A Simple Plan (3 page)

Jacob’s bulk darkened the windshield, and I heard him start to scrape at the ice with his glove. I watched, waiting for it to get lighter, but nothing happened. He started to pound—dull, heavy thuds that echoed through the plane’s fuselage like a heartbeat.

I exhaled as far as possible and lunged forward. The doorway’s grip moved from my sternum to just above my navel. I was about to try again, thinking that one more push would do it, that I could get in, examine the dead pilot, and get out as quickly as possible, when I saw a curious thing. The pilot appeared to be moving. His head, resting against the dashboard, seemed to be shaking ever so slightly back and forth.

“Hey,” I whispered. “Hey, buddy. You all right?” My voice echoed off the plane’s metal walls.

Jacob continued to pound against the glass. Thump. Thump. Thump.

“Hey,” I said, louder, slapping the fuselage with my glove.

I heard Lou move closer in the snow behind me.

“What?” he asked.

Jacob’s hand went thump, thump, thump.

The pilot’s head was motionless, and suddenly I wasn’t so sure. I tried to squeeze forward. Jacob stopped pounding.

“Tell him I can’t get it off,” he yelled.

“He’s stuck,” Lou said gleefully. “Look at this.”

I felt his hands grab me just above the waist. His fingers dug in, a rough attempt at tickling. I kicked out with my right leg, hitting air, and lost my footing in the snow. The doorway’s grip held me up. Lou’s and Jacob’s laughter came filtering inside, muted and far away.

“You do it,” Lou said to Jacob.

I was pushing and pulling now, not even sure which way I wanted to go, just trying to get free, my feet digging into the snow outside, the weight of my body rocking the plane, when there was a sudden flash of movement up front.

I couldn’t tell what it was at first. There was the sense of the pilot’s head being tossed to the side, then something exploding upward, rising and pounding frantically against the inside of the windshield. Not exactly pounding, I realized slowly, but fluttering. It was a bird, a large black crow, like the ones sitting in the apple trees outside.

It came off the windshield and settled on the rear of the pilot’s seat. I watched its head dart back and forth. Carefully, noiselessly, I tried to work my way backward out of the doorway. But then the bird was airborne again; it smacked once into the windshield, bounced off, and flew straight at me. I froze at the sight of it, simply watched it come, and only at the very last moment, just before it hit me, pulled my head down into my shoulders.

It struck me in the exact center of my forehead, hard, with what felt like its beak. I heard myself cry out—a short, sharp, canine sound—pulled back, then forward, somehow broke free from the doorway, and fell into the plane’s interior. I landed on the duffel bag and didn’t try to get up. The bird returned toward the front, bounced off the windshield, flew back toward the now open doorway, but veered to the right before reaching it, shooting up toward the jagged little hole in the fuselage. It perched there for a second, then wormed its way through like a rat and disappeared.

I heard Lou laugh. “Holy shit,” he said. “A fucking bird. You see that, Jake?”

I touched my forehead. It was burning a little, and my glove came away bloody. I slid off the duffel bag, which was hard and angular, as if it were full of books, and sat down on the floor of the plane. A rectangle of light from the open doorway fell across my legs.

Jacob stuck his head inside, his body blocking the light.

“You see that bird?” he asked. I could tell he was smiling, even though I couldn’t make out his face.

“It bit me.”

“It bit you?” He didn’t seem to believe me. He waited there a moment, then pulled his head away from the door. “The bird bit him,” he said to Lou. Lou giggled.

Jacob darkened the doorway again. “You all right?”

I didn’t respond. I was angry at both of them, felt that none of this would’ve happened if they hadn’t pressured me into going inside. I moved in a crouch toward the front of the plane.

I could hear Lou’s voice, faintly. “You think birds carry rabies or anything?”

Jacob didn’t answer him.

The pilot was dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt. He was a small, thin man, young, in his twenties. I came up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder.

“You alive?” I whispered.

His arms hung down at his sides, his fingertips just barely brushing the floor. His hands were swollen, impossibly large, like inflated rubber gloves, their fingers curling slightly inward. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, and I could see the hair on his forearms, dark black against the ghostly whiteness of his skin. I grasped his shoulder and pulled him away from the dashboard. His head fell back heavily against the seat, and I flinched at the sight of it, jerking myself up and banging my own head against the plane’s low metal ceiling.

