Ballistics (36 page)

There might be an altercation.

That’s my boy.

He’s a cop.

That’s great.

Great?

Yeah, Gramps said. That law won’t let him kill you, and he sure as hell can’t make you uglier, so I can sleep easy now.

Fuck you, Gramps, I said, but found myself grinning—couldn’t help it—even though I wanted to tell him everything that’d happened. He could help me: he had advice to give, practicalities to point out. He’d come up with an escape plan for me, and I’d agree with his assessment, and he’d tell me to leave Archer behind if I had to—and I’d agree with that too. But something held me back from bringing him in. I don’t understand what. I might never understand. Who knows: that, right then, might’ve changed everything.

Now seriously, be careful with Crib. Especially if Archer’s there. Those two don’t mix.

I guessed that.

Quick on the uptake, like always. Archer figures he still owes Crib one, but that’s grudge-holding even by my standards. You know?

Does he? Still owe him one?

I don’t know, Alan, Gramps said, and I pictured him shaking his head and the way one of his cheeks would pinch up, not quite a dimple. I don’t know how his mind works anymore. Maybe I never did.

Well, he’s in a wheelchair.

He’s the stubbornest person I ever knew. A wheelchair might not stop him.

Above me, on the Verge’s roof, rainfall juddered like some faraway war drum. I spied a canister of boot polish tucked half inside a nearby drawer. All the stainless steel gave the kitchen a smell like the confines of a subway car—clean in a way that suggests it will be dirty soon. I wanted to ask him if he was happy to see Nora and if his chest ached or if he still expected to die soon.

Gramps, I said, and swallowed to find the words. What’re you planning to say to Jack?

He’s your
dad
.

Come on.

I heard him huff, pictured his mouth clack in circles. I don’t know, he said.
Hello
, maybe.

It’s a good start.

Oh fuck off, he said.

Nora said something and over the noise of Gramps’ breath it sounded vaguely like a demand. His voice barked an answer, muffled because he’d buried the phone in his shirt. Of course they’d be fighting—how else could they begin to fit themselves together?

I lost Puck.

Whereabouts?

I cleared my throat, swallowed down a frog. Gramps didn’t skip a beat: I’ll miss him.

It was my fault.

No, Alan. It’s my fault.

That’s not true.

I fucked up. I fucked everything up. This too.

Bullshit, I said, but I don’t think he even heard me. Did Nora tell you that?

I never had a good son, but I got lucky with you, he said, and his voice turned low and husky, more breath than word. It’s a voice I’ve rarely heard him use since: later, for some throaty lines mumbled at Nora’s funeral; with Jack, after all the bullshit and bravado, for a clumsy
It’s good to see you
; and to me, of course—some years after, when, once more alone, he’d tell me he didn’t know how anything worked, and least of all people.

Shut up, Gramps.

No, I’m sick of this. You’re the only reason I got through.

Shut up
, I said into the phone, and realized with a start that I’d pinched my eyes shut. When I opened them, there at the end of the kitchen stood my mom. A breeze shifted in—maybe through the skylight—and gusted her with its campfire smells, and she turned so that her shortish hair swished over her cheek and the mole on her jugular: an expression of supreme nonchalance. Her shoulders rose and fell in one big, exasperated breath. She thought I was yelling at Gramps, that she’d been right about him and Jack.

Fair enough, Gramps said before I could recover. Say hi to your mother for me.

Then, with a
click
, he was gone.

I squeezed the phone to its holster. He says hi.

You good? she said.

Yes, I told her. I’m good.

She put her hip on the doorway and looked at me like a stranger. Colt thinks the fires are going to make a move, and I tend to believe him.

What’s that mean?

I’ll give you the keys to our jeep. Take it, and Colt can’t pursue you. But you don’t mention me.

Why now? I said.

She bared her teeth. I never loved Jack. He’s an idiot, and an alcoholic. But I don’t want him to die.

She shoved off the wall and ducked through the doorway and I heard her footsteps retreat downstairs. Outside, the raindrops drummed on the dry ground, their sound muted and constant as bass. The kitchen’s one window was greased square-by-square with ash, but streaks of water cut culverts through the grime and I could squint through it, see the landscape in slices—the mountains like a diorama, the nearby pines as green as health, that sense of being a part of the bigness and of being bigger yourself, as a result. A nice place, in nicer times. Right then, the mountains were slate-grey cutouts lined orange—a child’s sketch of Hades—and their trees had dried the colour of rusting steel. You couldn’t distinguish the rainclouds from the fires’ smoke overhead, and the sky just foamed, dark and stubborn as those waves that lap the coastline smooth.

ARCHER WAS STANDING
near the foot of the stairwell, his weight heavy on the bannister while one of the boys hauled his chair down. He’d wrapped himself in a thin blanket that draped from his shoulders to the floor where it gathered in a pool. The boy placed the chair before him and Archer gave an old man’s nod.

You walked downstairs?

Up and down again. I told you, I just can’t feel my feet. Quicker to use the chair.

He hunched forward, favoured one of his legs.

You okay? I said.

Just achy, he said, and waved a hand through the slit of his makeshift shawl, shooing the boy away. Go on.

When the kid had left earshot, I said, I’m heading after Jack.

Archer looked like he was leaning on a crutch, or cane. He pivoted himself around, but didn’t sit. I’ll hang back on this one, he said.

You’re cocked sideways, I told him.

Achy, he said again, with some annoyance.

Need a hand?

He waved at me, a flick of the wrist. Get out of here.

I’m taking his jeep, I said, so he can’t follow. You need anything from me?

No, he snapped. Just get outta here.

Keep your head down.

I’m not a fucking baby, he said.

You sure you’re okay?

