Not Dark Yet (22 page)

Kaye had blueprints, door codes, key cards, showed him everything they needed to do, in the illumination from a single light bulb in the basement of a house that was identical to all the others in the streets and courts and crescents around it, all of them empty and unused, owned by a financial institution that
was holding out for better times and higher prices that never seemed to happen.

He walked there with the hood of the sweater beneath his short wool coat up to shield him from the gaze of surveillance cameras on the train station, bus station, and the bus. The sky was white and heavy and the cold wind flurried with snow flakes, several months late for Christmas. The roads south were still closed, and air and rail travel there suspended, to the rage of the crowds of passengers now stuck on other parts of the continent. However, north of the hurricane’s path of destruction, life continued more or less like before, with travel interrupted for only a few days after the disaster. He didn’t expect to hear anything from Michael or Katsuhiro until phone and internet communication was restored.

The neighborhood in the northern city he traveled to had been developed, but not yet inhabited, so there was no bus nor tram line close to the address Kaye had texted him. He exited the bus at the nearest possible stop, crossed the road and an incomplete sports field with an expanse of newly planted, but already yellowed grass. Even here signs of recent bad weather were clearly visible: drains clogged with branches, fresh cracks and pot holes in the road, roof tiles and wayward planks on the pavement. The seating in the putative arena had only been partly completed, leaving broken scaffolding and plastic nets scattered about, torn loose by the elements. The evening wind rose and shrieked through the unfinished structure.

Past the sports field the residential streets were flanked by small gardens with gable-roofed, semi-detached houses in various stages of completion. The first properties were unfinished, lacking roofs or top floors, with pallets of shingles and paving still wrapped in plastic in the driveways. Further inside the neighborhood the houses had been roofed, painted a peachy yellow, and equipped with white Palladian windows in the fronts, showing off hardwood-floored halls and stairs inside. A few of
the future homes even had brass chandeliers shining behind the windows and cone-shaped juniper bushes bounding their gardens, but no curtains, furniture, nor cars, so he assumed those buildings were marketing displays for selling. He wondered, if he continued in the same direction, whether the houses would become more and more inhabited, until rooms furnished with beds, closets, and chairs, tables set with meals, tubs filled with water, and hallways cluttered with shoes and clothes would appear, like landlocked ships abandoned by their owners. Or had he already reached the apex and the properties further in would only be less complete, with the roofs, walls, and floors vanishing in an inverted sequence from the structures he had already passed, until only concrete foundations and the burrows created by rock blasting to cradle them were all that was left of the houses? He had no desire to witness that and did not plan to walk further into the neighborhood than he had to, yet nevertheless experienced a small flash of regret knowing that he would never see what the houses farther inside looked like and that he might never return to find out.

Daylight lingered for much longer than in the depths of winter, but the milky sky remained opaque and dusk arrived as a jaundiced glow above the rooftops. This far into the residential area the streets were named and the houses numbered, enabling him to find the address he had memorized.

The house was identical to all the others: peach-colored, gabled roof, Palladian window, double garage. In the modestly sized garden, instant lawn had been laid out, some rolls only half way or still constricted by plastic string. A small pool yawned in concrete, holding no water, only sand, pieces of greasy plywood, and brown and yellow leaves. The house looked finished, but the one behind it had all its windows broken, dark shards gleaming in the patchy lawn. Past that structure torn tarpaulin was whipping
in the wind, like prayer flags above a desolate mountain pass.

The white six-paneled, brass-handled front door was unlocked and led into a spacious hall lit only by the fading illumination from outside. The floor was tiled with textured, honey-colored ceramic rectangles and the walls painted a standard eggshell shade. The interior was new and unused, but dust had settled on every surface, like snow, and the stale, musty air signaled that the house had skipped past habitation on its way to dereliction. Every single house for at least a kilometer in all directions was as empty and abandoned as this. It was like being in a desert.

