Gun Lake (16 page)

“I’m just saying that people know about Collette. It’s not exactly a secret.”

“It’s nobody’s business.”

“Coming in to work smelling like bad beer is.”

“I’m not drinking on the job.”

“No?”

Don remained silent, knowing this was going nowhere, knowing his denials were meaningless.

“Don. I’ve known you almost ten years. We’ve had some good times together. You helped out when Gretta died. I’ve never forgotten that. I know we don’t—I know things aren’t what they used to be. But I’ve never forgotten how you helped me out.”

Steve’s wife had died of cancer four years ago. Before that, the two families had often hung out together, spending time on the lake and having barbecues. But now Steve was left to raise three children himself, so the days he’d stop off and have a few cold
ones with Don were gone. Don could accept that. He didn’t blame Steve for not being around more.

“I did what anybody would’ve done,” Don said, remembering the meals he’d brought over to Steve and his kids, meals Collette had made. He had checked up on Steve quite a few times, making sure he was okay, making sure that once the dust settled and the reality kicked in, Steve was still standing.

But Steve Reed was a strong man, a religious man, and he had managed to parlay those two things into a life. Another life, a life after cancer ate away and took his beloved wife. He had even rededicated his life to God after his wife’s death. That was the word he used—
rededicated
. If he had been a weak man, that might have made a little more sense to Don. But not a guy like Steve, a straightforward, tough-as-nails sort like the sergeant.

“You helped me out when I needed it,” Steve said. “Even when I thought I didn’t need it.”

Don shook his head. “So you’re here to help me out, right?”

“Something like that.”

“No offense, but I’m quite okay.”

“That why Collette left you?”

Don shot a glance at Steve that said,
Back off
. Sergeant or not, friend or not, strong guy or not—this wasn’t Steve’s business. He wanted to make that clear. He threw Steve a vicious and directed curse. Steve didn’t blink.

“I talked to her, Don. I’m not trying to intrude in your life. You were there when I needed you—”

“But nobody passed away here. Nobody died. Collette and I are having some bumps in the road. Couples have them. You talk to Kyle when his marriage fell apart? No? I’m the only one who gets the fishing guilt trip, huh?”

“It’s not like that.”

“Maybe I drink too much, and maybe that needs to change and maybe Collette will see that it changes. But all the maybes in the world are for me and for me alone to handle. I don’t need you coming and telling me to lay off the booze.”

“I’m not,” Steve said.

“No? Then what’s this all about?”

“I want to just try—I don’t know—to do something before things get out of hand.”

“Out of hand? Think someone’s going to have to come out to the ol’ Hutchence homestead and check up on me?”

“I hope to God not,” Steve said.

Don pulled his fishing rod out of the water and cursed again. “And leave God out of this.”

Steve nodded. At least the guy knew where to shut up.

“Look, let’s avoid talking about any of this for another hour. We can fish for a while longer and get some lunch afterward. Okay?”

Don looked at the patches of clouds in the sky and wondered where Collette was. Why was she doing this to him? Why couldn’t she just come back and let everything get back to normal?

“I know you don’t mean any harm, Steve,” Don said. “I appreciate it. It’s just—it’s something I gotta get through.”

“If you need help …”

And Steve left it open-ended like that. The same way Don had left it open-ended after Gretta passed away.

Sometimes there is nothing more that needs to be said. Sometimes you just leave things there in the open, understood and unsaid. Sometimes you just have to let things be.

And maybe, like Steve Reed ended up doing, you’d get through it all.

THE DAY SWEATED WITH DRIZZLE. Kurt sat in the Chicago apartment wearing a stolen outfit consisting of jeans two sizes too big and a red tee-shirt with a NASCAR logo on it. On the wobbly table in front of him sat an empty bowl with dried milk and the remains of a bran-nut mix Kurt had found he enjoyed. Nothing
like that back at Stagworth. Next to the bowl lay a Glock nine-millimeter handgun, one of the dozens they’d picked up in the sports store in Louisiana. This was the one Sean had left with Kurt back in Texas, the one he’d shoved in Lonnie’s face. It wasn’t as if Kurt would do anything with it.

