Gun Lake (24 page)

“Tango and Cash?”
Kurt said. “Come on.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“You have that above
The Great Escape
and
Cool Hand Luke.”

“Sure. It’s a great movie.”

“With Sylvester Stallone and Kurt Russell?”

“A great movie. Really undervalued.”

“By who?”

“Ah, come on. Just ’cause a movie is entertaining doesn’t mean it should get a bad rap.”

“Your list has gone from six to five and a half.”

“Funny,” Craig said, in a zone and wanting to finish his list. “My top all-time prison movie is
The Shawshank Redemption.”

“I’m glad
Tango and Cash
wasn’t above that.”

“It’s a good movie.”

“I’d say
Shawshank
is my top as well.”

“You can’t pick one of mine,” Craig said.

“Sure I can. You didn’t give me rules. You just asked my opinion.”

“So?”

“So an opinion can’t be based on rules.”

Kurt seemed to lose Craig for the moment, so he said nothing. Perhaps he’d get some sleep.

“I love it when the guy breaks out of prison, you know?” Craig said.

“In which movie?”

“Huh?”

“Doesn’t that happen in, like,
all
of those movies you mentioned?”

“Oh, yeah. No, in
Shawshank
…” Craig proceeded to describe that particular escape through a sewer and its disgusting contents perhaps better than the movie did. “… then he gets out and gets soaked by the rain. It’s all dramatic and powerful.”

“I always wanted to be that guy, whatever his name is.”

“That actor?”

“No, the guy who escapes,” Kurt said.

“We’re
both
him. We made it out. And we didn’t have to climb through—”

“That’s not the reason.”

“Then why?”

Kurt didn’t want to finish his thought. Not with Craig.

“Just because. He’s just a great character.”

Craig agreed, and they continued to talk for a few more minutes. Kurt said little more. He thought about the main character from that movie and knew why he longed to be that guy.

From the very beginning he had claimed he was innocent and he was shown to be innocent and ended up rightfully getting what he deserved: his freedom. He was an innocent man unjustly imprisoned.

Kurt could only dream of being such a man.

HE NORMALLY KEPT his cottage door open, even though he inherently distrusted people. There was nothing much of value inside. He kept things like the keys to his truck and his wallet with him at all times. But when Paul opened the door and entered the silence of the small house, he felt as though someone had been inside. Something was different. He didn’t know what. A magazine in a different location, a chair moved. Something.

Paul walked around and studied each room. There was nothing that he could put his finger on.

I’m getting jumpy. That’s it. I’m getting a little loopy up here by the lake
.

But he didn’t think that was it.

He walked back out to the living room and saw the paper on the couch. Had he bought that? He remembered buying one, but
it had been a Grand Rapids paper, not
USA Today
. Maybe he bought it by mistake.

And why am I even wondering anyway?

He looked at the date; it was today’s paper. Nothing weird about that.

Did I lay it down here?

He opened it up and read through it. No, he hadn’t read it this morning. Had he bought it and
not
looked through it?
I know I read a paper this morning
.

On page six was a blurb he couldn’t help reading: “Sightings of Georgia fugitives reported.” The article proceeded to mention at least six different states where people claimed to have seen members of what they called The Stagworth Five. A quote from a deputy in Georgia: “We’re looking into every report. It’s just too important not to.”

Paul read the whole article and got the impression the authorities didn’t really have any idea where the Stagworth Five might be. Somewhere in Georgia, Florida, Louisiana, Texas, Mexico, California, or Oregon.

He took the paper and wadded it up. Paul looked around the room again and felt a chill go through him.

Could guys like that really just disappear? And if they could, how much easier would it be for him to disappear?

And nobody would care
.

He thought about things for a long time. But there wasn’t any clear-cut answer. Not a single one.

IT WAS HOT INSIDE the cabin. There was nothing to do, nowhere to go. A radio they’d purchased played rock from a local station. Kurt was staring at a pad of paper, rubbing a bump made by an ingrown hair on his neck when Ossie walked into the stuffy room.

