Target 84 (22 page)

“You cannot find peace by avoiding life.
”―
Virginia Woolf
Dead ends.

Every step of the way.

Every time I think I’m close, I’m not.

Her landlord has no current forwarding address because that punk Greta paid for her rental a year up front! The cat was pawned off to Sawyer, the other apartments in her name are gone. She up and disappeared, but why keep the one apartment? She must plan on returning. Right?

I call in a favor from a buddy. She must have her cell phone with her. I want the last recorded GPS location. Lately, I find myself standing in front of a mirror just staring. Like I'm trying to look into my own eyes and get some sense of the man living there. I’ve not been able to get her to vacate my mind. I can’t seem to prevent her from penetrating my thoughts.

Bill calls me back within an hour. Bergton, formerly Dovesville, an unincorporated community in Rockingham County. “It’s in George Washington National Forest, northeast of Timberville near the state border with West Virginia,” he says. I thank him and hang up. What the hell is in Bergton besides hillbillies and trees? Uniontown, Pennsylvania, home to Ravenbrook, is only three hours away from Bergton. What is she up to?

Deciding against alerting anyone to my plans, I quickly pack up my weapons bag and a personal bag. I toss it all in the truck and crank the key in the ignition. The very thought of being able to see her again has me feeling like an addict in need of a fix. I can make it to Bergton in just under seven hours. If anything in the Podunk town is open, I’ll be able to start asking around, checking into recent rentals, perhaps. I throw the truck in park at the end of my driveway and trot into the house to grab my ATF credentials; they might come in handy in persuading people to give up information.

Six hours gives a man a lot of time to think. I’ve thought about everything from humming to a scared little girl to what I want to say to her when I find her. It’s October twenty-fourth. I promised myself I stick to the rule of three. I’d give myself three months to find her. If I couldn’t in that time, I’d walk away. I’d leave it be. My timeline seemed destined to produce a victorious outcome, how could it not? When I’d looked at the calendar that day, three months turned out to be Greta’s birthday. October twenty-fifth. I hold on tight to the steering wheel to keep my hands from shaking.

The terrain becomes too tough for even my truck. I’m close now.

A mile back I noticed her car parked under the cover of trees to the side of the dirt road. I pull over finally, not wanting to risk scratching my truck when the road narrows even more and I walk. The general store had been open when I arrived. Just barely. They were closing up shop at six p.m. I’d shown Greta’s picture and flashed my credentials and wouldn’t you know it, people’s mouths started running.

She’d been in three times in the last three months, always stocking up on groceries and such. The manager had come out and let me know that she was renting from Mr. Fillenback, an elderly man who owns a rarely used cabin up the mountain. After securing directions to the cabin and buying a generic bouquet of flowers, I’d sped out of the parking lot, anxious to reach her.

I’m delirious with anticipation.

“The world is quiet here.
”―
Lemony Snicket
Fall is here in full force. It has been three months. I feel as though I’m losing my will. Everything in my life seems to be running together. My thoughts are unclear. Is this what love feels like? Or maybe loss. How are they different? You lose your heart to love or you lose your mind to loss.

I hum his song.

Over and over and over.

I chop more wood.

I keep the fire going.

I burn for him.

I read more books.

I hear his voice in my mind.

I eat.

I sleep.

I dream of him.

I rage at my stolen innocence.

I rage at the injustice of it all.

“War is over...if you want it.
”―
John Lennon
Rose bushes under each of the windows on either side of the door look to be freshly pruned. She’s kept herself busy. I wonder what else she’s done. The Tyvek paper looks freshly stapled to the outside and newer shingles line one patch of roof that clearly had a hole. I loosen my grip on the flowers in my hand, afraid I will crush them before I have the chance to give them to her.

I approach the door hesitantly, anxiety blooming in my chest. With her temper I could be greeted with a punch to the face, a slap, or a raging, passionate kiss.