The room was murky like the skies above. The rest of the guys had gone out. Sean had wanted them to accompany him for something.

Sean and his plans. Sean and his grand schemes. Maybe Kurt had to get a few of his own.

What happens when the news dies down? What’s the plan then?

Thoughts raced through his mind. They were impossible to stifle.

The gun blast in the store.

The news about the Steerhouse shootings.

The bloody mess with Sean’s shoulder.

This black guy named Ossie, who had gotten religion and done his time but was helping them anyway, letting them stay in his apartment.

Each day spiraled further down this dark hole. When would they hit bottom?

Kurt picked up the Glock. It still felt strange in his grip. A guy like him should know his guns, should have fired many rounds from many guns. Yet Kurt had never fired a gun in his life. The very thought of waving it around like some tough guy made him cringe. He was no more a tough guy than your average smiling next-door neighbor. Examining the gun, loaded and ready to go, Kurt heard the whispers.

There’s really no point
.

The same whispers he used to have in Stagworth. The same twinges that made him decide to go with Sean and the others.

There’s a way out, son
.

He looked at the handgun and knew this was certainly one way.

Coward
.

One possible way out.

You’re too gutless and you know it
.

He thought of something a guy back at Stagworth had once told him. “You get to a point and realize that regardless of what happens, there’s nothing left in your life. Nothing at all. Nothing to hope for and nobody left to hope with.”

Kurt thought of Rex back at the prison, a guy who had been in the joint too long and was let off of suicide watch and decided he couldn’t go on. The guy strangled himself using a torn sheet and simple willpower. People hanging themselves in prison didn’t have the luxury of draping a rope over a beam and standing on a stool to step off and have one easy drop. No, people like Rex, people utterly desperate and unable to think about going on another day or even another hour, slowly strangled themselves using their hands and legs, pushing beyond the natural human instinct to save one’s self, to allow your lungs to breathe.

Could he ever be as desperate as someone like Rex? Kurt wondered. Or would he be in a position to choose something quicker—like the shot of a nine-millimeter round? He wondered if he would even be able to pull the trigger. Would it be that easy? Or would that be a cop-out?

He could hear the voice back at Stagworth, the words about nothingness. He was beginning to know what they meant. There’d been a small chance—a tiny crack in the window. But it was closed up now. Forever.

Sometimes dying is the easy part
.

Kurt put the Glock back on the table and stood up. He began to look for something in the apartment. He’d tried before and would try again.

But half an hour later, the piece of paper underneath his hand, he still couldn’t manage to write a single word. He tried to think of where to start, but something heavy weighed his thoughts down like a cement block.

There was a universe of words to choose from. Picking one felt like looking up at the sky and pinpointing a star and pulling it down. How could he choose just the right words to put down on that paper, knowing he’d only have one chance to say them?

“So how’d you guys escape?”

Sean looked over at Ossie as they sat in the front seat of his Chevy waiting for Craig to come out of the supermarket. Sean lit a cigarette.

“Didn’t read about it in
USA Today?’

“Only heard about it on the news. Caught bits and pieces in the papers.”

“You worry that we’d end up here?”

“A man like me doesn’t worry,” Ossie said, his rough cheeks curling into a sad smile.

“I worry. I worry just enough, you know. A little worry can be a good thing. People like Lonnie—they don’t worry. That’s what gets them into trouble.”

“Worrying didn’t keep you from getting busted.”

“Ah, yeah, but I used to never have a care in the world. Caring’s what makes the difference. That’s what I figured out. That’s what helped us get out too.”

“How so?”

“We fooled them by acting like we cared,” Sean said, blowing smoke out the cracked window.

“Cared? About what?”

“About everything. The actual particulars didn’t matter. We stayed on good behavior for a while. Crystal-clear behavior. That’s why I chose the guys I did. Even Lonnie was a saint in the joint—on the surface, anyway. Made friends of the guards. Acted like tasks and duties entertained us. It was all part of the play.”

“But how’d you actually get out?” Ossie asked.

“This guard—Dean—let us stay behind to wax and seal the maintenance-department floor where we worked. Can you believe that? He was unarmed.”

