Chapter Fourteen
Running with precise footfalls Alison’s breathing has fallen into a heavy rhythm. She has followed the directions Curtis gave and sees the log cabin up ahead. She runs to it, bounds up the steps, opens the door, and steps inside.
Curtis sits at the table in front of the shortwave with a pile of books, and a mess of dirty plates. He levels his gaze on the woman in the doorway, muddied hair, ragged clothing, with various cuts and bruises, Alison stands gulping air and shivering.
“Well, well, Barbie goes commando.”
She thinks are there only animals on this island? “Where’s the gun?’
“Coffee?” He offers her a steaming cup. She looks at it not wanting to give in. “Come on, looks like you need it. No charge.” She grabs the cup and drinks down the hot liquid feeling it like a warm palm running down the inside of her throat. She did need it, but she refuses to feel grateful. Not to him. Not to this guy. She looks at this strong able man, unwilling to get off his ass to help, and her mind goes icy. She would hate him but that takes energy and time, neither of which she has.
“The gun?”
“You look about ready to collapse there, lady.”
“I don’t have that luxury. Whatever it is you want, can we just get on with it quickly?” There is an implicit sexual connotation hidden in the words, assuming he is the lowest life has to offer. She challenges his hard gaze and a tear rolls down the side of her nose. It is peculiar because she doesn’t feel like crying, or like she is crying, she feels like the whole inside of her is shut down. She would be surprised to learn tears are on her cheeks. Tears are so useless. There is no time for useless.
Curtis eyes her. She is about what he expected some middle-aged crazy chick hoping someone else will fight her battles. She pays her taxes and expects the cavalry on call. What could he possibly want from her? “I don’t want anything from you.” His tone suddenly tinged with ire, “I don’t want anything from anyone. I would’ve thought that was obvious.”
“I could use some help,” she demands.
“My hero days are over.” He points to the footlocker. “Gun’s in there. Help yourself. Just bring it back.” Alison kneels down and rummages through the footlocker. She finds a small caliber handgun.
She asks, “Is this big enough to kill someone?”
“If you’ve been taught to aim.”
“I was absent that day.”
“You’ll have to dig around in there for the ammo.”
She begins to haul things out of the trunk and onto the floor.
“I’m not a particularly neat person.”
“What are you some kind of hermit?”
“Hell, no. I talk to people all over the world. It’s the way I like it. Connected and yet blissfully uninvolved in the tribulations of others.”
Every second she is away from the lodge, she is wondering if her family is still alive. She begins to feel panicky. “I can’t find ‘em! Where are the bullets?”
“They’re in there.”
She turns on him with palpable vitriol, “Look, I don’t know if you’re a psycho, an a*shole, or just a damn coward, but I need bullets and some clue how to load and fire this thing.” He feels slapped; it is jarring. Alison’s strength is born from quaking desperation. It impresses him. She walks over to where he sits. She puts her hands on the table so they are face-to-face. She drops the battle-edged energy and lets her voice come through, a voice that has the quality of all mothers in pain. Leaning in, “They are going to shoot my little boy.” She reaches through the cobwebs draping Curtis’ long capitulated conscience. “His name is Jimmy. He’s nine years old.” Curtis hears these words as though he were his old self, before it all. After a pause of connection, Curtis swings his chair around and cautiously lowers himself to the cabin floor revealing the utter uselessness of his legs. Alison stands aside as his arms pull him over to the footlocker. In another time, in another place, she would have felt genuine sympathy, but there is no room for that now. She is becoming a hunter; the aperture of a once expansive mind has closed down to a single focus. She feels no pain from her scratches and bruises. She doesn’t notice the blood dripping down her cheek. All she thinks now when she watches Curtis crawl is that he will not be as useful as she’d hoped.
Moments later, on Curtis’ dilapidated porch, Alison loads the gun. He remarks, “Hope this old thing works. Haven’t tried it in years.” Alison raises the weapon and aims. “Wait!” he stops her.
“What?”
“Stop.”
“Why?”
“The sound will carry. Might as well announce you’re here over Hobbs’ P.A.”
“Thunder. I can use the thunder as cover.”
“Good you’re smart. You’ll need it.”
“I need the SEALS.”
“You will have to separate these guys to have a chance. Take them out one at a time.” She nods her head. Her chin shakes a little. It is the only visual evidence that she is holding back emotion. Curtis continues, “Course, they are stronger and better armed.” A flash of lightning and she counts.
“One banana, two banana, three banana, four…”
Crash thunder.
She confirms “Four and a half.”
“Storm’s moving away.”
“So I go on five.”
“On five.” And they wait. She stares into the night and waits for lightning. She waits for it. She wills it.
* * *
Back at the lodge, Kent has been left behind with the hostages. In frustrated moves of callous disrespect, he drags and kicks Mike’s body out the back door. Hank exchanges a look of condolence with Dan who is dazed having just witnessed the murder of his best friend. Julie cries soundlessly with only her shoulders moving up and down slightly. Ed looks powerlessly at his weeping wife and wonders just how short their new lives together are going to be. Bruce and Grant who are sitting cross-legged have leaned all the way forward until their heads rest on their knees. Bella manages to stroke Dan with one of her tied hands.
This swimming feeling in Hank’s head is counterproductive. He knows he must manhandle it and achieve rationality. He needs order and calm to function. Control. Review: Gravel seems to be the most violent and unpredictable. Kent could probably be talked into anything, he seems a little bit like a lap dog: easy to command and eager to please. Ben is a mystery, although he seems the most reasonable. He might be convinced to let Jimmy live. He’s only a kid. They are clearly heading for Canada. Jimmy can’t hurt them. Perhaps with the right words he can at least save his son, which could be okay since Alison is still out there and with this thought his head swims again. His wife. His tender wife who did not want to come. Who came for him. She is surely in shock, frozen in the icy rain, watching terrified and alone. He knows there is no help coming. This is his fault. This trip was his idea. Guilt begins to bury him and he stops it - no, not constructive, stop. He must do. Now is not the time to accept, but to keep trying. His last try killed Mike. These men didn’t even flinch before gunning down Hobbs and Mike. It was as ordinary to them as tossing a ball. Hank’s eyes drift out the window. Are you there? My darling, can you see me? Can you hear me? Forgive me for not being able to help you. Stay hidden. Stay safe. As he sinks into worry over Alison, he feels heavy and exhausted.
Gravel and Ben stomp into the room slamming the lodge door. They are pissed, which is how they grieve.
Ben paces, “Goddamn it.”
“I made them all pray to Jesus. So we got that going for him.” Kent reassures them.
Gravel responds, “His gun’s still on him down there.”
“So he slipped?” Kent asks.
“Looks like it.” Gravel plops down on the sofa.
With affection Kent says, “Clumsy big-footed lug nut.”
Ben, ever cautious, “What if he was pushed?”
Gravel asks, “You think someone’s out there?”
“Something just doesn’t feel right. Keep your guns on you.” Ben goes back to the carburetor on the floor.
Gravel says, “Hurry up and fix that f*ckin’ thing so we can finish things up and get the hell outta here.”
“Not just dirty, got a part problem, I’m working it.”
Everyone on the floor knows perfectly well that finish-things-up refers to them, everyone knows this but Jimmy who thinks it means they’ll leave and he’ll be able to go find his mom.
“So, Dad, they’ll leave soon.”
“Yes, Jimmy, I hope so.”
* * *