Yes.

Something bothering you, old man?

Yes
, he said, and shook a finger at me. You.

I half expected him to prod me in the chest. But he was old, pissed off at nothing—I let him be.

In the Verge’s parking lot, Colton and my mom were arguing. I hung back and let them hash it out. Rain clung to the pebbles and the air smelled at once bone-dry and wet, as if with every breath we were using up what scarce moisture remained. An alien wind cooed from the west. When you listened, you’d hear only quiet—the emptiness of abandon. Every living thing had fled; the animals sensed what lay hidden below the threshold of our awareness. Colton gave my mom the cold shoulder and faced me. He took off toward me at an aggressive pace, and I thought:
here we go
.

I told you you can’t go until this is through, made myself pretty clear. Hoss, I don’t appreciate you recruiting my wife against me.

Please, I said.

No, no more
please
. Go back inside.

Come on, Colton.

He grappled for his handcuffs. There are other people here than just you, Alan. I can’t have you cavaliering off as you see fit. And I can’t trust you to make the right decision. So. Go back inside.

Just let me take the risk. The wind’s changing. I gotta get Jack. He’ll die.

Colton licked his lips. I hate to say this, I really do. But fuck Jack.

My mom showed up beside him. Colton, she said, almost under her breath, and touched his elbow. I heard him draw breath and release it in that measured way you do to calm your nerves. Then he pushed past me and inside the Verge. My mom cocked her head toward the jeep while Colton banged around in the kitchen. She palmed me a set of two keys—one for door and one for ignition. Through the Verge’s front windows I saw Archer watching us from the comfort of his wheelchair. I don’t know what he must’ve been thinking right then, or how exactly he got downstairs.

I’ll stall Colton, she said. Just go.

Thank you.

It doesn’t matter, she told me.

I jogged to the jeep. The interior smelled like wet earth and Old Spice deodorant and wisps of dead foliage had dry-curled around the pedals. The back seat had an impression left by many years of a lying-down dog, and a few drool stains crusted the cushion like rust. It made me think of Puck, which I didn’t want to do. In between the seats was the holster for a shotgun, and I pictured Colton with it clutched to his chest and wondered how fatiguing it’d be to carry that much paranoia all the time.

A foot crunched gravel outside the truck, and I looked in the mirror to see Colton approaching at an amble, his arms by his sides and his gait awkward and stiff. I looked for my mom but did not see her on intercept trajectory, so I put the key in the ignition and torqued it. The jeep shuddered alive beneath me and I palmed the stick. But Colton had covered the last stretch of ground in seconds—
objects in mirror
and all that jazz—and before I could lock the door he flung it open.

He clubbed me with the butt of his telescopic baton. The impact pitched me across the empty shotgun holster and before I recovered he dragged me nose-down to the gravel. Warmth blossomed on my cheek and when I touched it my fingers came away kissed red. Blood slicked onto my skin and was wicked up by the collar of my shirt. I ran my tongue over the teeth in the region of the impact but felt no chips, no damage. Pain is entertaining when it will not leave you crippled, but a true injury hurts most for the fact that you will never fully regain what it has taken away.

My mom yelled his name and he buried a hard toe in my gut. I cinched my elbows in, hoped to catch a leg or arm, something to grapple, but I’d lost track of myself and I’d lost track of him. He planted a fist in my hair, hauled me away on my ass toward the Verge, until the jeep was a good twenty feet away. There, he wedged a knee between my shoulders and torqued my arms behind my back. I heard the metallic
zip
of his handcuffs cinching in. I thought of Darby. I thought of her photographer’s eye, the way she ate oranges and gave me so much shit and so much heartache, the way I missed her like a bastard.

Through the bewilderment, a woman’s voice: Colton, stop it.

Back off.

My face burned and warmth inked toward my lips and I figured I’d look damned prize-worthy, scraped chin to ear. Even from my vantage, Colton didn’t exactly cut a behemoth’s jib, but I guess you don’t always need to. He wore a non-descript grey coat flown open, no shirt beneath so his band-ages showed white as teeth. My face rang with ache. Colton touched his lips to the radio and said, Does anyone copy?

Blood reached my mouth. I tasted its iron; the mineral salt of rainwater left resin on the pebbles on the ground.

I told you, hoss, you can’t leave till this is through. Now you’re under arrest. Should I read you your rights and make this official, or can we come to an understanding?

I pulled a long suck of air and my booted rib ached as if unhinged. Colton squatted beside me. When he did, he favoured one leg—as if it didn’t quite respond like a leg should. I thought about trying to get to my feet, but it wasn’t like I could take him with my hands behind my back, or at all. Where, I remember thinking, was everybody else?

Why’d you have to show up? he said.

I’m just looking for my dad.

Christ, he said. He touched that mark under his eye, and his cheekbones rose—a squint, or wince. He dragged a sleeve over his forehead, brought it down chin-level to inspect. The arm trembled in air, and he looked from it to me with a look on his face as if he’d sniffed diseased meat. You’re persistent.

Desperate, more like it.

I admire a good, healthy dose of desperation, Colton said. He rested his wrists on his knees. Time to time I even find myself indulging. But stealing my jeep—that’s classic. Linnea’s idea, right?

Archer’s.

Colton smiled—genuine humour. Right, and where’d he get the keys? Don’t worry, hoss, I ain’t even mad. Hell, I even wanna let you go.

My mom came out the Verge’s front door and levelled the two of us with a Medusa’s stare. All the afternoon light seemed to attach to her, make her radiant nonetheless. Colton, she said. He’ll save Jack.

Didn’t think you cared about Jack.

Come on.

Colton’s mouth bowed at the corners; the lips moved but he made no sound. I just looked at him.