A Man Overboard (17 page)

Love hopes all things, believes all things…

But if he was in the middle of some false flag setup, like Johnson had hinted at, then maybe the FBI man was right. Maybe all this unplanned attention due to his surviving the fall would derail whatever plan was being concocted. How many people could they afford to take out before the corpses began demanding questions from the public?

Jack washed the remainder of the tuna fish down with another gulp of water as frustration began rising inside him again. He laid his head on the table, trying to be still. But after a minute, he started slamming his head against it, yelling. He looked up and screamed at the woods around him. “Are you out there? Are you watching me?” He picked the shotgun up off the table. “Come on, bastards! Come and get me already!”

But only a few startled squirrels responded to his challenge by darting up a nearby tree.

After the moment passed, he put the gun back down and rested the cell phone on the table next to it, staring. Waiting.

Come on, Johnson.

* * * *

The sun was settling comfortably into its afternoon pose by the time he made it back to the cabin. After searching each room for any sign of an intruder, he leaned the shotgun against the wall and slipped the pack off his shoulders. Unscrewing the cap to his second bottle of water, he took a short sip while staring out the window, rubbing sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.

The cell phone rang.

The ringtone was halfway through its third segment by the time he had it out of his pants and up to his ear.

“Hello?”

“It’s me,” Johnson’s voice stated.

Jack waited in silence for whatever Johnson had to say, knowing that it would most likely define the rest of his life.

“I’ve been reassigned to Arizona.”

Jack swore under his breath, and he felt what little hope he had tucked away start to crumble.

“Listen,” Johnson went on, “I know where she is.”

“Stacey?” Hope hung on.

“She’s in Connecticut.”

“With Viktoriya?”

“I don’t know where Viktoriya or Joseph is, but it’d be my guess.”

Jack’s heart struck up a fierce baseline in his chest.

“She’s with the other man.”

“With—”

“Yes. No more names. Whatever this was going to be is over now. I think you’re safe.”

“What about—”

“I’ll text you the address. That’s all I can do now. I’m sorry. Good luck.”

The call ended.

Before Jack could even compute what had just happened, the phone beeped, and a text message appeared. An address in Avon, Connecticut followed by: BE SMART. LOSE PHONE.

And Jack knew where his wife was. That she was alive.

Elation. Fury. Happiness. Jealousy. He was going to get her back. He was going to kill her. He was going to rescue her. He was going to beat the truth out of her. He was going to tell her that everything would be okay…

He picked up the bag and flipped it upside down, spilling its contents onto the floor. Then he selected the items he would need: the gloves, all the water bottles, and the coat. Hoping that Johnson was right about no one coming for him now, he just left the other things on the floor, no longer caring to keep his presence here a secret. With the shotgun in hand, he left the house for the shed, where he found a dull hacksaw. Five minutes and a pair of sore arms later, the shotgun’s barrel was reduced enough so that the gun could fit inside the backpack. Ten minutes after that, he was on his way, following the long driveway out to the road.

At the end of the driveway, he reached the gravel road and debated on which way to go. Sweat was already dripping down his face. Right was the way they’d come, and he could only remember a tangled mess of smaller roads that he would never be able to retrace. He went left, figuring there was something just as likely to be up around the bend as not.

But the bend turned into a long, straight shot of gravel cut through more mountain. Jack was no woodsman; he was a salesman from Philly. He loved taking Joseph on fishing trips to the lake and hikes through the state park, but he’d always preferred the surf to bears and snakes. So as he walked along, he couldn’t help but keep a wary eye on all the seas of green hands waving at him.

The pack was heavy, and the straps were beginning to dig into his shoulders. It was pushing three o’ clock, and the day’s heat seemed to reach its maximum yield, making the walk much more uncomfortable. Gravel moved beneath his feet, trying to fling him onto his face as he pressed on up an incline. But at least the challenge of it forced him to concentrate on the exercise rather than the implications parading behind the news of Stacey being alive in Connecticut with Vadim.
Love believes all things, hopes all things…

An hour later, dripping with sweat, Jack stepped onto a blacktop road that was split in half by a white stripe—another step closer to civilization.