In the back of the hall a door-less opening and a short flight of stairs led down to the basement. Here, walls and floor-covering were in place, but had not been spackled or painted. Like the rest of the house the basement had already acquired the tang of decay. A single light bulb illuminated the subterranean space and he was not surprised to find Kaye, dressed in a thick down parka, waiting for him there.

Standing over Kaye’s plans, which were laid out on a table improvised from a piece of drywall on two fuzzy sawhorses, they looked like new homeowners trying to agree on which task to tackle first. But their business was less constructive and required much more care.

“You’re a bit late to join in the preparations,” Kaye said, “but with your prior experience I’m certain you’ll manage to keep up.”

Kaye told him everything, and he confirmed that he had retained the information by reciting it from memory. During his brief narration of the story Kaye desired, the assistant professor nodded approvingly, as if he were listening to a graduate student verifying observations or recounting a long-established theorem, something that had already become reality.

He glanced at Kaye and although he imagined that his horror must be fully visible on his face, the assistant professor said nothing. Kaye only met his eyes calmly, as if he knew, as if any resentment was safe with him, inside their now mutual, monumental secret.

Finally, Kaye handed him a new mobile phone and told him not to use it, only to keep it on and charged, and remain ready for the call that would come “in a matter of days.” Then the assistant professor lifted a dark leather bag onto the makeshift table and zipped it open. It had been years since he’d smelled the scent of oil and propellant which rose from the glistening, disassembled object inside, yet he recognized it instantly.

“This is yours,” Kaye said. “We will most certainly need it, so take good care of it.”

He stood numb, his thoughts a tangle, his worst fears having been confirmed all at once, and with it the vertiginous knowledge that the outcome he had tried so hard to avoid had finally caught up with him.

Kaye looked at him. “The others and I respect you immensely,” the assistant professor said. “We asked you to join us because we trust you and want you here. We, I, want you with us.” Kaye put his arm around him. “We’re all together in this. All right?”

“Yes,” he said, but could not meet Kaye’s eyes.

37

HE CARRIED THE BAG FROM KAYE WITH HIM BACK to the center of the unfamiliar northern city, the weight of its contents as familiar as that of a lover sleeping on his arm. He considered not opening the bag, not looking at the object inside, not cleaning it, not testing it, since he didn’t wish to use it. But then he thought of how, if he refused to familiarize himself with the gift, it might be him missing and the other person aiming true instead, and something in him was too proud to let that happen because of something as stupid as misguided reluctance.

Back in the city center he withdrew money from a cash machine, bought a case of self-heating field rations and packets of liquid energy gel, hired a car with a hybrid engine under an assumed name, and drove in the direction he had first arrived in. He had spotted the place from the train and taken note of it, knowing what Kaye wanted. After a brief search in the forest-filled darkness he pulled into the parking lot and stopped the car, checked that all the windows were up and the doors locked, before he lowered the driver’s seat as far as it would go and went to sleep.

During the night, he woke several times, turning in the cold, pulling the coat tighter around himself. The last time was at
dawn, when a gray mist rolled in between the trunks of the slim, ancient-looking firs that stood in front of the car. The fog pulled his gaze in, capturing his attention completely, and then it was like he could see the entire forest, row upon row of firs all the way back to the first tree. His pulse beat slowly in his ears, but behind it hummed a silence that engulfed him. He fell into a deep sleep and didn’t wake till it was nearly midday.

Only a few other vehicles occupied the parking lot, a gravel-covered rectangle overlooking the narrow but fast-flowing river that wound through the valley. It was known as a great place for trout fishing, and he half expected to see fly fishers casting their lines on the banks, but there were none. He got out, locked the car, yawned and stretched, and walked to the edge of the gravel. The day was windless, but a fine rain hung like a curtain in the air. In the middle of the river was a small shrub-covered islet and a few boulders downstream. On both banks the remains of small birches and bird cherry trees leaned over the water, whose surface was smooth and glassy, even from where he stood. The vegetation on the bottom of the river looked like green hair that streamed and fluttered with the current. On the bank below the parking lot stood the red and yellow posters he had spotted from the train.

