Forsaken (3 page)

The woman chuckled. “This one’s always loaded, Mister. So’s the shotgun under the counter. We’re a long ways from any help out here. I wouldn’t be too hard on your girl, though. She handled herself just fine.”

Dad looked at me and smiled. “I was proud of her. I thought you showed a lot of guts, Taylor. You made a
few mistakes, but you kept your cool, which is three-quarters of any battle. I didn’t like the smart-aleck remark you made, though. Remember, the first line of defense is to defuse, not escalate.”

“This is Texas, not a war zone, Dad.”

His face darkened. “Same rules apply.”

The old woman opened the swinging gate of the counter and stepped toward me. She placed her arm around my shoulder. “Why, honey, most girls would have been bawlin’ their eyes out before they got through that door. And here you were walkin’ right up to that big, smart one as if you enjoyed it. I was mighty glad you were here. I may be a well-armed old lady, but I’m still an old lady.”

We turned to leave.

“If you need to use the bathroom, it’s right over there.” She pointed to an open door near the corner, behind which appeared to be a reasonably clean, well-lit restroom.

I brushed at my arm, as if to wipe away the memory of the black flies. “I used the one outside.”

“Oh, no, honey. That one’s been busted for years. It’s supposed to be locked, but kids keep breakin’ in and dumpin’ garbage in it.”

“It was fine.”

She touched the boxes of ammo on the counter. “Say, didn’t you want to buy some shells?”

“We don’t need any. We’ve got plenty in the truck.” I smiled at Dad. “Besides, we’re fishing.”

She scratched her head.

Dad opened the breech of the shotgun and the two shells popped out into his hand. “I’m glad you said something, though, or I’d have walked out with these.” He dropped them onto the counter.

“Well, good luck then.” She picked the shells up and placed them into the open box.

As we drove away from the station, fried weeds and scattered gravel crunched beneath the tires. A reddish-brown cloud drifted up behind the truck and followed us listlessly down the road. My stomach grumbled. I assumed that I was still nervous from the excitement and that it would pass.

Over the years since that day, I’ve had the same feeling in my stomach many times in a tight spot. It’s the adrenaline-juiced feeling that keeps a person alert and can keep a person alive. It comes in handy in my line of work. But I wish I had known back then what I know now. It might have helped prepare me for what would happen later that evening. I no longer want that nervous feeling to go away too quickly. Because the bad guys don’t always quit when you think they should.

WHEN DAD AND I left the gas station, we drove northwest for another hour, most of it on a straight, two-lane farm road. Judging by the different twists of barbed wire on each side, the road must have cut a border between two huge ranches. After finding the turnoff on our hand-drawn map, we squeezed the truck down the last five hundred yards of a tight path edged by boulders the size of rolled-up sleeping bags.

The campsite was a hard, flat clearing on a rise surrounded by buffalo grass, prickly pear, and a smattering of scraggly mesquites. The clearing ended at a ledge that fell off to the lake past larger boulders, some as big as a
bedroom dresser. In the center of the camp was a precisely cut fire pit encircled by six hewn logs, creating the effect of a rugged dining room table and chairs. The owner must have hauled the logs in, because aside from the mesquites there wasn’t a tree in sight. The pristine scene at the fire pit gave me the hunch that the owner frequently brought his wife camping.

The clearing was just large enough that we could have driven the truck and boat in a comfortable circle around it. The owner had assured us that we would have the place to ourselves, so we left the pickup on the side of the road where it opened to the campsite. We unloaded from there.

The few clouds in the sky were nothing but wispy streaks, and rain was no more possible than snow. For Dad that meant no tents, so unpacking and setting up camp took little time. The sun was low enough to sniff the horizon beyond the lake when I changed into jeans and boots; this was rattler country. We walked to the edge of the drop-off to scout.