“So—did you do the work?”

“Sure. We sealed off the area—no pun intended. Well, maybe pun intended. Me, Craig, Wes, and Lonnie all worked on the job. We had some other guys helping who didn’t know the plan. Basically, we spent a couple of hours tying up the guards one by one—even the other two guys with us. It was during lunch, and half the guards were gone. Some were getting soft. They trusted
us, you know. They didn’t think there’d be any way of getting out of Stagworth.”

“Where was Kurt?” Ossie asked.

“He stayed on the outside. Basically as a lookout for us. A couple of supervisors came to check up on the maintenance building, and he led them to the back office where we tied them up. One got a little—a little hot—so Wes clapped him on the head a couple of times.”

“You just tied them up?”

“Sure. With plastic ties and duct tape. Took us about two months to collect all of it.”

“So how long did it take? Planning it, I mean.”

“You writing a documentary or something?” Sean said with a grin.

“I’m just curious.”

“Actually, over a year. A year and a half, to be honest. I started talking to a few of ’em a year before it happened. Wes. Craig. Guys I knew I could trust and who could stay quiet. Lonnie eventually. Then Kurt, who I didn’t know would come.”

“But how’d you actually get out? I know Stagworth.”

“You know how lax they can be with guys they trust. Me and Lonnie changed out of our good ol’ Stag jumpsuits into some of the guards’ clothes. We pretended we were escorting Wes and Craig over to the back gates.”

“You just walked out?”

Sean laughed. “We got a little golf cart. You remember those?”

“No.”

“They got these golf carts they’ll sometimes drive around. So we got us one too. It was actually pretty funny.”

“And you just told them to open up, let you out in the yard.”

Sean inhaled his cigarette and shook his head. “Yeah, that’s what I did,” he said. “That’s exactly what I did.”

“What’d you tell them?”

“That we were helping install video cameras—they’d started doing that around the perimeter of the place. So they let us out there, and then we did our thing. Lonnie knocked out a guard while I went to the tower and bagged another one. Got his gun
and everything. From there it was basically like we were home free. That or people were gonna die.”

“But nobody died, right?”

“Of course not. It was all good. We hot-wired a pickup in the prison yard. Several of the guys hid in the back under some ply-wood—I’d put it in specifically for this. Kurt met us by the back gate, and we left.”

“Just like that?”

Sean nodded, laughed, and took a final drag of his cigarette. “Just like that.”

“You make it sound like it was easy.”

“It actually sorta was. Nobody got hurt or killed, you know. A couple of busted heads, but nothing too bad.”

“Unlike the mess you left in Texas.”

“That wasn’t my fault. I didn’t want that to happen. All I wanted to do was get out of Stagworth. We did it at the ideal time—lunch. You know how guys move around. And the thing about it—we put in our time. We made them believe we were the best of the bunch. Minimum flight risks.”

They saw Craig coming out of the grocery store with a shopping cart full of bags.

“There he is,” Sean said, excitement in his voice. “Our little homemaker.”

Ossie kept looking at Sean. He couldn’t hate the guy, he knew that. You didn’t hate a guy like Sean. You only feared him. Because behind that likable, casual voice and grin was a cold-blooded killer who wouldn’t blink twice if he knew he had to take a gun and stick it against your forehead and pull the trigger.

He’d pull it still believing he never wanted to kill you.

Ossie had the fear of God in him. But that didn’t let him not fear the guy sitting next to him, the guy who slipped out of a maximum security prison as seemingly easy as someone might go to pick up some groceries.

IT WAS EVENING, with a few hours of light left. Lonnie finally settled on a news channel that talked about the Middle East. His eyes were slits, carved-out openings like the windows of a tank. He constantly moved around in the oversized sofa chair. Kurt watched him and said nothing. The clock on the wall kept his attention. He wondered when the guys would be coming back from the store.

“You don’t like me much, do you?” Lonnie asked him.

“No,” Kurt said without hesitation.

“That’s good to know. Good to hear spoken out loud.”

Kurt didn’t bother looking at Lonnie. He kept his eyes focused on the television, even though it didn’t interest him.