His eyes had been eaten out by the bird. Their dark sockets stared at me, his head rolling a bit to the right on his neck. The flesh around his eyes had been chewed completely away. I could see his cheekbones, white in the dim light, pale and translucent, like plastic. There was a bloody icicle coming out of his nose. It hung all the way down to the base of his chin.

I stepped back, fighting a surge of nausea. Yet even as I did so I felt myself strangely drawn forward. It was something like curiosity, but stronger: I felt an absurd desire to take off my gloves and touch the man’s face. It was a powerful, morbid pull, and I had no name for it, but I fought it, taking another step back, then another, and by the time I made my fourth step, the feeling was gone, replaced only by revulsion. The pilot’s face stared after me as I retreated toward the doorway. From a distance its expression looked beseeching, mournfully so, like a raccoon’s.

“What the fuck’re you doing?” Jacob asked. He was still in the doorway.

I didn’t answer him. My heart was beating thickly in my temples. I stumbled against the duffel bag, turned and kicked it ahead of me toward the doorway. It was surprisingly heavy, as if it were full of dirt, and its weight brought back my initial wave of nausea.

“What’s the matter?” Jacob asked. I shuffled toward him, pushing the bag across the floor. He backed away.

When I got to the door, I set my shoulder against it and—using my increased leverage—managed to creak it open another three inches. Jacob and Lou watched me, their faces curious, wavering between amusement and apprehension. The day seemed brighter than it had before, but it was just my eyes. I squeezed the duffel bag through the door, then followed it out into the snow.

“You’re bleeding, Hank,” Jacob said. He raised his hand to his own forehead, turned toward Lou. “That bird bit him.”

Lou scrutinized my forehead. I could feel a little line of blood running down into my left eyebrow. It was cold against my skin.

“It ate out his eyes,” I said.

Jacob and Lou stared blankly at me.

“The bird. It sat in the pilot’s lap and ate out his eyes.”

Jacob grimaced. Lou gave me a skeptical look.

“You can see his skull,” I said. “See the bone.” I crouched down, scooped up some snow, and held it, burning, against my forehead.

The wind had picked up a little, and the apple trees in the orchard were swaying in it, creaking. The crows on their branches had to lift their wings every now and then to keep their balance. The light was beginning to fade and, with it, whatever warmth there had been to the day.

I took the snow away from my forehead. It was light brown with blood. I removed my glove and touched the cut with my finger. It was cold from the snow, and tender. There was a bump rising up, as if a marble or a tiny egg had been planted just beneath my skin.

“You’ve got a little bump,” Jacob said. His rifle was slung over his left shoulder; his jacket was buttoned up.

Lou crouched down beside the duffel bag. It was closed with a tightly knotted drawstring, and he had to take off his gloves before he could undo it. Jacob and I watched him work at it. When he got it loose, he opened the bag.

As he looked inside, his expression went through a remarkable transformation. There was an initial hint of perplexity, his eyes opening wide, as if trying to focus better, his eyebrows rising slightly; but this was followed quickly by signs of excitement and amusement, his face flushing a deep crimson, his lips pulling back in a smile to reveal his crooked teeth. Watching him, I felt sure that I didn’t want to know what the bag contained.

“Holy fucking shit,” he said. He reached inside and hesitantly touched whatever was there, a petting motion, as if it were alive and he was afraid it might bite.

“What?” Jacob asked. He moved heavily toward Lou through the snow.

With a sinking sensation, remembering the bag’s weight, I decided suddenly that it must be a body, or parts of a body.

“It’s money,” Lou said, smiling up at Jacob. “Look.” He leaned the bag forward.

Jacob bent over and squinted at it, his mouth dropping open. I looked, too. It was full of money, packets held together with thin paper bands.

“Hundred-dollar bills,” Lou said. He took one of the packets out, held it up in the air before his face.

“Don’t touch it,” I said, rising to my feet. “You’ll get fingerprints on it.”

He glanced sourly at me but returned the packet to the bag. Then he put his gloves back on.

“How much do you think is here?” Jacob asked. They both looked toward me, deferring to my accountant’s knowledge.

