Then she moved out of view. I heard her in the kitchen. I rolled over some, my leg still drawn up to my chest. She came back in, pistol and towels in her hands. She dropped the towels on me.
"This is what's going to happen," she said. "It's not open to negotiation. You're going to take those towels, bandage up your leg as best you can, and then we're going for a drive. Your vehicle is an automatic, correct?"
"Yes,"
"Good. Mine's a standard. We're going to take a nice, leisurely drive to Tyler and that museum. And you're going to drive. Even with one bad leg. Now." She walked over and gently tapped her foot against my head. "Get to work. Now."
No choice. Stay and get shot. Or bandage my leg, get a move on, and get shot later.
Later meant opportunities. There was no opportunity here.
I gritted my teeth and removed my hands, dripping red with my own blood, the red a striking, bright, and evil color, even though it was coming out of my own body. My lower leg felt warm, tingling, and I sat up and wiped my hands as well as I could, the hands shaking. One towel was quickly soaked and I tossed it aside, and she said, "Damn it, Cole, not on the good rug. Put it on the floor."
I said nothing, picked up the soiled towel, dropped it on the exposed hardwood floor. My hands were still shaking, and I still was cold, as I took the other towel and wrapped my leg as best I could. I took a longer, thinner towel, with bright roses and vines decorating it, and tied off the first towel. Then the throbbing started, the deep, pulsating throb that was probably the first signal from my body that something was severely wrong.
No kidding.
I wiped my hands again. She tossed over another towel, this one soaked in cold water. I wiped my hands one more time, and she nodded in satisfaction.
"Looks like you did a good job," she said. "Were you a Boy Scout when you were younger?"
"Yes," I said.
"Figures," she said. "Fascist organization. Uniforms and paramilitary and all that nonsense. All right. Get up."
I sat up against the couch, where I had been sitting peacefully a century or so ago, and levered myself up on my good leg. The throbbing was now matched with a burning sensation, running up and down my leg. Hendricks maneuvered in front of me, backing out, opening the door. She looked distressed and looked over at me and said, "Oreo."
"What?"
"The cat. It's his dinnertime. Well, he can wait. I don't think we'll be gone long. Come on."
I walked slowly, holding on to the wall for balance, trying to keep as much weight as possible on my right leg. She kept her eyes on me, the pistol firm in her grasp, and I was hating myself for being so damn weak, so damn cowed. But that pistol in her hands was magic, a piece of fabricated metal and plastic and springs that could end everything for me, with one gentle tug of the trigger.
My mouth was dry. I tried to swallow. Nothing. We were now on the outside steps. A small outside light was on, illuminating a portion of the front lawn and driveway. Otherwise it was dark, the air was sharp with the promise of winter approaching and lots of dead things piling up in the woods and along the shore, and I said, "Not too late, you know."
"How's that?" she said, now on the lawn, as if she was leading me along, which in a way she was.
"Not too late for it to end it well," I said, holding the railing tight as I went down the concrete steps.
She shook her head. "It's going to end just fine, thank you."
"But the murder and the betrayal and the ---"
Hendricks snapped. "Be quiet, all right? Just hush. Now. Where are your keys?"
"Pants pocket."
"Toss them over."
I reached the bottom of the stops and I gasped out loud as my left leg took more of the weight than I anticipated. I clenched my teeth and closed my eyes, as tears welled right up, and then I tried to shake it off, taking my right hand, putting it in my right pants pocket, and pulling out my key chain. I tossed it over and it landed short, and before I could do anything, she swooped down and picked them up, with a smile on her face.
"Not bad," she said. "I figured you were trying something right there. Make me go for the keys, perhaps catch me off guard. What did you think you were going to do? Run to the woods?"
She laughed at me as she went over and opened the front door of my Explorer. She climbed in and started the engine, and then went around and sat in the passenger's seat. The passenger's door was open and the pistol was still aimed at me.
"The life of a teacher," she said. "Explaining the obvious to the clueless. Come around and climb in, and then we'll be off. All right? And you walk over here in a straight line and nothing unusual, nothing funny. Just get into your seat."
