“How did you know that I knew,” she asked, “about the money?”
“I put a piece of Scotch tape on the back of the lid.” Hawley tied the feet together until the money was rolled tight. “Okay, this is everything.” He stood up and scratched his beard. Then he handed Loo the card that Lily had bought after she was born, the one that had hung in all their bathrooms, all these years. A cupcake with a single candle flickering. Loo opened it. The inside was still blank.
“Happy birthday,” her father said. Then he wrapped his arms around the bear, and passed it into Loo’s arms.
—
BY THE TIME they reached Dogtown it was nearly midnight. Hawley pulled up in front of Mabel Ridge’s house but he did not get out of the truck.
“I can’t believe you’re leaving me here,” said Loo.
“It’s just for tonight,” said Hawley.
Loo looked at the pineapple hanging on the door. She thought of their visit, long ago, when they’d first moved to Olympus, Hawley in his new shirt, Loo in her dress and chewed-up hair. “You wanted her to take me again,” she said. “That time when you punched the radio.”
Her father shook his head. “I didn’t know what I was going to do.”
“What if she’d let us in?”
Hawley and Loo sat there breathing together in their seats. The clock on the dashboard was an hour behind. They had never fixed it for daylight savings. Loo reached forward and pushed the buttons and spun the dial, moving the numbers out of the past and into the present. In that moment, it seemed like the most important thing she’d ever done.
“I wanted you to have family besides me,” said Hawley. “A normal life.”
“But we’ve never been normal,” said Loo. “I’ve never been normal.”
“Don’t I know it.”
Loo pulled her bag onto her lap.
“You have to come back. You have to promise.”
But her father only said her name.
Loo got out and slammed the door. The moment she did, the door to Mabel Ridge’s house opened. She walked up the path, hefting her bag on her shoulder, the motor of Hawley’s truck idling behind her.
The old woman stepped onto the porch. She was wearing striped pajamas, with a hand-woven wool blanket wrapped around her shoulders. It took Loo only a moment to recognize the blanket from the loom. The one with the overshot pattern made of indigo. It was finished. And it made Mabel Ridge look like an Indian queen.
“Welcome back.”
“It’s just for one night,” said Loo.
“That’s what he said the last time,” said Mabel Ridge. She eyed Loo’s robe. “I like the dragons.”
“This was my mom’s.”
“I know,” said Mabel Ridge. Then she opened her arms and she hugged Loo with all her might, folding them both inside the woolen blanket. Loo tried to pull away but the old woman’s grip only tightened, until finally the girl gave in and hugged her back.
“All right, let’s get you settled.” Mabel Ridge reached for the bag but Loo snatched it up, and as she did, Hawley’s truck pulled away.
Loo turned and watched the red taillights flickering along the dark road. She thought, He’s going to stop. He’s going to stop at the corner and wait for me, just like he did when we stole the Firebird. Her fingers wrapped tightly around the handle of the bag, ready to run after him. But Hawley didn’t even slow down. If anything, he just pressed harder on the gas, the exhaust pipe rattling out one last cough of smoke. The truck turned without signaling a direction, and then her father was gone for good.
Bullet Number Twelve
HAWLEY TOOK THE BOAT AT first light. Picked up some supplies, drove out to the basin, then sat in his truck waiting in the dark, watching the fishermen load their trawlers and draggers and crabbers, gather bait and ice and slip cleats and pull up bumpers and crank motors and set out in the early gloom. After all the men had left, Hawley climbed down the ladder to the floating dock, where Jove’s sailboat was tied. He pushed off silently, then started the engine and made his way into the harbor. By the time the sun peeked over the edge of the horizon, he was in open waters.
He’d brought his orange toolbox and the guns. His father’s rifle, two shotguns, the long-range sniper and two handguns. The long guns were under the seats, covered by a blanket, the Glock was tucked under his belt and the Colt was in the pocket of his coat. There was a bag of extra ammunition next to the lifesaver and the bailer. He was wearing a bulletproof vest. It was as heavy as the guns. He’d also brought rubber gloves and industrial garbage bags and duct tape, a net and a boat hook, breathing masks and a bottle of Vicks.
Along the coast and near the shallows of Thacher Island, Hawley saw lobstermen checking their traps, hauling the algae-covered ropes up from the bottom of the sea. He passed a few charter boats heading to Jeffrey’s Ledge, a high-end yacht from Boston and a whale-watch cruiser powering toward Stellwagen Bank, packed with yawning tourists. Three miles out, the other ships thinned and Hawley turned on the navigation system he’d installed with Jove, fixing his point on the radar.
It was fifteen miles to international waters, but now anyone wanting to conduct business had to go out at least fifty or more. The Coast Guard had doubled its patrols because of the EPA investigation, and it was causing a lot of trouble along the coast. Not only for the fishermen, but for anyone trading drugs or guns or anything else illegal out on the open ocean. At least that’s what Pax had said, when Hawley tracked him down for the details on Jove’s job. The buyer had been a collector from Reno. As far as Pax knew, the deal had gone through. He’d been paid in advance, and received no complaints from the buyer or seller. He’d received no word from Jove, either, before he disappeared.
The meeting spot had been a marker set 110 miles from shore and about 40 miles southeast of the Bitter Banks. Easy money, Jove had said, but now, as the land fell away and the sea got more wild and desolate, it did not seem easy at all. There was nothing in any direction, only the line where the horizon met the sky. It was like sailing through a desert, the water always shifting, the landscape changing with each blow of the wind. Jove’s body would be long gone by now—eaten by sharks, or picked up by the current. But Hawley was hoping the marker was still there. He checked the coordinates that Pax had given him. He needed to see the place for himself. Figure out if he needed to make a new shopping list of names. Otherwise, he’d have to take Loo and keep running.