More noise. It came from the garage, I think. Shuffling, feet against the floor. Maybe she went out to get something from the car and forgot about the rolls. That’s what I tell myself.
I head farther down the hallway of the cavernous house, toward the garage. Another sound, but no, it isn’t the garage. It’s coming from the mudroom that separates the house from the guest cottage.
I move more cautiously now, clutching the knife. My heart hammers. Something isn’t right.
“Alice?”
No response.
“Alice?”
The noise is definitely coming from the mudroom.
Shuffling again, then a scraping sound, then nothing. Just the ocean, the waves crashing. Why won’t she answer me?
Then I hear a door opening. I’m pretty sure it’s the side door, from the mudroom to the outside.
I know where I have to go now. Whoever it was has gone out the door, and I need to get there before he disappears. That’s what I’m thinking, for a couple of stupid, foolish seconds.
But as I turn the corner toward the mudroom, I see Declan. He seems so much larger than I remember. Behind him, at the door, is his partner Diane. She is not alone. She’s shoving someone in front of her. Even with her hands tied behind her back, a black bag over her head, I know, of course, that it is Alice. She’s barefoot, wearing only the T-shirt she slept in last night.
“Friend,” Declan says.
I lunge toward him with the knife.
“Hey.” His huge arm flashes in front of me, and suddenly the knife is on the floor, my right arm twisted painfully behind my back. A trickle of blood seeps through a tear in Declan’s shirt. He touches the gash, surprised. “Not a good way to start, Jake. I’m not hurt, but you’ve really pissed me off.”
“Alice!” I shout, thrashing.
The door of the mudroom closes, shutting me off from Alice.
“Now, Jake,” Declan scolds. “You know you shouldn’t have done this. I’ve always treated you with respect.” His fist is digging into the small of my back. I try to move my arm, but his grip is relentless. I reach back to punch at him with my left arm. He releases his fist from my back, grabs the elbow of my left arm, and yanks so hard I scream in pain, flailing wildly.
“It was a stupid thing to do, Jake. Running away like this. Why would you think you could escape The Pact?”
He kicks my legs out from under me and I crumple onto my knees. For a second, I want to explain to him my dream, the feeling it gave me, the promise of starting over.
“Jake, seriously, don’t push me. I’ve had a long night cleaning up other people’s messes, and a tough drive—I’m not in the mood.”
“Please take me instead,” I say.
Declan releases my arm and I struggle to get up. My face is at the level of his waist, and his jacket is pulled back. I can see the gun in its holster. If I could just get the gun.
“That’s not how it works. Open your fucking eyes to what’s going on.” He sounds more exasperated than angry. “And don’t worry,” he adds, walking away. “Your time will come.”
Outside, I hear a car door slam.
“What is she accused of?” Ashamed to ask, but I have to know. “At least tell me that.”
Declan opens the door, then looks back at me. He seems almost pleased to deliver the news: “Adultery in the First Degree.”
The words are swirling through my head as he walks out into the fog. “You’re not the law!” I shout, stumbling after him. “None of you are! You’re just a fucking cult!”
He doesn’t even turn to acknowledge me. Declan gets into the driver’s seat of the black SUV, slams the door. The engine turns. Through the tinted windows, I can barely make out Alice in the backseat, hooded. I pound on the driver’s side window. “I’m calling the police!”
Declan powers down the window. “You do that.” He smiles, pure disdain. “Tell my friends at the department I said hello.”
“You’re bluffing.”
“Believe that at your own risk.” Declan winks. “Eliot and Aileen thought the same thing.” The window powers up. I drop to my knees in the sand as the vehicle makes its way up the road, turns onto the highway, and vanishes.
I am left kneeling alone in the cold, in my underwear. Utterly useless to my wife and to myself.
Alice. Oh, Alice.
Until the moment I saw Declan, I didn’t know for certain that my wife had been unfaithful. Yes, the signs were there, so I suppose I knew, but I shoved my suspicions aside—the two wineglasses by the couch; the two plates in the sink.
Somehow, when we escaped through the backyard that morning, I assumed The Pact had come for me.
Adultery. First-degree.
Suffering under the sudden crush of loneliness, a new feeling overtakes me. A new certainty. Despite all of this, I need to save Alice. I need to figure out how to do that. I am all she has. Whatever she has done, she is still my wife.
86
I’m sore and bruised, but nothing is broken. I pick up the landline and dial 911. But there’s something wrong. A recorded voice intones, “Your call is being redirected.”
Moments later, a male voice comes on the line. “Is this an emergency?”
“I need to report a kidnapping,” I blurt.
“Friend,” the voice says. “Are you certain?”
I slam the phone down. Shit.
I dress, throw our meager belongings into the car, toss the burned cinammon rolls into a trash bag, and quickly wipe down the kitchen counters. It feels important to keep my promise. I leave no signs that we have been here, no signs of the new life that only an hour earlier seemed so possible.
When I turn in the keys at the office, the girl doesn’t seem surprised to see me. She’s wearing a Sloganeering T-shirt. The TV is playing behind her.
“I have to check out early,” I say, placing the keys on the desk.
“Right.” She pulls my card out of the envelope and runs it, then hands it back to me. “Next time, I have a different place for you. It’s a talent I have. I match people with places. The more I know you, the easier it is. That place seemed right, but it wasn’t. Give me another chance.”
“Okay.” But all I can think is that I’m out of chances.
87
Back home, packages are piled on the doorstep. For the first time, I notice weeds growing through cracks in the sidewalk. When did we let things go? I’m reminded of the photos of Jonestown, before and after, a strange utopia so swiftly and completely swallowed up by the jungle, gone and nearly forgotten. I think of Jim Jones, his makeshift throne, and the sign above it: Those who do not remember the past are condemned to repeat it.
The house is freezing. At this moment it seems that all I have left of our marriage is this: our little house in the Avenues. I must restore it to order. I must not let it be reclaimed by the elements. In a fever of activity, I clean, organize, bring in the mail, run the dishwasher, fold the laundry. I’m terrified that this thing that Alice and I are building together will be swept away, overtaken by a jungle we can’t possibly hope to control.