The two police cruisers flip on their headlights and pull away.
I turn toward the cottage. Mia stands in the window, staring into the backyard. It’s almost as if she knows I’m here. I begin to wave. She’s not looking for me, though.
At my feet, Buck moans. So much for special ops guys. Ha.
I kick him in the ribs. “Shut up,” I say. My voice is firm, commanding. I really don’t have time for this garden gnome. I need to rescue my wife, from herself, from this story she’s concocted in her mind. Poor woman.
“Hello, Mia,” I whisper, looking toward the brilliantly lit cottage. “Don’t worry. I’m home.”
I take a step toward the house as a hand clamps on my ankle. Fucking Buck. What is his problem? This time, I yank my foot out of his grip and kick him in the head. There’s a satisfactory thud, and blood flows out of his ear. It would be so easy to off him, I think, squeezing the pen in my pocket. But I need to get to Mia.
I run to the back door, kick it open. I told you the lock was ridiculous. That was easy, and I’m definitely not special ops.
Mia screams from the other room. She’s going to be so happy to see me.
I hurry through the kitchen, to the family room. She’s running to the front door. I grab her hair, stopping her dead in her tracks. She stumbles back, her hand grabs mine and she spins around, a puppet in my hands. What now, little Mia?
It takes me a moment to see the knife. She slashes at me with the fury of a feral cat. She comes close to my hand and I release her hair.
Mia is shaking, the knife is barely capable of slicing an apple, but she points it at me, acting heroic. “Get out of here, Paul. I’ve pushed the panic button. Help is on the way. And Buck is just outside.”
“Buck is a little busy with the strawberries right now, poor guy.” I smile as Mia’s eyes get larger.
“What have you done to him?” she hisses.
“Nothing he didn’t deserve. But let’s talk about us, shall we?” I smile. I say, “Panic button. Really? What panic button, honey? You really must be losing your mind. There is no panic button. That’s for the movies. Besides, you couldn’t have anything like that, not without me knowing about it. You have nothing without me. You are nothing without me.” My hand is throbbing from punching Buck. I like that.
“Get out of here, Paul. I’m serious. You don’t want to be caught breaking in here.” Mia’s little knife is wobbling again. It’s cute.
“Mia, this is my cottage, our cottage. We own it so I couldn’t possibly break in. I think you’ve forgotten how many good memories we’ve made here, even in one short year. Remember the champagne toast on our new screened porch when we first bought this place, and how happy we were?” I’m smiling, Mia is not.
“And all the while you were poisoning me,” she says, shaking her head.
“Oh, honey, don’t be silly,” I say. I haven’t been poisoning her the entire time, silly woman. “Come here. Let me give you a hug. You seem so distraught. You’re lost without me.” I take a step toward my wife and she backs into the corner by the front door, slashing the air between us with her little cheese knife. Perhaps I’ll teach her a little lesson.
It’s at that moment, as we’re studying each other, contemplating our next moves, that I hear sirens. The sound is faint but growing louder. Definitely coming toward us.
Mia must hear her rescuers in the distance and finally manages a smile, possibly the most genuine smile of the day. It’s the half-moon kind of smile, like the one she gave me this morning, like she gave me when we first dated, a smile of love. But then her face falls, as if that smile is not for me, not anymore. “Wrong, Paul. I am much more than you. And I’m so much better off without you.” Her ridiculous paring knife is clutched in her hand pointed at me. It would be so easy to grab it, turn the blade toward her, plunge it into her traitorous chest.
The sirens are closing in. She does have a fucking panic button. Now I must decide. Finish what I started with the poison, or get out before the Keystone Cops arrive, grab my kids and start over. Because clearly, she hasn’t thought of everything. Our kids, our precious boys, are at home asleep. Blissfully unaware of all of this strife, like little lambs just waiting for their shepherd to save them.
Red and blue flashes are lighting up the street. I’ve got to get out of here.
“This isn’t over, Mia, but for now, good night, honey. Sleep tight. We’ll see each other again soon. Perhaps when you least expect it,” I say before turning and running out the back door, through the yard to my car. The cops drive past me as I sit low in my front seat, flying into our driveway at speeds that could only be considered excessive. You’d think there was an actual crime taking place inside. Instead they’ll find a crazy woman huddled by the front door with a tiny knife, and eventually, a former special ops guy knocked out by his precious strawberry plants. Losers. Both of them.
My poor little wife. She thinks she is so clever. Outsmart Paul Strom? Never.
I push the gas and drive by quickly. Decision made. I find myself constantly checking my mirrors, rearview and side, until I escape through the Lakeside gate.
I know I’m driving too fast, even if all of the cops from this entire little township are busy at my cottage for now, and I pull my foot back from the gas pedal. I need to conserve fuel until I make it to a bigger town where there will be an open gas station. It would not be prudent to run out of gas somewhere in the middle of these dark country roads tonight. I have too much more to take care of for that.
1:45 a.m.
29
I haven’t noticed another car on the road with me for miles, and believe me, I’ve been looking. At night, if you are aware, you can spot a tail. It’s easy when you have to keep your lights on to see. And out here in the country, you need your headlights. If Buck or his people were following me, they aren’t anymore. I tighten my grip on the steering wheel, remembering how Buck’s people followed me around Grandville, spied on my life. How could I have missed them?
The gas station is a still life. Pumps ablaze in too-bright fluorescent light, but everything is eerily motionless except for a large moth diving in and out of the scene. I roll to a stop and climb out of the Flex. It’s interesting to me how much my palms are sweating, although I hadn’t registered in my mind anything like fear. My body feels tense, on edge. I remind myself to breathe as I look around. I’m the only one here, except the person working in the station.
As I walk toward the silhouette of a man sitting behind the counter, I smile and notice the camera. That’s fine, too. We are all being videotaped all the time now. If anyone cares to retrieve that tape it will simply prove that I decided to drive home instead of spending the night in the musty inn. No crime there.
The gas station door is locked. I shake the handle as the employee, a burly man whose other job could be biker, leans forward and presses a button.