“Ten thousand to a packet,” I said. I measured the bag with my eyes, tried to guess how many packets could fit inside. “It’s probably close to three million dollars.” I said this without really thinking. Then, when I thought about it, it seemed absurd. I didn’t believe it.

Lou picked up another packet, this time with his gloves on.

“Don’t touch it, Lou,” I said.

“My gloves are on.”

“The police’ll want to get prints from the packets. You’ll smudge any that are already there.”

He frowned but dropped the packet back into the bag.

“Is it real?” Jacob asked.

“Of course it’s real,” Lou said. “Don’t be stupid.”

Jacob ignored him. “You think it’s drug money?” he asked me.

I shrugged. “It’s from a bank.” I gestured toward the bag. “That’s how they sort money. A hundred bills to a packet.”

Mary Beth appeared suddenly on the opposite rim of the orchard, working his way down through the snow toward the plane. He looked dejected, as if we’d let him down by not joining in on his pursuit of the fox. We all watched him approach, but no one commented on his return. One of the crows cawed at him, a warning cry, and it hung for a second, sharp and clear in the crisp air, like a note from a bugle.

“This is crazy,” I said. “That guy must’ve robbed a bank.”

Jacob shook his head in disbelief. “Three million dollars.”

Mary Beth came around the front of the plane, wagging his tail. He gave us a sad, tired look. Jacob crouched down and patted absentmindedly at the dog’s head.

“I suppose you’re going to want to turn it in,” Lou said.

I looked at him, shocked. Up till that point I hadn’t even considered that we had an option. “You want to keep it?”

He glanced toward Jacob for support, then back at me. “Why not each keep a packet? Ten thousand dollars apiece, and turn the rest in?”

“For starters, it’s stealing.”

Lou gave a quick snort of disgust. “Stealing from who? From him?” He waved toward the plane. “He won’t mind.”

“It’s a lot of money,” I said. “Somebody knows it’s missing, and they’re looking for it. I guarantee that.”

“You’re saying you’d turn me in, if I took a packet?” He picked one of the packets out of the bag, held it out toward me.

“I wouldn’t have to. Whoever’s looking for it knows how much is missing. If we hand it in a little short and you start spending hundred-dollar bills around town, it won’t take them long to figure out what happened.”

Lou waved this aside. “I’m willing to take the risk,” he said, flashing a smile from me to Jacob. Jacob smiled back.

I frowned at them both. “Don’t be stupid, Lou.”

Lou continued to grin. He slipped the packet into his coat, then picked a second one out of the bag and handed it to Jacob. Jacob took it but couldn’t seem to decide what to do with it. He crouched there, his rifle in one gloved hand, the money in the other, looking expectantly at me. Mary Beth rolled in the snow at his feet.

“I don’t think you’d turn me in,” Lou said. “And I know you wouldn’t turn your brother in.”

“Get me near a phone, Lou, and you’ll see.”

“You’d turn me in?” he asked.

I tried to snap my fingers, but with gloves on they didn’t make any sound. “Like that.”

“But why? It’s not like it’d harm anyone.”

Jacob was still crouched there, the money in his hand. “Put it back, Jacob,” I said. He didn’t move.

“It’s different for you,” Lou said. “You’ve got your job at the feedstore. Jacob and I don’t have that. This money’d matter to us.”

His voice had edged itself toward a whine, and, hearing it, I felt a revelatory flash of power. The dynamic of our relationship had shifted, I realized. I was in control now; I was the spoiler, the one who would decide what happened to the money. I smiled at Lou.

“I’d still get in trouble if you took it. You’d fuck up, and I’d be considered an accomplice.”

Jacob started to stand up, then crouched back down again. “Why not take all of it?” he asked, looking from Lou to me.

“All of it?” I said. The idea seemed preposterous, and I started to laugh, but it made my forehead ache. I winced, probing at the bump with my fingers. It was still bleeding a little.

“Just take the bag,” he said, “leave the dead guy in there, pretend we were never here.”

Lou nodded eagerly, pouncing on the idea. “Split it three ways.”

“We’d get caught as soon as we started spending it,” I said. “Imagine the three of us suddenly throwing hundred-dollar bills around at the stores in town.”

Jacob shook his head. “We could wait awhile, then leave town, start up new lives.”

“A million apiece,” Lou said. “Think about it.”