The Terror of Living (16 page)

    "No," Nancy said. "He's still breathing."

    In the distance they heard an explosion, far off, and in the silence of the kitchen it sounded like a brief popping, like the first kernel in the microwave. They listened for more but didn't hear anything. It could have been the rain. But then they looked over at Hunt and knew it wasn't. They looked at each other and listened. There was only the sound of the night, the dull ocean sound of waves. Roy leaned across the table and slid the gun out from under Hunt's hand. Hunt kept giving them that glazed, blank stare. He hadn't seemed to notice that there'd been an explosion or that he was no longer in control.

    In his mind, Hunt had already left-a weekend he and Nora had spent together ten years ago, the sound of a canoe being shoved into a prairie river. High grasslands all around, rock-and-pebble banks, a big sky above them, blue as a robin's egg. These little things, half-memory, half-dream, came to him as he sat there at the kitchen table, flashing across his vision like pages turned in a picture book. His hand curled around a gun that was no longer there.

    When Thu came back into the kitchen, she carried with her a bottle of Dulcolax. She stood in front of the hallway and looked at the table. Roy held the gun. "I told you he was going to need more than a laxative," Roy said.

    THE HELICOPTER CIRCLED ONCE, THEN LANDED ON the road about two hundred yards from the first line of fire trucks. Drake opened the door and stepped down onto the road. He held a hand to his hat and felt the wind try to take it. It was just past two in the morning, the smoke visible two hundred feet in the air, and the fire lighting it all from below. "A gas station," Driscoll said. They were walking up the road away from the helicopter. The first person to meet them was a patrolman holding a radio. They met in stride, and as they walked, Driscoll showed the man his identification.

    "It's so hot up there the road is melting," the patrolman said.

    "I suppose there's nothing to do but let those tanks burn off."

    "The water doesn't even seem to touch it, just evaporates before it can even reach the fire."

    Drake could feel the heat now, as they drew up along the fire trucks. He could see the thermals working over the road, the air column traveling up, and how the heat glistened in the air like a current of water. "What makes you think this is our guy?"

    "Not a thing," Driscoll said. "I figured it had to be someone real pissed off, and then I figured it must be our guy."

    "You think he did this?"

    "Coast Guard said they were tracking a couple boats. They chased one for half an hour and it beached near here. Broke all kinds of international laws. Either this is our guy or this is someone who knows our guy."

    "Knew what he was doing," the patrolman added. "Washed the whole road down with unleaded, then set it on fire. Coast Guard said there was about a five-second delay before the explosion hit. Boom, up goes the road. Boom, boom, the two gas pumps, then about five minutes later the propane in the service station blows."

    "Jesus," Drake said.

    Driscoll walked over to the edge of the road and bent into the grass. The marshland all around looked to be burning, a wash of firelight from the gas station playing across all of it. The light in the air could have been daylight. When Driscoll rose, he held the twisted remains of a soda bottle in his hand, the blue plastic top melted down over the clear green base.

    NORA LAY ON THE MOTEL BED. THE DRIVE UP FROM the city, over the mountains into eastern Washington, had taken them a little more than three hours. Arriving in the early morning, they'd woken the owner from her sleep in the little one- room office. Eddie had gone to his adjoining room an hour ago and she was glad he'd left. She put her hands to her face, blocking out the dim lamplight from the bedside table. Hunt wasn't dead - she had to keep telling herself this. She didn't know how many times she'd tried his phone. No answer.

    Outside, the horses stood penned in the trailer. There was nothing to do with them for now, just let them rest and keep to themselves. She'd parked the trailer around the back in the gravel lot, where the grass was beginning to grow. The river was close. From her bathroom window, she could see the trailer in the gravel lot and the depression of the river beyond. Blackberries grew at the edge of the lot near the water. Someone had built a path there, and if the river bottom was sand, she guessed she would be able to water the horses, lead them out, and walk them along until she found a place to stretch their legs. She thought of how taking a person's horse had once been a hangable offense. She wondered if it still was. None of these horses was hers. Hers had been lost in the mountains. Hunt hadn't explained, but she could guess where they'd gone. It made her sad to think of those animals she'd cared for for so long and how they were gone now.

