“Nothing,” said Hawley.
Talbot’s wife turned away and took down a mug from the cabinet. “You want some tea, too?” Her voice was flat. “There’s coffee but it’s instant.”
Hawley saw a bottle of whiskey on the top shelf. He thought of asking for it. “Tea’s fine.”
She took a pot holder and lifted the kettle to fill his cup. She added a tea bag from the box on the counter.
“Milk and sugar?”
“Oh, I’m sweet enough,” said Hawley.
It was something he always said to waitresses, and it came out automatically now, but the words just hung there between them, out of place. She let out a cough that could have passed for a laugh and handed Hawley the mug. It was white with a photograph printed on the side, the kind you get at the mall. The picture showed her and Talbot, their arms around each other. The man was older, maybe by ten or fifteen years, with thick, gray, hairy sideburns that came to the edge of his chin. He looked like some kind of Amish farmer.
The woman caught Hawley examining the side of the mug. She probably hadn’t looked at it closely in years. But she looked now. Then she said, “He gave it to me for Valentine’s Day.”
“Oh,” said Hawley. He felt strange then and didn’t want to drink from the cup anymore. He carried it into the living room instead and set it in front of Jove on the table. He pointed at the picture.
Jove leaned close, but didn’t get up from the sofa.
“I’m not going to beat on some old guy,” said Hawley.
“We’re not beating on anyone yet.”
“I’m just saying.”
The toilet was still ringing in the bathroom. Hawley thought of going to fix it. He wished that Talbot would arrive, so they could be through with this. His palms started getting sweaty, just considering what he might have to do. There was an ache in his stomach and another in his back by his ribs. He put his hand there. He touched the scar. He wished he’d asked for the whiskey.
Talbot’s wife came out carrying the kettle, her arm elbow-deep inside a quilted pot holder. “Let me fill your cup.”
Jove lifted his mug. The tag of the tea bag was stuck to the side of the porcelain. Talbot’s wife began to pour. The water came spilling out and then it was spilling everywhere, on the table, on the mug, on the floor, on the sofa, on Jove’s hand and arm and face and hair and he was screaming.
Talbot’s wife threw the kettle at Hawley’s head. He ducked as she ran for the door, then lunged and caught her around the waist. She clawed at his arms, but he pinned her tightly against him. For a moment all he could feel was her struggling along his side.
“That was stupid,” Hawley said. He twisted her arm up behind her back so that her knees buckled. He shoved the card table aside and used his belt to tie her to a chair. Jove wailed the whole time, his hands covering his face. His clothes were soaked through and steaming. Hawley went over and tried to pick him up and his own arms stung from the heat and then he felt Jove’s skin slide and come loose under his fingers.
“Fucking fuck! Fuck!”
Jove pressed his hand to the place Hawley had touched him, the skin bubbling into blisters. Hawley supported him into the bathroom. Once they were inside he turned on the cold water full blast and Hawley helped his friend into the tub. Jove fell back against the porcelain with a grunt. The water filled quickly, billowing his pants and shirt around his thin frame.
“I think I’m going to pass out.” Jove’s face was stretching tight, ridges of boils rising across his cheeks. Hawley grabbed a towel and soaked it in the cold water. He pressed it to Jove’s neck.
“I don’t know what to do,” he said. “Tell me what to do.”
Jove’s hand came out of the water. He grabbed on to Hawley’s sleeve.
“Shhhhh-hhhhh-hhhit.”
There were footsteps on the front porch. A jingle of keys. The lock on the door turned, followed by a shuffling of boots, the creak of hinges, the sound of something heavy being set on the floor. And then the old man’s voice called down the hallway.
“Maureen?”
There’d been no sound of a car. Talbot must have taken a boat, climbed up from the beach. Hawley drew the .45. It was only a few feet from the bathroom to the hall, but before he could move, the woman started shouting.
“They came for it!” she screamed. “Get out of here!”
The door slammed shut and footsteps pounded across the porch. Hawley hurried out of the bathroom, turned the corner and tripped over an enormous plastic cooler, now sitting in the middle of the hallway. By the time he scrambled off the floor and got the door open again and stumbled outside, Talbot was only a few paces from the woods.
Hawley caught sight of a rifle, just as the man disappeared into the trees. Before he could make it across the lawn Talbot had found cover and started firing in earnest. Hawley sprinted back to the house, counting the shots as they rang past, and when they stopped he guessed Talbot was carrying a rifle with a five-round magazine. He slammed the door and drew the bolt behind him. It would be only a minute before Talbot got the rifle loaded again, less if he had extra clips ready. The old man’s aim had been off, but there was no telling what he was capable of once he’d had the chance to collect himself.
For a moment Hawley just stood there in the hallway, breathing hard, wondering what else could go wrong. He opened the lid of the plastic cooler. It held two salmon—a Coho, still silver, with dark-blue specks along its back, and a good-size Chinook, at least twenty-five or thirty pounds. The fish stared up at Hawley, their eyes round and flat and unblinking.
He carried the cooler into the living room and put it next to Talbot’s wife. She’d been nervous before but now she smiled like she’d won some kind of contest. Hawley felt like slapping her but he didn’t. He stepped next to the windows and peered out. The line of trees was closer than he’d like it to be. Talbot’s wife wasn’t trying to get loose anymore. She just sat there, grinning, blood running down from her swollen nose into her mouth.
“I guess you love him,” Hawley said.
“I guess I do.”
“And he loves you?”
She turned her face to the window, her cloudy eye catching the light. She nodded.
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“Well, we’re about to find out,” Hawley said, because the rest of the job now depended on it. If Talbot came back for his wife, they’d get what they came for, and if he didn’t, all they’d have is some dead salmon. The tap was still running in the bathroom and he could hear Jove groaning. A piece of skin was stuck to Hawley’s thumb, thin as a flower petal, and he wiped it off on the curtains.
The fire was nearly out, the logs smoldering. To Hawley the room seemed unbearably warm, the midday sun beating across the carpet. The fish had just been caught but he could smell them. Hawley kept the .45 in his hand and stayed next to the window, watching for Talbot. A shadow moved through the trees at the edge of the forest and then it disappeared.
“Untie me,” the woman said.