He took the bag carefully out of the trunk and crunched across the gravel to the steel-paneled building on the other side of the rural road. Inside the entrance a teen in thick coveralls and boots sat behind a fold-out plastic table with a red steel box and a school textbook open in front of him.

“Member or non-member?” the boy said.

“Non-member,” he said.

“We’re offering a discount on yearly memberships,” the boy started, barely looking up from the book. “It gives better hourly rates...”

“That won’t be necessary,” he said. “I only need access for today.”

The boy nodded. “Want to buy ammunition?”

“No, but I’d like to borrow ear protection and sandbags, if you have them.”

“We have good muffs and bags,” the boy said. “They’re right inside.”

“Thank you,” he said.

The boy mentioned a small sum of money. He handed the boy a note, told him to keep the remainder, then strode past him and into the building.

A wooden deck shielded by a strip of moss-thatched roof looked out on a wide field of short grass and circular targets. He walked to the end of the gallery, past the few people who were already there, hunched down, and opened the bag. The smell of oil and metal rose from it and mixed with those of his surroundings: gunpowder, wood varnish, moist grass, and rain. He took out the cleaning kit and inspected its brushes, rod, screwdrivers, and cleaning solution for the first time.

Fortunately, whoever had made the purchase had wrapped and packed the gun properly. The weapon itself had been disassembled and was rolled up in a soft, dust-free cloth. The finely measured and manufactured parts glistened of oil, the barrel and chamber shiny and unused. He went through every item, cleaned and oiled them, then put them together into the whole they were meant to form, hesitating a little with the trigger mechanism for not having previous experience with the manufacturer. The scope and mount, however, was a brand he was familiar with, although the make was new to him, and they immediately clicked into place.

Beyond the shelter of the moss-covered roof, the rain fell unceasingly, creating a low hiss in the grass. He had no time to lose. The midday light was gray and even, but would soon give
way to dusk. He put the ear protection muffs on, took out his phone, removed and folded his coat, and placed both next to the bag. Then he lay down prone with the rifle on the sand sock and aimed at the nearest target. There were no flags or markers up, but judging from the curtain of precipitation, the wind speed must be close to zero. He looked through the scope, its aiming reticle and dots black and clear, leaned into the stock, and relaxed. The focus and breathing technique he had been taught returned immediately. When he was comfortable he took the first shot.

A few more rounds told him that the parts were working well and made him familiar with the trigger pressure needed. He then shot to calibrate the optics at one hundred meter range, tapped the results into the phone between each shot to characterize the weapon, like a naturalist describing the individuals of a new species. After each shot he checked the lip of the barrel for the golden mark of copper traces, cleaned and oiled it, and set it to cool. When the sights were giving consistent results, he repeated the calibration and cleaning procedure at three hundred meters and then at a range of five hundred meters. The weapon and optics seemed stable and sufficient. The barrel coppered slightly, but not so much that he couldn’t get rid of it with the equipment and cleaning solution that was in the bag. He shot five series of five more rounds, letting the weapon cool after each shot, cleaning the barrel and lubricating the bolt after each series. He wondered if the rain might cease or the wind pick up as evening approached, but the droplets remained a vertical drapery and the grass stood straight and unmoving as the afternoon progressed. He cleaned the rifle again, then shot five series of five rounds each, to see how the weapon behaved when it was warm. When those results became predictable and repeatable, he made a few final shots, cleaned and oiled the rifle one last time, before he rolled it into the cloth and returned it to the bag, together with the rest of the equipment. Night had fallen and the fluorescent
lamps in the roof blinked on. When he passed the table in the entryway it was empty, and he hurried to leave before anyone else appeared.

At the car he put the bag in the trunk, vomited into the grass at the edge of the gravel and spat into the vegetation. Then he started the vehicle, drove it back to the rental agency in the center of the northern city, and fetched his backpack at the train station. From there the trip on the night train south to the mountains was long and silent, and ended with him walking back from the platform to the cabin in the faint beam from the headlamp, not feeling his legs nor hands nor feet, not even the weight of the bag held close to his body.