“Tell me something.”

“Yeah.”

“Where’re you guys going to end up?”

Kurt shrugged, unsure.

“Maybe north. Maine. Canada. I don’t know.”

“No. I mean, when you stop running—what then?”

Kurt knew where Ossie was going. Again.

This guy doesn’t give up
.

“Maybe settle down. Have children. Become old men like you.”

Ossie didn’t smile. His intense, stoic gaze made Kurt a little nervous. Kurt let out a chuckle at his own comment.

“Ludicrous, huh?”

“Some might say,” Ossie said.

“Yeah. Especially for someone who had that once.”

“You?”

“For a while. You know the greener-grass theory? I think a dog took a leak on my greener grass. The grass I had was the greenest I’d ever get. From here on out, it’s hard concrete and rocky roads.”

“What are you talking about?”

Kurt chuckled at Ossie’s puzzled glance.

“The past. Present. Future. All of those things.”

“Would you change things?” Ossie asked.

“That’s a dumb question.”

“Sometimes they say no,” Ossie said. “You’d be surprised.”

“No. I’m way past surprise.”

“How so?”

Kurt shook his head and let go of the faces and places that had been flashing in his mind. There was no point, no reason for thinking about them, for sharing them with this man.

“Do you miss them?” Ossie asked.

“What?”

“The settled-down family. The greener grass you had.”

“Not a day goes by—not one. But, you know, what’re you gonna do?”

“You don’t have to carry it around with you.”

“Some don’t. But yeah—I have to. It’s not a choice. I had one. Once. And I made it. I gotta live with that.”

Kurt stood up and walked to the front door to get some air. As far as he was concerned, the conversation was over.

WHEN DO YOU EVER STOP? When do you forget about the good—make that the great—feelings and sensations and finally stop and move on with your life?

Don Hutchence wondered about this on his fifth or sixth beer. He couldn’t remember which it was. He’d had a couple, or maybe three, back at home as he puttered around in the garage earlier that evening. He couldn’t recall doing all that much. Moving something over to a corner, throwing some piece of junk away. Listening to the radio, fiddling around with things. Sweating and needing something to drink. So he’d had a few there and then come here to the Joint like he usually did. Except tonight he wasn’t in his uniform. He was off duty. For a whole weekend.

The pretty new waitress talked with Kay behind the bar. It looked like it was her first or second night. She’d gotten the last three beers for Don but hadn’t wanted to talk. That was okay. She’d learn sooner or later. Talking to fellas like him meant decent tips. It was something to be enjoying yourself, having a cold one, listening to music, and talking with a beautiful young woman. She had long black hair and striking eyes, the kind that made him do a double take when he first looked into them. He wondered what she was doing working at the Joint, working the night shift—working anywhere, for that matter. A woman like her shouldn’t
have
to work.

He wondered what her story was, what strange secrets followed her.

“Hey, Don, how’re you doing?” somebody called from across the room.

“Parched,” he called out over Paul McCartney’s voice.

The young woman brought another Bud without his needing to say anything. She might end up earning good tips after all.

“First day?” he asked her.

“First night,” she said with a slight smile, eyes downcast.

“Kay treating you okay?”

The dark-featured woman nodded, paused for a second to see if he wanted something else, but said nothing.

“She tell you bad things about me?”

“No.”

“Hey, watch that one,” Kay called out with a laugh. “He sometimes bites.”

“You new around here?” Don asked her.

“Yeah. Just moved here.”

“Oh yeah? Where from?”

“Atlanta,” she said, almost too quickly. He had no reason to doubt her answer, but from the way her voice sounded and her body language, he thought she was making this answer up. Don had always prided himself in knowing when people were lying. Besides, she had no trace of a Southern accent.

“Hotlanta, huh?” he said, but she looked away again.

“I’m Don Hutchence,” he said, extending a hand. “I come in here quite a bit. I’m the local deputy around here. On most days, that is.”

Her eyes flickered a bit, then she took his hand and shook it. Her hand felt velvety soft but shook his with a surprising strength.