The lake extended dark and quiet to the opposite bank, which presented a mirror image of our side. Stubby, red-brown bluffs with limestone caps rose from the water, and desert shrubs and mesquites appeared as olive blotches on the rocks. From the gray flatness beyond the bluffs, shadowy mesas rose against the orange sunset, like giant hunting dogs warming on a rug in front of a fireplace.

We made our way down a path that funneled us to the water. The lake was deep and fell off quickly. We
discussed whether we should begin the next morning by fishing from the bank. Looking diagonally across the water, we could see the boat ramp where we would put in, maybe a mile from where we stood. As is the case with all lake fishing, understanding the structure beneath the surface would be the key to success. Dad’s friend had drawn a map of some of his favorite spots, a tribute to the seriousness of their friendship.

We took turns dipping in the lake to wash off the dust. Then we worked our way back up the path and started dinner. Within a half hour, Dad had steaks sizzling over the fire. Although I was an accomplished campfire chef, he insisted on doing the cooking since this trip was my birthday present.

By the time we finished eating, the sun had been down for more than an hour. The air was dry as lint, and the heat had backed away to the point where it was not uncomfortable to sit where the fire’s warmth touched our feet and ankles. We left our dishes on the ground and lay back side by side, our heads propped on our rolled-up sleeping bags.

“We don’t see enough stars in Dallas,” Dad said.

I was so full and relaxed that moving my mouth seemed an effort. I didn’t respond.

“There are two kinds of people in the world, kiddo. The kind who love stars and the kind who love lights. I always preferred the stars.” Dad had a knack for boiling things down to essentials.

For a few moments I pondered his unspoken judgment on those poor souls who preferred the lights. I was
about to comment on how shallow they must be, when he turned his head toward me.

“You like the lights, don’t you, Taylor?”

Like heck I did. “How can you say that? Look at all the times we’ve gone camping together! I could live out here in the middle of nowhere, no problem.”

“The middle of nowhere?”

Okay, it was poor phrasing, but he was parsing my words. “I meant out in the country. I’m just like you, Dad. I like the stars.” And I did. At that moment I wanted more than anything to be just like him.

He stared up into the sky again. “No, you’re not like me, and I don’t want you to be.”

I turned toward him and leaned on my elbow. “Of course, why would I want to be like a decorated war hero? That would be a real embarrassment.”

“I’ve done things that I had to do—things that no human being should do to another. I would never wish that on my kid.”

“You did your duty. You never have to be ashamed of that.”

“I’m not ashamed. I’m proud that I did what a lot of people couldn’t do. I’m proud that when the moment came, the moment when you’re afraid and you want more than anything to run away, I stayed and fought. That’s the moment that every man, I think, wonders about—wonders if he has what it takes to stay.”

“You’re very brave.”

“I’m not sure I know what brave is. I just did the things that had to be done. But I’m a human being. I still
did those things to other human beings. I killed them when I had to, and sometimes I wonder if I killed when I
didn’t
really have to. I made choices when there was no time to think and no alternative but to choose. There’s a responsibility that goes with that. No speeches, no parades, no medals can gloss that over or make it go away. It’s a responsibility a person has to live with forever.”

I put my hand on his shoulder. He covered my hand with his, and I could feel the tremors. I remembered the dark days, the drinking days. The mornings I found him on the floor and was afraid he would die and leave me alone. If he wanted to talk about responsibility, I had been too young to see that, too young for
that
responsibility—the responsibility of getting my own father into bed and making excuses for him with neighbors. Too young to have no mother and to be so afraid of being alone. What about
that
responsibility?

I shook my head. It was over now. We were whole again. But tears welled up just the same. I’d always been too quick to cry. I fought to hold the tears back, because I didn’t want to cry here. Not now.

