Drift (20 page)

The air smelled fresh and clean compared to the inside of the tent, but I could also smell gasoline. I had emerged in the small space between the tent and a large tank—maybe five hundred gallons—with a hose coming off of it like an old-fashioned gas pump. Looking out from behind the tank, I could see the trailer extending off to my right. In front of me and to my left was corn stubble as far as I could see.

I couldn’t see the tiny orchard, but I turned and sprinted off at what I hoped was a perpendicular angle to the way I had come: back to the road and away from whoever was chasing me, but without leading them back toward Nola’s house.

The sweat cooled on my skin and I could feel the air as I pulled it into my lungs and let it out, each breath aching just a little bit more. I ran as fast as I ever had over the rows of corn stubble, one step between each row, repeated again and again, feeling momentarily safer each time the land dipped down low, then vulnerable again as it rose up once more.

After the second rise, I started looking for the fence. Each time I topped a hill after that, I was disappointed that it wasn’t there. The property records had said the parcels of land were owned by a bunch of different companies, but I had covered a lot of territory—too much territory for it to be any single parcel.

My lungs were burning and I was afraid that I was lost, that I was running deeper into some massive armed compound, when I chugged up a hill and saw the fence fifty yards away. As I ran closer, it seemed to grow bigger than the ten feet I had scaled on my way in.

My legs felt like rubber and my lungs were about to burst, but men with guns was more than enough incentive for me. Without slowing down, I ran up the fence on my toes and fingers and slipped over the top. Lowering myself until my arms were fully extended, I let go. As soon as I hit the ground, I scrambled into the dense growth on the other side of the fence, crouching in the darkness and trying to catch my breath.

I waited ten seconds, then peeked out, relieved to find myself on Bayberry Road, just past the curve, about a hundred yards from my house. As I was stepping out of the thicket, I heard a vehicle approaching fast and I pulled back.

It was a truck, maybe one of those that had been parked next to the trailer, sweeping both sides of the road with high-powered flashlights as it drove slowly up Bayberry, toward Nola’s farm and my house. There were two in the back and two in the cab, at least three of them armed with assault rifles.

If they were searching the perimeter, they would probably turn around and come back when they reached the line between their land and Nola’s. As soon as they disappeared around the bend, I darted across the road and up the embankment, vaulting over the fence into Meade’s Christmas Tree Farm.

The rows of man-sized trees seemed ideally suited to concealing pursuers in the dark and to framing me for an easy shot in the back. I had long since used up my emergency energy supplies, but I found enough fumes to keep me going, jogging down the row of trees in a low crouch. By the time I reached the fence that separated Meade’s land from mine, I barely had enough energy to slip through it and onto the ground.

I landed on one of Moose’s plants. A tomato squished underneath me, soaking into the back of my shirt, but I didn’t care. I lay there on my back, trying not to make too much noise as I caught my breath.

41

When my heart had slowed down and my breathing was almost back to normal, I made my way to the house, careful to stay down low.

The lights were on inside, and I couldn’t remember if I had left them that way. It had been daylight the last time I was home. There was no sign of Frank’s truck.

The front door was open.

As I slipped inside, I heard a noise coming from the kitchen. My gun was upstairs, and I had run about as much as I could, so I gingerly lifted the fireplace poker out of its holder and crept through the dining room. With the poker held high over my shoulder, I rocked twice on the balls of my feet and sprang.

Nola was just turning from the refrigerator to the sink with a foil-covered casserole dish. When she saw me, she screamed and dropped it.

I pulled up short, backpedaling and skidding, my feet threatening to slide out from under me. The dish hit the floor and smashed, sending shards of white ceramic and scraps of moldy noodles scattering across the kitchen floor.

“Nola!” I said.

She stared back at me, breathing deeply and shaking.

I put down the poker and went to her. “Jesus, are you okay?” I put an arm around her shoulder, guiding her past the wreckage of the casserole and into the dining room. “Sorry about that,” I said softly.

She looked over at me, still dazed, but she smiled and let out a little laugh.

“I didn’t expect to see you,” I said. “What are you doing here?”

