23
It was not easy. Nor was it painless. But by midnight, Justin had their lives relatively back to normal. They walked for two hours. He carried Kendall the entire way. A half hour into the hike she fell asleep, her arms still locked around his neck, her head drooped on his injured shoulder. He barely felt the pain.
Deena trudged along sluggishly, almost in a trance, for the first half of the trek. Then she started to put herself back together. There was almost no conversation—she uttered one “Shit!” when she tripped and fell into a slimy patch of leaves; that was nearly the entire extent of her chatter—but he could feel her gathering herself back up. He could sense her resilience. At one point he said to her, quietly and evenly so as not to disturb the sleeping girl, “I’ve seen a lot of victims, you know, over the years. Seen a lot of people after they’ve been attacked, after murder attempts. Most people, they’re angry. I mean, really angry. Their first instinct is to strike out in revenge or rage. It’s part of the process. Then they calm down. Become more rational. Sometimes. But you, I don’t get that from you.”
“No,” she said.
“Are you trolling for sainthood?”
“I’m a Buddhist.”
“Buddhists don’t get angry?”
“We try not to. Anger is not very productive or useful. We try to keep the world in perspective.”
“Tough thing to keep this in perspective.”
“You’ve got my perspective in your arms. Doesn’t do me any good to get angry when what matters is keeping her safe.”
It was another minute or so before he spoke again. “So what do you Buddhists believe in, if it’s not anger? I mean, other than all those ommms and back bends and little guys with fat stomachs and things.”
She almost grinned. “Are you saying that just to make me angry?”
“Kind of. But I’m curious.”
“It’s hard for me to verbalize sometimes. You know, it comes out sounding a little bit like a Hallmark card. But it’s not like that at all. We believe that all things are one. And that to find your self you have to lose your self. We believe that everything we do here is practice.”
“For what?”
“For something bigger. Better.”
“More peaceful?”
“More peaceful.”
They didn’t speak again until he steered them back out of the woods, toward the road. They were off the highway by this point, and they didn’t have long to walk until they came to a diner. It was one of the places that were geared for travelers. Near the entrance was a room off to the side filled with video games. There was a small souvenir shop that sold paperweights and T-shirts with I-heart–New York logos. There was a line of people waiting to take out food, and most of the people seated in the restaurant were on stools at the counter. But there were also twenty tables or so, and eight or ten booths, many of them empty. Justin woke up Kendall, set her down, and went to the souvenir shop. He gave the woman a credit card and bought three souvenir shirts in different sizes, some aspirin, and a first-aid kit. From the way the cashier looked at him, he could tell his appearance was worse than he’d even thought. He gave Deena and Kendall their shirts, ushered them into the women’s room, then went through the swinging door into the men’s room and did his best to wash up. It took some work. He removed his shirt, which was torn and scorched and bloody. Taking a deep breath, he cleaned his wound with hot water and soap rubbed onto a rough paper towel. He opened the first-aid kit, took another deep breath, and splashed Mercurochrome onto the gash. When he looked up into the mirror, he had tears in his eyes. One more deep breath, then he went back to the paper towels and, using more soap and water, did his best to clean his face and torso and swab his armpits. He stuck his head under the faucet, rubbed a handful of liquid soap in his hair, then dunked himself again and rubbed as hard as he could manage. He bunched together more paper towels to dry himself and used his fingers to comb his hair back into place as best he could. He wrapped a gauze bandage from the first-aid kit around the wound in his shoulder. It absorbed a bit of blood, but the bleeding had, for the most part, stopped. Then he put on his clean “I Love New York” shirt and went back to the diner.
Deena and Kendall had already taken a booth. He saw that they were both wearing their new shirts and that they’d also managed to clean themselves up to the point of respectability.
“Don’t we look like the happy family,” Justin said as he eased into the booth.
They all ate tremendous meals—Kendall had a bacon cheeseburger and a chocolate milk shake over her mother’s brief objection—and then, after using the cash machine and withdrawing the maximum, a thousand dollars, Justin ordered a taxi, which took them to the nearest car-rental place, in the center of Albany. He rented a midsize car, a make he’d never actually heard of, then they headed on I-90 toward New England. Half an hour out of the city, they pulled into a mall and bought a few essentials: toothbrushes and toothpaste, two overnight bags, socks, shirts, and underwear. A mile or so past the mall, they came to a decent-looking motel and stopped. He checked them into two adjoining rooms, told them that they needed a very good night’s sleep. He said that right now, whoever was after them believed they were dead. That wouldn’t last long, he explained. By tomorrow he expected that they’d certainly be checking his credit-card receipts, cash-machine withdrawals, and cell-phone use. They’d be back on the case. He said he was too tired to explain further and that he’d fill them both in first thing in the morning. By the time he got to this part of his speech, Kendall was under the covers and sound asleep.
He said good night, went into his room, closing the connecting door but leaving it unlocked, took out his two possessions that had survived the explosion—one of the phones he’d bought and his gun, both of which had been jammed into his jeans—and put them on his night-stand. Justin lay back on the bed, and before he could even get undressed, he started to doze off. As his eyes closed, he realized that Gary had never called back. He forced his eyes back open, checked his cell phone, and swore: The battery had run out. He had no way to charge it; the charger had been lost in the explosion. He added that to the list of things they needed to do tomorrow, then he forced himself to remove his clothes and get under the covers. Then he was asleep. The next thing he knew, the dream was back; he was reliving his own past, watching his life being shattered, and he woke up screaming from the pain. And the next thing he knew after that, Deena was in his bed, holding him, holding him close, and telling him that he’d had a bad dream and that she was there, that the nightmare was over.