“Can I get you anything else?” she asked.

“You could do me a favor.”

She gave him an expressionless look.

“Just a name, that’s all,” he said, giving her a no-offense glance.

“Norah.”

“Hi, Norah. Welcome to the lake.”

“Don,” Kay called from the bar, “you leave the help alone.”

“About time you get some class around here,” he called back.

Norah walked back to the bar and Don couldn’t help but sneak a peek at her retreating figure. A beautiful woman was a sight to behold, a glorious sight to behold. Don was glad to have someone else to look at besides tomboyish Kay or the local aged bottom-feeders.

He looked at the bottle in his hand and took a sip and thought some more about what he was going to do.

He knew he probably needed to stop drinking. It was just a matter of when. And whether he wanted to. Whether it would do any good anyway. If that was what it took to bring Collette back, he’d do it. But did she have a right to demand that? Was that right?

His mind snapped a picture and flashed it before his eyes: a man, pudgy and overweight, balding a bit more than he’d even admit, drinking alone. Alone. Left by his wife and two kids and sitting in a bar, drinking alone.

Not a pretty sight, he had to admit. But the sad thing was, he still enjoyed it. Sitting here by himself, on whatever number beer this was.

Get a grip and get going
.

Where could he go?

The Beatles’ song on the jukebox was a slow tune, one that started out as a sad ballad.

“Can we get some decent music on?” he called out.

Kay and the new girl, Norah, barely acknowledged his outburst. It wasn’t much different than being at home, really. Calling out, issuing an order or a request, and getting nothing in return. Absolutely nothing.

In the words of Rodney Dangerfield, he got no respect. None.

I’ll show them respect
.

He stood up and emptied his bottle of beer on the ground and went over to the jukebox and smashed the bottle against the side of the colorful contraption. He grabbed a chair and stood on it and then jumped onto the jukebox, crashing through its glass, the sound of the Beatles turning to metal against metal and the song slowing down and the words slurring and then the whole thing shutting off.

Nice thought anyway
, Don said to himself, backing out of the fantasy as he sat in the booth, drank his beer, and still got no respect.

Norah had decided to get this second job more to fill the time than anything else. Her waitress job was part-time, thirty or so hours a week, so she’d told Kay, the lady at the bar, that she could help out maybe a couple of nights a week. Kay hadn’t even asked for former experience. She’d just had her fill out a form and asked when she could start.

She didn’t mind the work really. But she couldn’t help wondering if this was what the rest of her life would consist of—refilling drinks and making small talk and smiling and trying to be polite to drunks?

Sometimes, like tonight, she wondered if this had all been a big mistake. A huge mistake. Maybe she needed to go back home and try to work things out with Harlan. He’d understand that she’d had enough and he would change. He’d start to be different and she would know that she had the strength to leave if he didn’t.

Don’t cave in
.

Norah wanted to be somewhere else. It wasn’t just that she was helping out in the small dive of a bar. It wasn’t that bad. It just wasn’t—it wasn’t her life. She didn’t even have a life anymore. She was just trying to make it through hour by hour, day by day. As the old saying went.

She wondered what Harlan was doing. This time of night, probably watching TV or working in his study. Had he even tried looking for her? Maybe he had simply written her off. She could see him doing that. It wasn’t going to be like that one Julia Roberts movie where the couple had this perfect life except that she was married to a hideous monster who came hunting for her when she got up the nerve to leave him. Norah reached in her mind for the title of that movie but couldn’t think of it.

It didn’t matter. Real life wasn’t black and white like that. Harlan wasn’t some awful monster who would end up killing her.

How do you know that?

And she wasn’t some innocent, perfect woman either. Harlan might try looking for her, but he wouldn’t scour the earth and go to any length to find her.

Are you sure?

Norah wasn’t sure about anything. Except for the fact that the guy in the front booth—did he say he was a sheriff’s deputy?—had consumed far too many beers and probably shouldn’t drive home tonight.

“Is he okay to drive home?” Norah asked Kay.