I tried to see what was going on behind those eyes and I failed.
For a moment I thought about Ray Ericson, tied and bound on the couch, facing me and Felix. Did he feel like this? Did he feel as vulnerable, like a staked goat, waiting to become a meal for some ravenous lion? Was that what I did to Ray, sitting there, waiting for the hot oil to be flung on his exposed skin?
"Cole!" she shouted. "Get a move on!"
I moved as reasonably as I could, leaning in on my good leg, now reaching out and holding on to the smooth and shiny hood of the Explorer for balance. I gave a quick glance around the neighborhood, wondered if anyone would report a shooting, if I suddenly ducked down and tried to make my way to the rear of the house. Where at least it was dark, there was cover. It could work. It might work.
My left pants leg got hung up on the front license plate, and the pain nearly caused me to screech like an owl swooping in for the kill. I paused again as the burning and throbbing spiraled right up my leg and into my belly and my head, and I took some deep breaths and worked my way around to the driver's seat. No, that wasn't going to happen. No quick escape to the rear of the house. And the surrounding woods were so dark, I doubted any neighbors nearby would hear anything, even if it was the pistol shot to the back of the head that would spatter what was Lewis Cole onto the lawn and dead leaves of the surrounding trees.
Somehow I got to the front seat. I backed my way in and I yelped again as I dragged my wounded leg in and tried to ease it under the steering wheel. When Hendricks saw that I had made it inside, she closed her door and said, "All right, close the door. And I'll give you a minute to catch your breath. But only a minute. Don't take advantage of my generosity."
I tried to think of something to say and I just gave up. I closed the door and grasped the steering wheel, tried to ease my breathing. The pistol was now in my ribs. I said quietly, "I'm freezing. I need to turn on the heat."
"Go ahead."
I worked the controls and the heat started flowing about my legs and face, and even then the shivering wouldn't stop. Hendricks said, "Turn on the headlights."
I did just that.
She swiveled around and said, "All right. You can back it up, nice and slow. I'll tell you if anything's coming. Oh, and one more thing."
The pistol moved again, and I winced as she jammed it between my legs, right up to my crotch. She leaned into me and said softly, "I know how your mind works. I know how all men's minds work. Being hurt or cut or injured doesn't scare you, not at all. But this" ---and she jammed in the barrel again---" losing these few miserable inches of flesh and tubing, this scares you more than anything. So this is going to be the arrangement for our delightful drive to the museum. If you flash your lights, or try to exceed the speed limit, or decide to take your chance by running us into a stonewall, just remember where my finger is. One deep pothole and if I think anything untoward is going to happen, you're going to lose something intimate of yours. I might be injured, I might go to jail, and you might survive, but imagine the rest of your life without a major piece of your plumbing. Well, you do understand, don't you?"
The engine was idling nice and even. I stared at the garage and her parked Subaru. She jabbed me again with her pistol. "Well? You do understand, don't you?"
"I do. What I don't understand is how you've gotten this far without a piece of plumbing. Something called a conscience."
She laughed in my ear. "Why, Mr. Cole. Haven't you kept up with the latest in higher education? There is no such thing as a conscience. It's just a social construct, like everything else. Who's to say nowadays what's right or what's wrong? Now. Put this vehicle in reverse, and let's get going. Back her up, nice and slow."
I shivered some more, reached up to the stick shift, and within a second or two, we were slowly moving backward. I kept view in the rearview mirror and Hendricks said, "Very nice. Dead on. Dead on. Okay. Stop. Very good. No traffic. Ease on out now."
I pulled out onto the street, stopped, and then shifted into drive. Another poke. "All right. Next stop Tyler."
For some reason the drive to Tyler brought back little bits of memories, like an incoherent slide show, flipping through my mind, with no sense of order or place. I recalled the times I had driven somewhere --- to the dentist, to a job interview, to a first date --- when I wanted to make the drive drag out, where I would actually pray for traffic lights or traffic jams or tree branches across the road, anything to slow my progress to whatever doom awaited me. And then I would snap back to reality, as Hendricks moved some in the seat, as the metal barrel with the potential of so much bloody destruction was pressed against me.