The road stretched past him, going left to right, and his tired legs chose the downhill route. But right away he noticed a difference in the temperature. The gravel road had been covered by the forest canopy, but the blacktop had no such roof, the power cables slithering through the air from one pole to the next. The sun had beaten its heat into the asphalt all day long, and now he was walking over an oven as well as beneath one. He swung the pack off his back and let it fall to the ground, unzipping it and taking out a bottle of warm water. It tasted like a chemical drink, but he figured anything would be better than having to drink his own urine—which he’d heard survivalists advocate in severe situations.

He massaged his aching shoulders and tried resisting the urge to sit for a few minutes.
Keep going
, he told himself. Thoughts of Joseph and all the memories still needing to be created pushed him on. Whether or not Stacey (or
Anna)
would be a part of his future, Joseph certainly would be. He would make damn sure of that.

He swatted at her drunken remark as it came back to sting him once more, fighting it off with fresh reinforcements of willing ignorance.
Love believes all things, hopes all things…

24

At the bottom of the blessed hill, the road joined another via a red, octagonal sign that read STOP in white, English letters—yet another sign of civilization. Though a traffic light would have been preferred, beggars couldn’t be choosey, could they? And Jack walked on.

Half an hour later, he was standing in front of a parking lot encircling what could have been Atlantis itself as far as he was concerned.
Ma’s
.
It was a local, backwoods-type restaurant, but as long as it was operated by people and not apron-wearing raccoons, he was all for it. Standing next to
Ma’s
was a supply store and gas station. And if the restaurant was Atlantis, then its neighbor must be Asgard, Mu, Bensalem, Olympus, Mt. Zion, or Ararat. He didn’t prefer one to the other, and he could have dropped to his knees in praise of any one of their rulers. If not for the fact that he blamed such deities for the mess he was in to begin with. And just like that, he went from praise to rebuke, silently telling Ford Taurus to go castrate himself and the old Saturn and Mercury to choke on it. If the old mythology contained even a whisper of truth in its presentation of the gods—that they were up there entertaining themselves with human misery—then Jack would…well, he didn’t know what he
could
do other than curse at them. Thrusting a finger to the heavens in defiance of some trident-wielding, bearded god adorned in a dress did offer some satisfaction, but not nearly enough. There was, however, the monotheistic God that his early schooling had educated him in, a God he was less anxious to cast expletives at. Father Jacob had lectured about a God that, for some reason or another, allowed pain and misery in order that such things as joy, love, and worth could actually be realized and appreciated, that man would be forced to deal with the reality of his eternal soul. Free will required contrasts. Good and evil. Light and darkness. Misery and hope. But Jack didn’t know about any of that. A C.S. Lewis quote that Grandmom often shared when reminiscing about Grandpa didn’t massage the doubt from his being either, though it did seem to be building a nest in his hair.
The pain now is part of the happiness then
. It was the famous atheist-turned-apologist’s response to the death of his wife. Well, maybe if the Man Upstairs could rectify his situation, then Jack would vow to treasure and value every second of life and to consider what comes after it. Maybe he would even revisit those uncomfortable pews he’d hated sitting in. Maybe. If he lost everything, then there would be nothing left to appreciate, and God could take His free will and—

The direction of the breeze shifted, and the glorious smell of bacon erased every other thought. There was pig to be eaten.

As he approached the front door, he noticed the screen was torn in a few places, the wood framing it old and splintered, paint faded and chipped. But the sweet aroma of pig being burnt on the altars of Ma’s Atlantis carried him through the door like one of those old cartoons, his toes wiggling above the ground. He didn’t even look behind him to make sure this wasn’t some sort of trap, armies of black, SVR bears closing on his location.

“Hi there,” came a girl’s voice.

But Jack’s eyes hadn’t yet adjusted to the darker interior of the restaurant. “Ma?” he asked.

