My only thought is Espy, and I’m about to head up the stairs when, from my peripheral vision, I see a red luminance coming from the direction of the front door. It’s like the blinking of an alarm clock after a power outage, only I remember no clock in that part of the house. The curious side of me wages war with the part that wants to rush upstairs, wake up Espy and get her to the Mustang, but the blinking light wins out.
I pad down the hallway, giving the dead man as wide a berth as I can, and pass the living room before flattening myself against the wall and peering around the doorjamb. On the ceramic tile, near the shoes that form a neat row against the wall, is an object the size of a toaster—the large sort that can handle eight slices of bread. I see most of it in shadow, except for the rectangular display that’s flashing a series of numbers in a lazy pattern, which alternately casts an eerie glow in the small space and then snatches the meager light away. I step closer to the thing until I can see the display more clearly. It flashes 1:39 . . . 1:38 . . .
1:37 . . .
I can’t remember moving but I’m suddenly at the foot of the stairs, my free hand on the rail propelling me upward. I now understand the purpose of the device thumbed by the dead assassin. Frantic, I fumble with the doorknob to Espy’s room, then strike the door with my shoulder and it gives way with a loud crack. I’m at her side as she bolts upright.
“Get up!” I order, pulling hard enough on her arm so that she obeys, even before she sees it’s me who is pleading. In my mind I can see the display of the malevolent toaster, and I know it’s counting down with a single-mindedness, one that’s immune to indecision. I grab her jacket off the chair by the closet as I consider our escape. The front door’s no good—not only because we might not make it in time, but also because it might be wired to the bomb. Or it could be that the dead assassin has friends waiting out front. I consider for a second the back porch, but I’m not willing to play chicken with the countdown.
“What’s going—”
I halt the question by tossing her the jacket. I hurry to the window and have to set the gun down so I can undo the latch. When I get the window open, the cold air rushes in. The ground is maybe fifteen feet below, and I see there are no handholds, no drainpipes, nothing but a free fall to the ground below.
I take hold of Espy’s arm and pull her toward the window. Maybe it’s the fact that she’s still sleepy, or because I’m sending out a definite life-or-death vibe, but she lets herself be walked forward. Until she reaches the window. As her part becomes clear, she pulls back.
“Jack! What’s happening?” she demands.
“You have to trust me! Please, I don’t have time to explain.”
The urgency in my voice causes her to reply with a grim nod. She moves to the window, tosses her jacket to the ground below, and places both legs over the ledge until she’s sitting on the sill. She then flips over onto her stomach and shimmies down until her hands are all I can see. There’s the briefest of hesitations before she lets go and drops out of sight.
The cold bites into me as I follow, the thin fabric of my borrowed pajamas no match for the elements. Like Espy but with less grace, I shift into a similar position on my stomach and then lower myself so I’m supported solely by my hands on the windowsill. Because I’m holding the gun in my hand, the maneuver is a bit more precarious. In my mind I can see the bomb’s timer approaching the critical moment, and it is this, plus the fact that the fingers of my right hand are being crushed between the sill and the gun, that lets me release my grip.
I come down hard on a shrub, and my injured knee screams in pain. Ignoring it, I quickly look around in the dark until I see Espy standing a few feet away, shivering as she slips into her jacket. I stumble out of the landscaping. At this point, the darkness is both friend and foe, and I hold the gun in front of me with the certainty that I’ll use it if I have to, that what I’ve seen this night has ripped civility from me like an old bandage.
I grab Espy’s hand and, heedless of direction, start to run. My bare feet kick up the wetness of the grass, but by now I hardly feel the sensation. In fact, I don’t feel much of anything on a physical level. Adrenaline has done its work, creating an insulating capsule of survival.
It seems as if we’ve traveled only a few yards before a concussive blast of sound and light lifts me from the ground and sends me hurtling into the darkness. And I find that I have only one thought during my flight, and it’s that I can no longer feel Esperanza’s hand in my own.