I’ll take my chances.

I knock.

I hear movement inside.

The flowers are still clutched tightly in my hand. I’m ready to greet her.

The door opens.

Her hair is swept up loosely in a tousled bun. Her face is clear of makeup. She’s wearing an oversized hoodie and leggings. Slippers encase her feet. Her blue eyes are particularly bright. She looks like an addict who has just gotten a fix. She’s mind-blowingly gorgeous. The sight of her steals my breath. Seizes my heart.

Calms my soul.

“It is better to be hated for what you are than to be loved for what you are not.
”―
André Gide
“Bird,” he croaks.

I find myself gaping and stunned, holding the door open. I’m shocked to the point that I feel sedated. How on Earth did he find me? Cold air whips around me as Bentley James, the needle I’d happily plunge into my vein, the thief that steals my very breath, heroin for my soul, stands before me.

I need him.

I’m in so deep.
Love
, it’s an unknown way of living for me. It’s terrifying and amazing. I can’t keep the emotion at bay any longer. He steps forward. A bouquet of flowers outstretched to me. I don’t move. Can’t move. I’m paralyzed with too many emotions. Wonderment, surprise, desire and curiosity and guilt. Sadness washes over me. It seems unreasonable to want to cry but my heart feels so heavy and full.

We don’t speak.

We stare greedily at the sight of each other, each balm for the other’s soul.

I’m overwhelmed by his presence. A lone tear forms. It slowly spills over and I feel the wetness linger down my cheek, but before it drips off my jaw, Bentley reaches out and wipes it away with the pad of his thumb. The tender touch surprises me, and when I drop my head, he finally releases his hold on the flowers. Setting them on the floor, he straightens back up and cradles my face, tilting it up to look at him. I wither under his gaze. My eyes dart around the cabin, unable to endure the ardent emotions that are alive in his stare. His arms pull me to him. I flinch a hair’s breadth. He sighs but pulls me closer, enveloping me in his firm frame.

I want him. I want this.

Please, please, please. Let this moment be real. Let me not be lost in daydream.

Then he hums.

He hums our song.

I fall into his voice, letting it console and assuage me. I love to listen to its deep resonance, the gentle lilts. He scoops me up, carrying me to the mattress in the room just off the main space. His voice hums lowly still, relaxing into the stiff cot mattress. I want to examine our previous moment, our wordless exchange. Delectable warmth glides over me, followed quickly by a surge of guilt, and then panic. How could I possibly have a life with this man? The ever-present question has still not presented an answer.

I've often thought to myself that I've never killed an innocent person. But the notion that I'm some kind of murderous saint, a vigilante of sorts, is hard to maintain. I'm a monster. Plain and simple. And monsters only end up one way in the end, don't they?

Suddenly I’m tired. Exhaustion sweeps through me at light speed. We’re twisted together, our limbs entwined like vines as he holds me. My heart feels as if it’s going to explode. His humming grows fainter the longer we lie here until he’s holding me in silence.

Silence that we share.

Silence that is comforting.

It lulls me into a peaceful sleep.

Bentley James is here with me.

“I am the passion without words, without stones of the hearth, without weapons in the war, is my same force that makes me sick
”―
Hermann Hesse
I draw the curtain back, letting light slip into the darkness. I've already made coffee and am having a mug when Greta finally wanders in. She gives me a smile that has my balls tightening instantly. Her eyes dance with fire and embarrassment. If I had to guess, it’s from the emotion she showed when I arrived last night. I’m not letting her game distract me this time. She wants this. I felt it without words, without touch, it was all there, showing bluntly in her eyes.

“So,” she says, breaking the silence. “What the hell are you doing here?” she asks. Her attitude doesn’t threaten me. She can push all she wants but it won’t do any good. She can waiver all she wants but I’ll stand strong for both of us this time.

“Rule of three, bird.”

She cocks her hip, accenting the fluidity of her amazing figure that I’d like manhandle.