    She picked up her cell phone from the side table and tried Hunt again. They had talked only for that brief moment, when Hunt had sounded hurt and beyond himself, telling her to leave, to get away, and leaving it at that. But she knew adrenaline could do that to you; it could place you outside yourself, and she hoped for that. Hoped that Hunt could get beyond all this. He had told her to take the horses. He hadn't told her why, but she knew he was preparing to run. She just hoped he was alive. Now, with Hunt not answering, doubt was beginning to sink in, and she felt this thought resting there in her stomach, hardening into a sick little ball of pain.

    She had gone to bed the night before, thinking that when she woke in the morning he would be there. She didn't know what to think now. Nothing seemed to make sense anymore. She'd made him promise he'd come home, and he hadn't. He wasn't answering his phone. Hadn't she always known about the dangers of the business? Somehow she had been blinded, perhaps by some aspect of her subconscious. Though she'd known about him, known his history, how he made his money, it had never occurred to her, not truly, that he could simply disappear.

    GRADY PULLED THE NEEDLE THROUGH. HE WAS LOOKING at himself in the mirror of a highway rest stop. It was still early and he'd pried the lock off the bathroom door with a tire iron. In his knife case he'd found a six-foot section of coarse butcher's twine, cream colored and thick as spaghetti. With one hand he held the cut on his forehead, pinched together with his fingers, working the string through with the trussing needle. A dull pressure, the thick string grabbing at his skin as it went through. Drops of blood formed and fell. He dabbed at them with the sleeve of his shirt, blotting away the blood. There was nothing to it, and after three minutes he had finished. The scalp turned purple where his head hit. It was so swollen that the pain didn't hit full, but glanced off in little fits as the needle went through and then the string. After he was done he double- knotted the ends and cinched them down, cut the excess away with the small boning knife, and stood looking at himself in the mirror. Besides the small bruised glow from his hairline, he looked just as he had before. His hair covered most of the damage, and in three days' time, he thought, it would be as if nothing had happened.

    WHEN HUNT WOKE HE COULD SEE THE MORNING sunlight beneath the shades. He smelled smoke, and when he hobbled to the window, he could see Roy out in the backyard burning a bundle of bloodied sheets. Hunt's leg was newly dressed. Though the swelling seemed greater than before, he felt more comfortable with the wound bandaged.

    "For a brief moment last night, we thought we'd be burning you out there."

    Hunt turned to look and found Nancy waiting for him, a copy of the Seattle paper in her hands. "Thank you," he said. "I'm sorry about last night. Is Thu still here?"

    "I sent her to lie down in the bedroom. She showed us the boat last night."

    "I should go," Hunt said. "Thank you. But I should go."

    "We sank it."

    "The boat?"

    "Roy towed it out around three a.m. and pulled the bilge plug. It went down easy with all the holes you left in it."

    "It's gone?"

    "Water out there deepens quick."

    "Thank you," he said again.

    Nancy considered this for a moment, then threw him the paper. "Yesterday's paper," she said. She asked him to open it to the local section. "I know you and Roy go back, but we don't need this kind of trouble. You understand?" She was standing there, across the room, with her arms crossed, waiting for him to look down at the paper in his hands.

    Hunt scanned the article, just a little something, a column of text. He didn't see his name, and after he finished searching through it, he looked up at Nancy and said, "How do you know this was me?"

    "Roy said it was the type of thing you'd be into."

    Hunt looked down at the article again. There was a black-and- white picture of the deputy who had stopped them in the mountains.

    Grainy, a picture Hunt thought had probably come from his academy yearbook. The last name was familiar to him, Drake. Hunt had known a sheriff by that name a few years back.