Then a young girl, probably in her late teens, stepped forward and into the light pouring through the screen door behind him. She smiled, the flannel shirt she was wearing rolled up to her elbows, an apron covering her faded jeans, her dark hair in pigtails.

“If by ‘Ma’ you mean Ma’s great-granddaughter, then yes, that’s me,” she said through an innocent smile. She looked him up and down. “You look like you could use a glass of water, mister.”

“Do you have ice?”

She laughed. “Go grab a seat, and I’ll get ya the tallest glass we have.”

“Thanks.” He stepped into the belly of the place. There were picnic tables set up along the windows on the street side and smaller tables against the other. He counted six customers, and none looked like they’d just come from the former Soviet Union. Though, without a red star stamped to a big fur-laced hat, he wasn’t exactly sure how he’d be able to tell.

He took a seat by the window and tried ignoring the inquisitive glances coming from the small gathering of local diners. He set the backpack on the bench and against the wall beside him. Then he took out his wallet and counted out his cash, hoping this place hadn’t made it onto Homeland’s list of business institutions worthy of receiving their “how to spot a terrorist” flyer. He wasn’t going to use a credit card, though he was pretty sure a place like this wouldn’t accept them anyway. No doubt a terrorist organization for sure.
Ma’s
—
yummy, homegrown terrorism since 1890
.
Cash only.

The girl walked over and set a tall glass of ice water down on the table in front of him. The glass was sweating, hundreds of water drops sliding down and gathering in a ring around its base. It looked to Jack like it had been scooped from the Fountain of Youth itself, and he wondered if there was really a halo around it.

“You’re not related to Ponce de Leon, are you?” If it was scooped from such a place and
Ma
had inherited the secret location from her ancestors, the glass might cost more than he had.

A look of confusion crossed her face.

“Never mind.”

“Would you like something to eat?” she asked instead, not pursuing what had to be one of the strangest questions ever asked of her.

“Uh…” He looked around for a menu.

She smiled again. “You ain’t from around here, are you? What would you like?”

He shrugged, and his sore shoulders cursed him for it. “You have burgers?”

“You bet. Cheese?”

“Please.”

“Okey dokey.” And she spun away.

When he went to pick up the dripping glass, it almost slipped right through his fingers. If it had, he would’ve licked the puddle up off the picnic table, broken glass, splinters and all. The ice-cold well water coated his throat and splashed into his stomach to choruses of singing angels.

Ten minutes later, the young girl was back and sliding a huge plate toward him. The burger was the biggest he’d ever seen, and it was buried beneath a mountain of fries. He could make out a sliver of green canoe beneath the salty crosshatching and knew it must be a pickle.

“Wow,” he said.

“I’ll get you another glass of water.” She took the empty glass away.

Once he finished the meal, which was beyond earthly description after tuna fish straight from the can, he made his way to an old register that could have been used by Ma over a century ago. A guy with a beard stood behind it, waiting for him. The girl’s father, no doubt.

“Everything okay, mister?” he asked politely.

“Perfect. What do I owe you?”

“Five bucks.”

He’d eaten the equivalent of two fast food “value” meals and was fairly certain this had been real, organic meat. “I’ll have to come here more often,” he commented.

The man smiled and took a five from him. “What brings you up this way? Looks like you walked from wherever it is you came from.” There was just a hint of suspicion hidden in his voice.

“I was staying at a cabin for a couple days. Must’ve left the interior lights on in the car, ‘cause now the battery’s dead. And of course my phone died, and I forgot my charger…”

The man had no reason to doubt him and, given that he was a terrorist himself, probably wouldn’t be calling the state police on him just for being slightly suspicious. Though if he knew there was a sawed-off shotgun in his backpack, it was possible he might consider it. But the hand-written sign on the wall behind him that was advertising raw milk told Jack that he could’ve been carrying an M-16 and this guy wouldn’t have cared in the least.

“Isn’t that stuff illegal?” Jack asked, nodding to the poster.