“I hadn’t seen you since the funeral. I came to see how you were doing. You weren’t here, so I came in to wait. I was looking for a beer, but when I opened the fridge … All the mold … it’s disgusting.”

“Yeah, I know. I—”

She patted my cheek. “It’s okay, I’m just saying. So I started cleaning it out.”

I looked over her shoulder. The kitchen trash can was pulled over in front of the fridge. On the counter was a lineup of moldy, expired, and dried-out foods.

“Thanks.”

She smiled.

“It’s nice to see you,” I told her.

“It’s nice to see you, too.” Her eyes stayed on me a second longer, then she looked me up and down. “You look terrible.”

I smiled, about to tell her why, but when I remembered why, I stopped smiling. “You have to leave.”

“I … What?”

“You have to go.”

She laughed and stepped up very close, hooking her fingers into the pockets of my jeans. “Actually,” she whispered, coming up close to my ear. “I was thinking I might just stay right here.”

“Oh.” My resolve softened in inverse proportion to something else.

She lingered next to my ear, breathing on it, putting her teeth on my earlobe. I started to wrap my arms around her, but then I took a step back, shaking my head.

“No,” I said, more emphatically than I felt. “I would definitely like you to stay, but you can’t. You need to get out of town.”

“What? What are you talking about? Why?”

Before she could imagine any other reasons why I wouldn’t want her there, I told her a heavily edited version of my excursion onto her neighbor’s land. I mentioned the guns but left out the shooting. I wanted her to take things seriously, but I didn’t want her scared witless.

“So, you were inside that tent?”

“Yeah, but that’s not the—”

“What was in there?”

“Some plants, I guess. I don’t know. It was dark, and there were guys with guns chasing me. But the point is, you need to leave town.”

“Why do
I
need to leave town?”

“Nola, something very fishy is going on at that place, and there’s a lot of men and a lot of guns. Someone just burnt down your crops.”

“Yeah, I know, and it sucks. But what makes you think that has anything to do with what happened tonight?”

“I don’t know, but if the people who torched your farm are armed like the guys I saw, and they’re right next door, this place is too dangerous for you to be around.”

“Well, wait a second. Guns are pretty common out here—”

“Not the type of guns I saw—”

“And you were trespassing, right? They’ve got signs all over that fence.”

“Nola, they’re driving up and down our street with automatic weapons.”

“Then we need to tell Chief Pruitt.”

I snorted. “Nola, you heard him—he’s got more important things to do than investigate burnt weeds.” I could feel my annoyance rising, and I swallowed against it, trying to keep it off my face. “Look, you’re in danger, and Pruitt doesn’t care. Just go somewhere safe tonight, and tomorrow I’ll know what’s going on.”

She gave me that dubious look again, but then she looked down, like something had caught her eye. Her eyebrows furrowed. She reached over and pulled the tail of my shirt out to the side.

Looking down, I saw what had gotten her attention: a pair of holes, a few inches apart, one on either side of the seam.

“Are those bullet holes?” she asked in a breathy whisper.

I lifted the fabric to get a better look. “Yeah, I guess they are.” I hadn’t realized it had been that close.

“You didn’t tell me they shot at you.” Her eyes were changing as I looked in them, the toughness undermined by the slightest quiver of fear.

“They shot at me.”

She looked back up at me, now very serious. “It was close.”

“That’s why we have to get you out of here. Someplace safe. There’s plenty of hotels not too far from here.”

“Hotels aren’t so safe for me,” she said quietly.

“What? What do you mean?”

“They’re not safe. They’re full of chemicals.” Her voice was getting louder, her tone almost shrill. “The cleaners and disinfectants and air fresheners. They need carts to move it all from room to room, for God’s sake. Not to mention the exterminators, since bed bugs made a comeback. Doyle, I can’t just go to a hotel like most people. I’m not like most people.” Her eyes were shiny with tears, but she took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Look, I wish I didn’t have to deal with this, but I do. I don’t want to see what a third episode does to me, does to my life.”