I
was sitting in the stands at Fenway Park, Section 86, right field, when suddenly the ball hit me in the temple. I was taking a bite from my chili dog, distracted, when I heard the crack of the bat like a gunshot. By the time I looked up, the ball was close enough that I could see each individual stitch. Now I’m facedown on the concrete, and people step over me as they head for the bathroom, or a concession stand, or back to their seats laden with nachos, dogs, and beer. A few of the careless ones slosh their cups as they step over my prone form, and beer drips down on my face. I hear the crowd roar as the batter crosses home plate. The Sox win . . .
I force my eyes open, blinking until I can see past the bright lights that dance over my retinas, the scent of ballpark hot dogs lingering. A sharp pain runs the length of my skull as I lift my head. I run a searching hand over the focal point of the pain and my fingers come away wet. With a groan, I roll onto my side and force myself up to something resembling a sitting position. A light rain has started, and it falls like a cold mist between the tree line and me. Somewhere on the tip of one of my brain’s lobes—the one responsible for handling the fulfillment of immediate needs—is a sense that I should be concerned, that I’m in a situation where urgency is required, and this doesn’t look at all like Fenway.
From behind, I hear a soft moan. And when I turn and find Esperanza lying next to me like a discarded rag doll, the cobwebs vanish. Instantly I remember where I am, and I see the leveled structure in my periphery as I rush to help Espy. The residual smell of hot dogs gives way to that of charred wood as flames engulf the ruins.
I put my hand on Espy’s shoulder and give her as thorough an exam as one can give in the light provided by a structural fire, and in the rain, and when the other person’s lying facedown and wearing a jacket. There are no obvious broken bones, but I have no way of knowing about internal injuries.
“Esperanza, you have to get up.” I give her shoulder a little shake and feel her stir.
After another groan, she pushes herself off the ground on unsteady arms. I slip next to her and let her lean on me, brushing the dark hair from her face. Her eyes are clear, if rimmed by pain, and I can’t see anything to indicate a concussion.
“Can you move?”
“If I have to.”
“You have to.”
While steadying her, I remember the gun. When she can stand upright without my help, I go back to where the blast threw me and start to feel in the grass, making an expanding circle from that spot until I find it nearly ten meters away. I hesitate for only a second before picking it up and, in a crouching run, returning to Espy. Our escape took us out a window on the side of the house away from the front entrance, and though it would seem we’re alone here, I can’t assume anything. While the explosion gutted the house, it remains an obstacle that’s keeping me from seeing the driveway. Another thing I can’t gauge is how long we were unconscious. My gut tells me I was out for less than a minute, but I have no way to know for certain.
I take Esperanza’s hand and, in a move that catches my companion by surprise, start toward the fire. She tugs at me, but I strengthen my grip and pull her along. I take us as close to the burning house as I can, stopping just before the heat causes pain.
“What are you doing?” Espy asks.
With the hand holding the gun, I motion to the empty expanse surrounding us. “Look. We’re in the middle of nowhere. The nearest neighbor is four miles away, and Laverton is almost ten. Neither of us have shoes. I don’t have a coat. We’ll either freeze to death or one of us will get bit by a snake before we can get help.”
That seems to satisfy her. I begin walking toward the right because the fire seems less intense there. When I reach the corner—or what would have been a corner if the bomb hadn’t done its job—I peek around.
“What—”
I cut Espy off with a quick squeeze of her hand. Three vehicles are parked in the driveway. Jim’s Dakota lies under a coat of rubble, broken two-by-fours and roof shingles, and the windshield has a long crack on the driver’s side. It’s probably drivable. Which is more than I can say about the Mustang. Being nearer to the house, the car took more of the brunt of the explosion. The windows are gone and the interior is ablaze. But it’s the third vehicle that grabs my attention. It’s a high-end SUV, although I can’t determine the make and model from where I am. The passenger door is open and a solitary figure in dark clothing stands next to it. He’s watching the house and, if I can make some sense out of the expression on his face, I’d say he looks worried, indecisive. And no wonder; his buddy was supposed to be out of the house before it went up.
