“Not that I don’t trust you,” he said. “But I don’t.”
Once he had Hawley settled into the passenger seat, he went through the first-aid kit again. Hawley could see now that the kit was actually a toolbox made of heavy-duty orange plastic. The red cross had been hand-painted on the cover, along with the words THESE THINGS WE DO THAT OTHERS MAY LIVE. Hawley’s father took out a sealed plastic bag full of lollipops. He unwrapped a pink one and gave it to Hawley. “It’s laced with fentanyl. Should help with the pain.”
Hawley slid the lollipop into his mouth. It tasted like cherries.
The car was an old Jeep Wrangler with a hole the size of a dinner plate in the floor. As they drove, Hawley watched the road passing beneath them. The shifting blur gave him a strange feeling, like time was speeding up and slowing down all at once. When they passed through a dense patch of gravel, stones would clatter against the metal undercarriage of the Jeep, and rocks would be tossed up through the hole and roll around in the well near Hawley’s feet.
He could already feel the fentanyl going to work—the refrigerator slowly lifting from his chest. His body started to glow, as if he were falling into an illuminated pool of light, becoming warmer and brighter with each lick. Hawley pulled the lollipop out of his mouth.
“Where’d you get this thing?” he asked.
“I used to do air evacs during Vietnam. Those pops are great for gunshot wounds.”
“I thought you were in the marines.”
“Nope. Air force. Fifty-sixth Squadron.”
“How come you never told me before?” said Hawley.
“Son,” said his father, “I don’t even know you.”
And Hawley supposed he was right. His father had died so young that Hawley never got the chance to know what kind of man he was. There were probably lots of secrets that had died with him. Things he’d never told anyone. But he’d been a good father. He’d taught Hawley how to fish and how to shuck oysters. And he had a quiet way of noticing things, like how much his son had wanted those Ring Dings, even without him saying a word.
“You’ve been dead so long,” said Hawley. “I guess I forgot.”
For a moment he thought his father might throw him out of the car. But the old man set his mouth and stared through the windshield instead. They drove over another patch of gravel, and a handful of rocks came up through the hole in the floor and hit Hawley in the legs.
“Good thing I still fish,” his father said, “or I wouldn’t have found you.”
When the lollipop was finished Hawley eased back into his seat, feeling dazed, as if he might float right through the hardtop of the Jeep.
He’d been fifteen when his father died. What he remembered most was being scared—scared to be on his own, scared to talk to anyone. He ran away from social services and went back to their old house and broke a window and crawled through and packed a bag and took his father’s rifle and some ammunition. He started off with an idea of finding his mother but he ran out of money before he even got out of Texas. He thought of trying to sell the rifle but it was all he had left and so he used the gun to hold up a liquor store instead. Made $752. His very first job. All on his own.
Now his father was back. It wasn’t something he’d ever thought to count on. The old man was leaning over the steering wheel, like the Jeep was a horse he could press to go faster. Hawley saw the way his father’s face had tightened up, and realized he’d probably said something wrong again.
“I’m sorry,” he said. And it felt like all the other times he’d said those words—for things he both was and was not sorry for, for all the things he had not done.
Hawley’s father didn’t answer him. But after they crossed over the next bridge he cleared his throat. “The woman who shot you, was she your wife?”
“I’d never met her before.”
“Then why’s she trying to kill you?”
Hawley thought of the clepsydra, the glacier sliding into the river. His body was still glowing but his hands had started to shake, his teeth aching like they’d been drilled.
“You don’t look so good.” Hawley’s father reached into the backseat, keeping the other hand on the wheel. The Jeep swayed and nearly veered off the road. He produced an old Mexican blanket covered in dog hair and threw it at Hawley. “I think you’re going into shock. Wrap yourself up. But don’t fall asleep.”
The blanket itched. Hawley’s heart was beating like crazy. He wanted to pull off the ice packs, but whenever he touched the dressing, the cayenne pepper worked deeper inside his wound. He did his best to pull the blanket around himself. Every movement sent a wave tingling down his side—not pain, but an echo of pain, like he was hearing it from far away. He took a deep breath and then exhaled and felt the flutter of the plastic strip taped to his back.
“You don’t have to tell me how this happened,” said his father, “but you’re going to have to tell me something.”
“I’m married,” said Hawley.
“You still love her?”
“Sure.”
“Think that woman will go after her?”
Hawley realized he meant Steller. “No,” he said. “But someone else might.”
As soon as the words left his mouth Hawley felt their truth sink into the very center of his bones, like a crack filling with ice water. No money, no goods—even if he found some way to make it square with King, they’d have to be careful. They’d have to run.
“She’s pregnant.”
“You better not die, then,” said his father.
Up ahead was the same roadkill he’d driven past on his way out to the glacier. The eagle was still there tearing pieces out of the belly. Hovering nearby, waiting for the eagle to move off, were some seagulls and a couple of terns. As the Jeep drew closer, the birds dispersed and flew away screaming at one another. Then the Jeep rattled over the dead creature and Hawley caught a flash of fur through the hole in the bottom of the floor.
It made Hawley think about traveling through the desert in Arizona, the girl driving—what was her name?—and the baby strapped next to him in the car seat. There’d been roadkill then, too. It had felt like he was driving past his own mangled body. And here he was, shot in the chest, bleeding out again. Only the landscape had changed. It was like he was skipping on some kind of record of his life. But he wasn’t the same man he had been out in the desert. Now there was somebody waiting on him and it mattered whether he died or not.
It felt like three hundred years since Hawley had been swept into the river.
“I need a phone,” he said.
“There’s one under the seat,” said his father.
Hawley leaned down, his side burning, his skin clammy with sweat. He felt a canvas strap and pulled out a satchel. Inside was a military field phone, rigged with a headset. “Does this thing work?”
“Just crank the handle. The signal’s encrypted. I rigged it for WROL.”
“What’s WROL?”
“Without Rule of Law.”
“You mean the end of the world?”