She paused again, but I could tell she wasn’t done. “Cheryl had a third episode,” she said, almost whispering. “Now she has to live off on her own, in the woods. She can’t go to movies or restaurants. Right now, she’s driving to Michigan because she can’t get on a plane. I don’t want to be like that.”

Her frustration was so raw I could feel it. But I had to push her to go. “Isn’t there anywhere safe you could stay?” I asked softly. I thought about Simpkins, but I wasn’t about to share that thought.

She started to shake her head, but I could see a thought strike her, a thought she didn’t want to share.

“What?”

She looked into my eyes for a moment, considering it all. “Well … maybe Cheryl’s house. She’s away, and it’s clean, and I have a key. I guess I could stay there.”

“Where is it?”

“Not too far. Shachterville. A few miles.”

“Good. When can you be ready to go?”

“I don’t know. First thing in the morning, I guess.”

I shook my head. “Tonight.”

She nodded reluctantly. Then she slipped her finger through one of the holes in my shirt, touching the skin that would have been punctured if the bullet had been a few inches over. “What about you? Dangerous doesn’t affect you?”

“Not the same way, no.”

She cocked the eyebrow again.

I took a deep breath. “Look, I’ve got a gun and about fifteen years handling it. I’ll be keeping it very close.”

“And what about tomorrow night? What are you going to do then?”

I laughed awkwardly. “I’ll have to get back to you on that.”

*   *   *

I waited in Nola’s living room while she went upstairs and packed a bag. She was trying to keep her tone light and so was I, but her eyes were jittery and nervous.

Thirty minutes after I had surprised her in my kitchen, Nola was in her car, headed out of town. As I drove behind her to make sure she wasn’t being followed, I called Moose. He hadn’t heard from Squirrel, and he sounded distraught. When he asked me what I was up to, I told him it was a long story. But I told him to stay at Squirrel’s for the night, even if Squirrel came home.

He asked why, but when I blew off the question, he seemed relieved. I don’t think he wanted anything else on his mind.

I followed Nola onto Route 78, and as we had agreed, she pulled onto the shoulder a hundred yards down the road. I pulled in behind her, watching the on-ramp in my rearview to see if anyone came up behind us. After five minutes, no one did. I flashed my headlights, and we both continued on.

Ten minutes later, we turned off and I followed her for a couple of lefts and a right, making mental notes so I could find my way back. We ended up in a wooded area, in front of a small bungalow with lots of big windows and a narrow uncovered porch. I had been expecting some sort of futuristic bubble house, but then I remembered it wasn’t germs that were the problem, it was chemicals.

Nola got out of her car with a large clump of keys in her hand and opened the door. I started to go in first, but she put out a hand to stop me.

“Shoes,” she whispered, pointing at my feet.

With a sigh, I took off my shoes, then went in first and had a quick look around. The place was tiny, and the furniture was simple and a bit old-fashioned, but it seemed comfortable enough and there were no hidden goons.

I got the number for the house phone, then warned Nola not to use it, in case it was traced. I also told her to keep her cell phone on and charged. She replied with a tense nod. I also told her not to answer the door for anyone but me. “I’ll knock four times,” I told her. “Two, and then two more.”

I was now deep into cop mode, but as I was leaving, she gave me a kiss, and that stopped me. I went in for another one, a longer one. She put her hand on the back of my neck, and I put mine on the small of her back, then a little lower. For a moment, I thought about staying. To protect her.

When she pulled back, she looked me in the eye. “I worry about you playing cops and robbers—”

“Hold on, I
am
a cop.”

“Oh, excuse me,” she said sarcastically. “I worry about you playing ‘not-suspended cop in his own jurisdiction.’”

Before I could respond with a childish retort, Nola touched my cheek and looked into my eyes. “I mean it. You be careful, Doyle.” Then she stepped way from me and smiled sadly. “Now you’d better get going.”

As I drove home, I tried to think, tried to make sense of everything that was going on, but all I could think about was turning the car around and going back to be with Nola.

When I got home, I locked the doors and turned off the lights, moving a chair so I could face the front door but still feel the breeze from the kitchen window. Then I sat and I thought some more. With a gun on my lap.