The road we were on passed through the campus of Phillips Exonia Academy, where signs in the middle of the road warn one to stop for pedestrians. A group of prep school students --- mostly female ---were striding along the crosswalk, not even bothering to see if traffic would stop for them. It was a nice demonstration either of self-confidence or assurance that nothing would hurt them, not ever, and I slowed to a stop to allow them to pass. At the end of the procession, tagging along, was a young girl, maybe sixteen or seventeen. She looked at me and gave me a quick wave of thanks, and then I think she noticed the look on my face. For she then sped up, walked quicker, as if afraid that I would step out of my Ford and go over and harm her.
The procession ended. Another jab of the pistol. "All right," Hendricks said. "The next generation is gone. Get a move on."
I sped up and within a few minutes, we were through the downtown of Exonia, and we were then on the Tyler road, about twelve or so minutes away from the museum. And as I drove, I also remembered snippets of conversation with Jon, talking about the past, talking about the future. "Look around you," he would say. "Everything around you has been trod by the feet of people who lived and loved and breathed here hundreds of years ago. You're a part of history as well, my friend. People will be thinking of you and what you did, and how you lived, years from now."
Sure, I thought. And maybe they'll be thinking of the way I'll die, and I winced as I recalled the snappy comment I had made to the funeral home director the day before. I plan to live forever. Sure. Who doesn't? But was I now getting punished for that flip comment? Truly?
A signpost. We were in Tyler, passing through farmland. Amazing that a place so close to the metropolitan colossus that was Boston could still have open land, even scant yards away from the Interstate. Amazing. And amazing, too, what my leg was doing. The throbbing had slowed to a dull ache, maybe helped along by the bandage. I don't know. I just tried to keep my left leg still and keep on driving, and try to think through what I could possibly do when we arrived at the Tyler town museum.
Now we were in a chunk of Tyler suburbia. Farmland divvied up into house lots, everyone with their American dream, their American pleasure, and I wondered if any sensitive souls in those comfortable and warm and safe homes, if they trembled a bit as we drove by, me bleeding from a bullet wound, a madwoman at my side, a pistol held against me, if they could detect just a scent of what was going on, just outside their safety zone.
The speed limit was thirty-five. I was keeping it at thirty-four, and when we went through a curve in the road, a Tyler police cruiser was parked there at the side of the road, running radar.
"Don't you dare do a thing," she said.
"Right," I said.
I drove by the police cruiser, my speed still below the limit, and Hendricks glanced back and I looked to the mirror, and damn me if that green and white police cruiser didn't pull out of its hiding spot and come out in the road, following us.
"What did you do?" she demanded, turning back to me.
"Nothing," I said. "I drove by. You saw that. I'm doing the speed limit and I didn't flash the lights or anything."
Hendricks's gaze was strong upon me, and she said, "If those blue lights come on and we get pulled over, it's over for you. You got it?"
"Got it a long time ago," I said. "And shut up, will you? I'm trying to focus on my driving."
Much to my surprise, she did shut up. The road went over a little bridge that spanned the old Boston & Maine railroad tracks, and we came to a four-way intersection and a set of lights. I looked up to the rearview mirror again. The police cruiser was still there. It had two choices. My lane, which meant it was going straight or taking a right. If that was going to be the case, then I had a quick plan. I'd slowly pump the brake lights, flashing back toward them. I'd try for an SOS if I had enough time, maybe the cop back there wouldn't recognize the Morse code, but hopefully, he'd recognize something was wrong, something was going on. And I knew what Hendricks was threatening me with but I couldn't believe she would actually open fire with a cop coming up during a traffic stop. Cops hate traffic stops, and the sound of a firearm being discharged would throw them into an automatic response, and even Hendricks should know that there would be a good chance that some police-issued bullets might be flying in her direction if she fired at me first.