I spend most of my time thinking about how we’re going to pull this off. About how I’m going to pull this off. Food is running low, which means a trip to the store. I have the money. I just don’t know what it will take for someone to recognize me. And what do I do with the girl when I’m gone? The disappearance of a judge’s daughter—that’s breaking news. I’d bet my life on it. Any store clerk is going to recognize her and call the cops.
Which makes me wonder: have the cops figured out I was with her the night she disappeared? Is my face, like hers, all over the fucking TV? Maybe that’s a good thing, I tell myself. Not for me; not if it means I get caught. But if Valerie sees my face on the TV, sees that I’m a person of interest in the disappearance of a Chicago woman, then she’ll know what to do. She’ll know I’m not there to make sure there’s food on the table and the doors are shut. She’ll know what needs to be done.
When the girl isn’t paying attention, I pull a photo from my wallet. It’s worn with time, shriveled around the edges from all the times I’ve pulled it from my wallet and forced it back in. I wonder if and when the money arrived, the money I swiped from the truck stop in Eau Claire. I wonder if she knew it was from me. She would have known I was in trouble when the money arrived, five hundred dollars or more crammed in an envelope with no return address.
I’m not one to be sentimental. I just need to know that she’s okay.
It’s not like she’s alone. At least that’s what I tell myself. The neighbor comes by once a week, gets the mail and checks on her. They’ll see the money. When Sunday comes and goes and I don’t show, they’ll know. If they haven’t already seen my face on the TV. If Valerie hasn’t already seen my face on TV and gone to check on her, to make sure she’s okay. I try and convince myself: Valerie is there. Everything is okay.
I almost believe it.
Later that night, we’re outside. I’m attempting to grill fish for dinner. Except there’s no charcoal so I’m seeing what else I can burn to start a fire. The girl’s sitting on the porch, wrapped in a blanket that she snagged from inside. Her eyes scan the land below. She’s wondering where the damn cat is. She hasn’t seen it in two days and she’s worried. It’s getting colder out all the time. Sooner or later, the thing won’t survive.
“I take it you’re not a bank teller,” she says.
“What do you think?” I ask.
She takes it as a no.
“What do you do then?” she asks. “Do you work?”
“I work.”
“Anything legal?”
“I do what I need to do to survive. Just like you.”
“I don’t think so,” she says.
“And why’s that?”
“I earn an honest living. I pay taxes.”
“How do you know I don’t pay taxes?”
“Do you pay taxes?” she asks.
“I work,” I say. “I earn an honest living. I pay taxes. I’ve mopped the floors of the john at some Realtor’s office. Washed dishes. Loaded crates into a truck. You know what they pay these days? Minimum wage. Do you have a fucking clue what it’s like to survive on minimum wage? I work two jobs at a time, thirteen or fourteen hours a day. That pays the rent, buys some food. Someone like you works—what? Eight hours a day plus summer vacation.”
“I teach summer school,” she says. It’s a stupid thing to say. She knows it’s a stupid thing to say before I give her the look.
She doesn’t know what it’s like. She can’t even imagine.
I look up at the sky, at the dark clouds that threaten us. Not rain, but snow. It will be here soon. She pulls the blanket tighter around herself. She shudders from the cold.
She knows that I would never let her leave. I have more to lose than she does.
“You’ve done this kind of thing before,” she says.
“Done what?”
“Kidnapping. Holding a gun to someone’s head.” It isn’t a question.
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
“You didn’t snatch me with the hands of a virgin.”
I’ve started a fire. I drop the fish on the grill pan and they begin to sear.
“I’ve never bothered someone who didn’t need to be bothered.”
But even I know that isn’t true.
I flip the fish. They’re cooking faster than I want. I move them to the edge of the grill so they won’t burn.
“It could be worse,” I assure her. “It could be much worse.”
We eat outside. She sits on the floor, her back pressed to the wooden planks of the deck rail. I offer her a chair. She says no thanks. She spreads her legs out before herself and crosses them at the ankles.
The wind blows through the trees. We both turn to watch the leaves lose their hold on the branches and fall to the ground.
And that’s when we hear it: footsteps on the shriveled leaves that cover the earth. It’s the cat, I think, at first, but then know that the footsteps are too heavy for the scrawny little cat, too deliberate. The girl and I exchange a look, and I put a finger to my lips and whisper, “Shhh.” And then I rise to my feet and feel the seat of my pants for a gun that isn’t there.
Gabe
Before