“I waited three months. You’ve had your time to
think
, to be alone, now I’m here to claim you. I’m not wasting another second,” I answer.

“That’s not how this works, Bentley,” she huffs without putting up any real fight.

“There was a quote my ex-wife, Rachel, read to me,” I start. “‘Intimacy means allowing yourself to risk loving an imperfect person because you’re able see the perfect
in
them.’ I can’t remember what book she was reading from but I know that I never did that with or for her.” Greta’s bottom lip is pulled between her teeth as she focuses on me. The blue of her eyes is bright and potent. “She was light years ahead of me emotionally. Almost anyone is.” I snort. “They say you stop maturing at the age at which you experienced a trauma. I guess I should feel happy that I will forever have a nine-year-old’s capacity for emotion. Childlike happiness is sought after as adults. Yet, I know...that’s not at all what it means for me.”

“What are you getting at?” she asks, plunking into the seat across from me.

“Rachel and I had a diseased love. I let that disease kill me. I let it kill her. I let it kill
us
. Thing is, I don’t feel remorse about it. I honestly believed that I was defining the terms of my life then. I made a choice to marry her. I also made the choice at some point, consciously or not, to be okay living
without
her.” I stop to gauge Greta’s interest. She sits, stoic, listening. “I loved Rachel, in a platonic kind of way. I loved Magnolia in a perfect-storm, twisted-by-deception, shadowed-by-difficulty kind of way. But, Greta, you...you I love in a romantic, forever, amplified-by-time kind of way.”

She looks past me out the window so I soldier on. “A way that I know, without a doubt, is the kind of love that is everlasting. I can’t protect you from your suffering or mine. You have to survive that. I have to survive that.
We
have to endure it. But I
know
that together we can do that, bird. We can kick the motherfucking ass out of love together.” Her eyes are impossibly full yet not a single tear has taken the leap over the edge yet. Her arms squeeze her middle tightly as if she’s trying to hold herself together.

“Please, Greta, we can find that place. That serene place devoid of nightmares, empty promises, and conditional obligations. We can just be. I
understand
you. I have faith that you understand me too.” I drop to my knees in front of her and take her biceps in my hands to hold her firmly in place. No way in Hell I’m letting her run when I say this. “I love you, Greta.”

Her cold, brick fortress, the wall of distance, of space, of casual--that wall is breaking down. I can almost see it happening in front of me.

“I will fight you until you see that you’re just like me. I will never allow you to ignore what I’m fighting for. I will wait for you, bird, if I have to. I’ve made room for you in my life, in my fucking heart,” I plead, unabashed.

“There is no power in love. Mercy makes you weak. Family makes you weak,” she whispers, not meeting my eyes. Training and brainwashing spout from her lips. I want to bring down Ravenbrook for what they’ve done to her. To me. To all the children there. Rage kindles deep within my gut.

“It's okay to care. It's okay to want something. If you can’t love me, hate me. If you need to punish me, do it. Just acknowledge the need,” I urge. “Say it. Tell me, bird.” Her body trembles. I tighten my grip on her, holding her together while she can’t.

Tick.

Tock.

Time moves impossibly slow.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Wait.

“I love you,” she breathes.

That lone tear, unsure of the safety awaiting it if it took the leap from her eye, cascades down her cheek safely. I wipe it away for her.

A shuddering breath explodes from my lungs. On their own accord my arms pull her to me. They slide up her arms, to shoulders, and finally grasp her neck firmly. Those pouty, full lips beg me to taste them. I lean in and decimate her with a kiss that consumes. It’s hopeful, passionate, needy, and worshipping. I let every last feeling I’ve experienced in the last three months without her pour into it.

She screams but I absorb it with our kiss. I take all her anguish and doubt from her. Her hands fist my hair painfully. I could suffocate in the raw emotion vibrating between us. She pushes up and I go with her until we’re standing.