a hat?"
"I'm afraid not."
"Then we'll swing by and get you one on our way out," said Crowley, "and a bit of extra lunch. A friend to fish with worth five dollars, easy."
They climbed into his car and drove away. I almost got u to warn him again, but I knew where they were going—and I knew that they'd delay for a while buying food and a hat. It would be a gamble, but I might be able to make it out there before them and hide. I wanted to see what happened.
I made it to the most well-used stretch of lake in just half an hour, where the slope down from the road to the shore was more gradual, and you could walk right out to the edge. There was no sign of Mr. Crowley or his dangerous passenger, or of anybody else for that matter. We'd have the lake to ourselves.
I hid my bike in a snow bank on the south side of the clearing, and crouched in a small stand of trees to the north. If Mr.
Crowley actually went through with it, this is where he would come.
I sat down to wait.
The lake was frozen, as Crowley had expected, and dusted with grainy white snow. On the far side, a low hill rose up, tall only by contrast to the flat expanse of the lake. Wind whipped across them both, spirals of air made visible by the snow within it, eddies and swirls and drill-bit tornadoes. I crouched in the shadows and froze as the wind made faces in the sky.
Exposure to nature—cold, heat,water—is the most dehumanizing way to die. Violence is passionate and real—the final moments as you struggle for your life, firing a gun or wrestling a mugger or screaming for help, your heart pumps loudly and your body tingles with energy; you are alert and awake and, for that brief moment, more alive than you’ve ever been before. Not so with nature.
At the mercy of the elements the opposite happens: your body slows, your thoughts grow sluggish, and you realize just how mechanical you really are.
Your body is a machine, full of tubes and valves and motors, electrical signals and hydraulic pumps, and they function properly only within a certain range of conditions.
As temperatures drop, your machine breaks down. Cells begin to freeze and shatter; muscles use more energy to do less; blood flows too slowly, and to the wrong places. Your senses fade, your core temperature plummets, and your brain fires random signals that your body is too weak to interpret of follow.