He squeezed my hand. “I shouldn’t be talking about me.” I swear, sometimes he could read my mind. “There were things that you missed out on, with your mother gone. Things she could have given you that I couldn’t. I know that, and I’m sorry for it. When your mother was young, before her problems started, she had a type of strength— a faith—that I didn’t have. She didn’t cause her problems the way I caused mine. They were thrust on her when she was too young to deal with it. She tried. She fought if for a
long time, as long as she could. In many ways she was stronger than I was. You have her strength, Taylor, but I hope I haven’t cheated you of that faith she had in the beginning. It was a good thing. I’ve been thinking about that lately, and I’m going to work on it. I promise.”

I didn’t like to talk about Mom, especially not when I was about to cry. So I chewed my lip and pictured the happy times, with all of us together. That helped. Soon I regained control.

Dad sat up and patted me on the knee. “Well, I don’t know why I’m being like this. It’s almost your birthday. Look at the sky. The stars are out and we’ve got the world on a string, don’t we, kiddo?” He pushed himself onto his feet and told me to relax while he cleaned up.

Before long, he had gathered the utensils for washing and headed down the embankment to the lake. I rested my head on my sleeping bag and studied the sky. Out here, the universe was brilliant, and it was all ours. Dad was right: We had the world on a string. I thought of a song. It was one of his songs, not mine. The tune stuck in my mind, and I started to hum. Then I started to sing softly,
“Don’t you love her madly? Wanna be her daddy?
Don’t you love her as she’s walkin’ out the—”

“Well, if it isn’t Xena, the warrior princess! And she sings such an appropriate song.”

I jumped to my feet and spun just in time to see Chad and Will from the gas station crunching through the brush next to our truck. Will carried a shotgun.

The breech was not open.

“WHERE’S YOUR SHOTGUN, BEAUTIFUL?” Chad walked toward the fire. “If I recall our earlier encounter, you were all about shotguns. Will brought his. We thought we could compare.”

I looked toward the lake. Dad was nowhere in sight. Something in my stomach turned hot and began to tumble. I took a deep breath. “Hey, what are y’all doing out here?” I flashed a big smile and forced myself to think. I glanced at the ground near Dad’s sleeping bag to see if he’d brought his pistol from the truck. If it was there, I couldn’t make it out in the dark. The shotgun, which had not proved terribly useful so far that day, was still in the bed of the truck.

“We followed you, of course. Heaven knows, one has to make a special effort to get to know people out here in the sticks. In any event, I’ve not been able to get my mind off you since our last encounter.”

I looked at Will. He’d only been there for a minute and a half, but he already seemed to be losing his focus. A field rat or something skittered through the nearby brush. He followed it with his eyes. He didn’t seem to think any more than he talked.

“Why don’t you just sit down by the fire and make yourself comfortable?” Chad nodded toward the sleeping bags. “Where’s Daddy? Out shooting dinner?” He chewed on a reed as he talked. I remembered the match that he had waggled in his mouth back at the gas station and wondered if he had some sort of oral security thing going on, like a dog that’s afraid to approach a human without picking up its favorite toy.

Chad looked toward the lake. “Here he is!” He waved. “Hey, Pops, we’re back!”

My father’s shadowy figure rose from behind a boulder at the edge of the campsite. In his right hand was a skillet. In the skillet were our steak knives, forks, and metal plates. Though the light was dim, I could see the muscles in his arms and chest, flexed tight against his olive T-shirt. “What do you fellas want here?” His voice was as hard as the rocks around him, and I wished more than anything that we were home.

Will’s eyes focused on the knives in the skillet. He pointed the shotgun at Dad.

“Well, that’s not a very hospitable greeting, Mr. . . .”
Chad cocked his head. “I don’t believe I caught your name back at the gas station, sir.”

“Roger Pasbury.” He turned to Will. “If you’re not looking to shoot someone, you ought to point that thing somewhere else, son.”

Will smiled. “You’re the one holding the knives, mister. And I’m not your son.” His eyes brightened. It was the first time I had seen any life in those eyes. His smile frightened me more than anything because it was the smile of someone doing something he enjoyed.