Despite the heat from the fire, I’m shivering in my wet pajamas, and my feet are hurting. Too, my knee throbs with some urgency, a warning that it will not put up with much more. I’m trying to think through my options, and the ugly truth seems to be that I have no enviable choices, only a slew of mystery doors to open, and the knowledge that behind each lurks something dangerous. The trick is in figuring out which risk is the most manageable.
“Stay here,” I say, then release Espy’s hand and take a step before she tries to stop me.
“What are you going to do?”
Rather than give her an answer, I gesture for her to remain where she is and walk out into plain view of the man by the SUV, the gun held tight in my hand. I move fast, closing half the distance before he realizes I’m there. When I see him begin to reach for something, I point the gun upward and fire a shot.
“Don’t do it!” I shout, still striding toward him. The rain’s coming down harder now, plastering my hair to my head and stinging the raw spot on my temple. The man hesitates, possibly because I must look like something out of a horror film. When his hand makes a sudden move, I shout again and pull the trigger.
His hand comes up just as he’s hit. The force of the impact staggers him. For a moment that might seem comical were it not for the terrified look on his face as he glances down at the small hole in his chest. He reaches up and touches the place with his finger. He raises his eyes, looking at me. Bile rises up in my throat before the man falls to the ground. I’m retching before I can even be sure he’s dead. It sickens me how easy it is to kill someone.
Once my stomach is empty, I call for Esperanza and head for the SUV where, for the second time in ten minutes, I go through the pockets of a dead man. Like the other, this one is carrying nothing of any value. But as I do a quick search of the SUV, I see one shiny piece of good fortune in the ignition.
Just seconds later, Espy joins me. Her expression as she takes in the scene is hard to watch, especially when her eyes come to rest on the gun that I hold with an ease born of necessity, and of years of hunting with larger guns with my father.
“Let’s go,” I say, sliding behind the wheel of the SUV. I fire the engine as she, after one final look at the dead man, climbs in and shuts her door. She’s silent while I turn us around and start down the driveway, headlights kept off, our way guided only by the dim yellow of the running lights.
It’s a Lexus. The odometer reads 234 kilometers. It’s 220 from here to Melbourne, which means it’s a rental, probably paid for with a pilfered credit card. Nestled in the dash is a satellite navigation system. On it are a few thin road markers and a single large dot in the center of the screen, the word
destination
along the bottom edge, and an address. Jim’s house. The sick feeling returns as I become fully aware of the terrible fact that Jim and Meredith are dead because of me—because I showed up on their doorstep.
I guide the truck along the narrow driveway until we reach the main road. There I hesitate as I consider our options. Laverton is to the east, and there’s a whole lot of nothing for a considerable distance to the west. I glance at the gas gauge and am relieved to see that it’s nearly full. The engine sounds loud as we idle, but that has to be normal, considering the precision engineering that went into the vehicle.
I look over at Espy. She’s watching out the passenger window, and she’s much quieter than I’m comfortable with. I’m not sure what to make of it, and I find myself wishing for the more combative Espy to resurface. Her silence speaks volumes about the gravity of our circumstances. She must sense that I’m watching her, or maybe she just wonders why we’re not moving, because she turns from the window and meets my gaze.
“You’re bleeding,” she says.
“I
was
bleeding. Now I think I’m clotting.”
That earns a small, tired smile. She leans closer to examine my head, frowns, and raises a hand toward me but then draws back.
“You have a small stone in your head,” she says.
“What?”
“There’s a stone in your head. About the size of a marble.”
She casts her eyes around the truck, taking in the dash and console and the seat behind us. She pops open the glove box and, atop a slim plastic folder that probably holds information from the rental agency, she spies a box of tissue.
“Hold still,” she says as she pulls several tissues from the box. In the dim light she studies my head and begins moving the hair away from the wound. I exercise every adult muscle in my body to hold still, to keep from pulling away and screaming like a three-year-old.
There is a sensation of digging, and soon the ordeal is over and she’s holding up something for my viewing pleasure. A jagged stone, covered in my blood. I feel a fresh line of blood running down my face, but quickly Espy applies a tissue to the reopened gash.