    "Says there that the deputy used to have a father who did the same thing you do."

    "He was the sheriff up there," Hunt said.

    "The article said that, too," Nancy said. "You should read it. You wouldn't want to miss something important."

    Hunt studied the picture of the deputy. Drake had been just a boy when Hunt had known his father, some sort of basketball player. That was all Hunt knew. He'd only spoken with the sheriff a time or two, always concerning business, the man simply competition. "I'm realizing lately that there has been a whole list of things I've missed in my lifetime," Hunt said.

    He'd been thinking about the boy, how he'd lost his father. Hunt had felt the same, his father gone, but for different reasons. He'd always thought that if he'd had a son, it would have changed him; it would have meant he had someone who belonged to him, family, someone to keep safe, to keep watch over. He thought of Nora; he thought of Eddie, the horses. He wasn't doing the best job of this lately. He was trying, but it hadn't come out the way he'd wanted it to. Not at all. "Seems like everyone I've had any contact with in the last few days has been hurt," Hunt said.

    "I don't want to be rude, but we don't need that type of trouble," Nancy said again.

    "Sorry," he said. "I should go." Hunt looked out the window at Roy, who was using the end of a shovel to push the blanket into the fire.

    "Roy is the one you should be apologizing to. He's the one taking the chances here. Just you being here is enough to put him back in jail," Nancy said. "If I had my way, you would have been gone last night. Back out there on the street and out of this house."

    "We would have been fine," Hunt said, "but I'm thankful for the help."

    "No, you wouldn't have been. You fell asleep with your gun in your hand. You could barely walk. You can't now."

    "I'll get around."

    "Roy can be as stubborn as you sometimes, and even he wants you to give it a little time."

    "I don't think that'll do me any good."

    She was silent for a while, just looking at him, his calf all bandaged up, the pants cut away in that ridiculous fashion. He was standing there with the pale morning light coming through the window, studying the newsprint in his hand. When he looked up from the article and met her eyes, she said, "You're wearing a wedding ring. You got a wife, someone you're trying to get back to?"

    "I've got a wife."

    "Do you love her?"

    "Of course I do."

    "Where is she now?"

    "How do you know that isn't her in your bedroom?"

    It isn't.

    "How do you know?"

    "A man wouldn't do that to his wife."

    "Do what?"

    "Fill her up like that, like a suitcase."

    "You saw it?"

    "Figured it out. Wasn't that hard to figure after last night. It's trouble when a man comes to the door half-dead and all he wants is a bottle of laxative. It should have told us something right then, but your mind goes somewhere else when a gun is pointed at you."

    "It's best to get that stuff out of the body as soon as possible."

    "You were protecting her?"

    "Trying to save her life."

    "That true?"

    "Course it's true."

    "I'd like to think that, though I don't know if it's the truth."

    "What else could it be?"

    "How much is she worth?"

    "I'm not going to put a price on her."

    "Put a price on her or the drugs?"

    Hunt didn't say anything. He looked out the window, the fire dying and Roy standing there watching it. "Does it seem right to you?" Nancy asked. "Nothing has seemed right to me for a while now."

    GRADY WOKE AND LOOKED TO THE EAST, WHERE HE could see the auburn sun rising. He passed a hand over his face. He had slept with the seat folded all the way back. With his fingers he wiped the sleep from the corners of his eyes, hard between his thumb and trigger finger. He rose and looked out on the farm road. On the seat beside him was the knife bag, zipper open, with the edge of the rifle stock exposed. He breathed in and looked over his shoulder, then back, nothing there. He closed the bag. A stupid, messy mistake. He looked around again, then started the car. From his pocket he took the half pack of gum he'd taken from the attendant. He was hungry and he chewed a piece of gum to keep his mind off it. He had slept for an hour, nervous and with the memory of the night that had come before.