Of course, this is probably just an act. Is it a coincidence that her phone rang at precisely the moment I challenged her on The Pact’s ruthless tactics?
I find myself staring at a picture above the mantel. Orla and her husband stand between two other couples—Meryl Streep and Pierce Brosnan with their respective long-term spouses. Do all of these famous people really consider her to be a friend? I wonder. Or have they too been caught in a web from which they can’t escape? How many interrogations have been recorded? What secrets would escape if they dared break free?
A tall man walks into the room, a Scottish terrier at his heels. The man looks tired, his sleeves rolled up, his boots scuffed. All this time, I thought Orla and I were alone. Where did he come from?
“Hello, Jake,” he says, extending his hand. “I’m Richard. This is Shoki.” Richard is ten or fifteen years older than Orla, shaggy, good looking in a tweedy, rumpled way. The dog remains alert by Richard’s side, staring at me.
“Orla is eager to continue your conversation, but it will have to wait.”
“Listen, I’ve been waiting long enough. I just want my wife back—”
“Unfortunately,” Richard interrupts, “that’s something you’ll have to discuss with our fearless leader.” He gives me a wink, as if we’re in on this together. “I’m sure she’ll be with you again very soon. In the meantime, Altshire is a guesthouse we have at the south end of the property. You’ll be quite comfortable there. Follow the path south for six hundred meters, turn right at the lone tree, and continue until you see it.”
“Look, I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing here—”
The Scottish terrier growls. Richard, close behind me, reaches over my shoulder to unlatch the lock and places a hand firmly on my back. “She’s sick, you know.”
My first thought is of my wife, and I panic. “Alice?”
He steps back. “No, not Alice. Orla.”
The relief makes me dizzy. “I…I didn’t know,” I stammer.
He gives me a quick, sad look, though his hand on my back continues to motion me out the door. “I’m glad I got the chance to meet you, Jake. Orla has spoken of you and Alice with great admiration.”
The door closes behind me and a gust of cold ocean wind blows straight through my coat. I can hear Shoki barking inside the warm house.
The air is wet and the fog is thick. I can’t see a cottage in the distance. Is this another trap? Is this some code in The Pact, shorthand for dealing with a problem? “I haven’t seen Jerry,” one member might say; another would respond, “They sent him to Altshire”; and both would know that the individual had been tossed from the cliffs of Rathlin, his body smashed upon the rocks and swept into the sea, floating north past the Faroe Islands, off into oblivion.
91
Buried in the fog and built into the side of a grassy hill, Altshire is a smaller version of Orla’s house. The door requires a full lunge with my shoulder to jar it open. The place is spartan. One bedroom, one bath, a sitting room, a tiny kitchen. It’s freezing and a little musty. When I turn on the faucet, the water comes out brown and grainy. There’s no food in the cabinets, only bottled water in the refrigerator. I open the windows, shake out the sheets.
In a metal shed outside the cottage, I find a half rack of wood and an ax. I haul some of the wood into the yard and go at it with a vengeance, chopping until my arms are on fire and my back is aching. Dazed and spent, I stare at the pile of chopped wood. Eventually, I go inside, close the windows, and start up a fire in the woodstove. What now?
How long does Orla intend to keep me here? Is this hospitality or another prison? Did Eliot and Aileen also stay at Altshire before they disappeared?
I keep hoping to hear Orla at the door, but she doesn’t arrive. I make the long walk back to the boardinghouse to retrieve my things. At the grocery store, I purchase the essentials, cram them into my backpack, and quickly return along the path to Altshire, racing the sunset, dreading being lost in the darkness, in the foggy cold. I keep looking at my cellphone, waiting for service to kick in.
In the cottage, I turn on the lights and make myself a sandwich, but I have no appetite. Orla never arrives.
Around midnight, I scavenge blankets from the closets, go back outside to fetch the ax, stash it beneath the bed. Lying awake on the hard mattress, watching the shadows on the ceiling, I think of my great-great-grandfather, the one who killed a woman in Belfast before fleeing for America. Each one of us becomes so used to the person we think we are. In our minds, we carry a vision of ourselves, na?vely certain of our own moral boundaries, what we would and would not do.
92
In the morning light, the place looks different. The fog has lifted and I can see the ocean through the picture windows. I start up the fire again, the warmth quickly filling the cottage, and bathe as well as I can in the tiny lukewarm shower.
A guest book lies beside the sofa. I flip to the beginning. November 22, 2001, Erin and Burl enjoyed their tenth anniversary in the cabin. I flip ahead. April 2, 2008, Jay and Julia were in town for a book signing. They saw three foxes and it rained nonstop for a week.
October 4, no year: I recorded three songs while my beautiful wife cooked the longest, most complicated dinner on record. Feeling whole again, ready to write a new album. Finally met the young lawyer from the copyright case. Spoke again with Orla. We all agreed she will be perfect. Finnegan.
Perfect for what? I shudder. Finnegan. The source of all this turmoil. If only Alice had never met Finnegan. Rereading the words, I feel as if I am traveling back in time. I briefly entertain the magical notion that I could simply rip out the page, toss it into the fire, and undo the damage of the past few months. I try to imagine what it would look like—a marriage without The Pact. And it occurs to me that, of course, I have no idea. Alice and I have known marriage only as it exists inside the confines of The Pact. The intensity of our love, the passion of those nights with the bracelet, the Focus Collar, my fierce need to protect my wife—all of these things exist within The Pact.
I remember those first days, when I worried that marriage would not be exciting enough for Alice. I cannot deny that The Pact has challenged us. It has brought us uncertainty and, yes, excitement. In battling a mutual enemy, Alice and I grew incredibly close. But it has also nearly broken us.
In the bedroom, I notice a small television and a neatly arranged library of DVDs. I put in Crimes and Misdemeanors. Two hours later, I’m antsy, filled with nervous energy, but I don’t leave the cottage for fear of missing Orla. I fill the kitchen sink with soap and warm water and dump all the clothes I’m not wearing into the sink to soak, then hang them around the woodstove to dry. All day I pace and wait.