"I'll change."
"No, you won't.
It's over."
"Ten years of marriage?"
"Over."
Latisha picked up her suitcase and walked out the door.
A second later she came back in and took her mother's frying pan off the wall.
"You'd probably sell it," she said and left again.
"I'm going with you, Joe."
"Ain't no place for a woman, Maggie."
Still she got dressed as fast as Joe did.
This was terrible, Frank sending him out by himself to hunt Larson. No posse.
No cavalry.
No lawmen from other territories.
Just Joe alone. A western nightmare right out of her father's video favorites.
There was no way she was going to let him go off by himself.
The very mention of the name
Larson
generated anger in Joe, as if
Larson challenged everything he believed in, as if Larson threatened his very life.
She didn't fully understand his anger, but she knew Larson was the flash point that might lead him to kill again. She couldn't let that happen.
She put on her parka and set her face in cold determination.
"I'm going."
She opened the refrigerator and took out the bag of sandwiches she had prepared the night before. They had planned a little picnic for today, a walk to see Clam Lagoon and Candlestick Bridge no matter what the weather.
She watched him pick up his revolver and gun belt, then put it down.
Good
, she thought
. If he had a gun and blind rage came over him… well, that could be disastrous.
It was not using the gun or killing someone that she feared,
it was the lack of thought, the rage.
But then he picked it up again and put it on.
"Damn Larson," he muttered.
Her heart sank.
He gave her a perfunctory kiss. "You stay here, Maggie,"
he said, even though she had her parka on.
He opened the door. She was right behind him.
"I'm coming."
Her short, pudgy legs could not keep up with his stride, but half way across the street, he slowed down and waited for her.
Behind the Bering Building an old Chevy van was parked.
It lacked fenders, bumpers, headlights and windshield wipers. The passenger side was banged in, the rear doors were wired shut, and the salt air of Adak had left little of the original blue paint on the van.
A wooden sign, attached to the driver's door, said
Police, Adak Island
.
Joe walked around the van, touched the metal, and kicked the tires. She noted the pleased look on his face.
"Come on, Maggie," he said.
"We gotta find Larson."
She hefted herself into the van through Joe's side and sat down in a kitchen chair attached to the floor of the van with strap iron.
She watched him as he tried to start the old engine. He bent his head to one side so his ear could pick up every nuance of the engine.
His face was alert, and his big hand turned the ignition key like a surgeon deftly making a critical incision.
Nothing.
She leaned forward as if that motion would help start the van.
Joe turned the key again.
The engine coughed, coughed again, then whined and died.
"Come on, Baby," Joe said and pulled on the steering wheel as if to coax the old engine alive.
Maggie leaned forward in her chair a little more.
He put his foot to the floor with a precise motion and held it there, then turned the key.
The van coughed, backfired, and began to shake like a can of paint in the hardware store.
"There she goes, Maggie!" Joe said, his hands shaking on the wheel.
He put the car in gear and drove around the building to the road.
"Larson. He'd go first thing down to Gilmore's.
When I get him…. Imagine, raping and killing that woman."
Joe's giant hands gripped the steering wheel.
She saw his knuckles turn white.
The steering wheel shook, but she couldn't tell if the force of his grip shook it or the engine did.
She had to find a way to keep him calm. But what?
Maybe there were some psychological tricks that doctors used, but she didn't know any.
Love.
That's what would help.
Love.
But how did you show love?
Her mother used to say as she prepared her husband's lunch, "I tell you, Maggie, you show your love for your husband by how you prepare his sandwiches. You build a sandwich, you don't just throw it together.
You make it a thing of beauty, color, texture, smell.
Sandwiches say love."
Maggie had worked hard on the sandwiches she had packed, one Swiss cheese, the second Colby, the third American.
Each sandwich was neat, evenly thick, with no mustard or mayonnaise dripping off the edges.
"I'll bet you're hungry, Joe.
No breakfast."
"I am, Maggie."
His grip on the wheel loosened.
She handed him the Swiss cheese sandwich.
He steered around a pothole then ate the sandwich.
It was gone in less than a minute.
"Mighty good."
Joe had to stop once, get out and wipe the mist off the windshield. At the bottom of the big 'U,' near Gilmore's place, Maggie saw Frank coming out of the Sea Otter's driveway.
"There's Frank. He looks worried."
Joe stopped on the side of the road, just past the driveway and tried to roll down the window.
It didn't move.
He opened the door as Frank drew near.
"Larson's been here, Joe, but he's gone now. How's the van working?"
Joe smiled.
"Runs like a kitten."
"Hi, Maggie.
You two be careful, now.
Larson's a killer.
I'm going up and see if Elvira is sober enough to talk to me.
Maybe she knows where her husband is."
Suddenly an old jeep bounced out of the Sea Otter driveway and zoomed around them.
It was Larson.
Joe pulled the door shut and stepped on the gas. The van lurched forward, but the sudden influx of gas choked the old van and it began to sputter and slow. Larson was lost up ahead.
"Damn it," Joe said and hit the steering wheel.
"Bastard."
Maggie put her hand on his arm.
"Don't worry, Joe.
You'll get him." She handed him another sandwich.
The van putt-putted along the road in the same direction as Larson. As they passed Doc's medical clinic, she saw Larson run out of the clinic and jump into his jeep.
Seconds later she saw Doc run out of the clinic, his arms waving, his mouth open with what she assumed were a stream of expletives.
Joe backed up and pulled into the clinic.
As he opened the door to the van, Doc was in mid-curse.
"…little prick rot off and … the son of a bitch was grabbing my drugs, but I caught him and threw a knife at him.
Bastard did get some antibiotics."
"Is he armed?" Joe asked.
"Didn't see anything. Catch him, Joe, and cut off his prick."
Joe pulled the door toward himself so it was only open a crack.
He looked over at her.
She knew he was trying to keep her from hearing Doc's words.
"Stealin' our medicine." Again Joe's white knuckles showed as he drove off in pursuit of Larson.
What was the origin of this rage?
She knew something of Joe's history:
how he had to fight his way through Aztec territory on the way to and from school, how he protected his little brother and sister, how his mom was proud of him for fighting - "You don't take no shit from nobody," how she worked in a bar and how she was killed by a nervous robber, how the police woman called his mother 'white trash,' how he and his brother and sister were split up and put in foster homes, how…
But where was the root of the anger and where was the solution?
Joe tapped the dashboard.
"Oil gauge is stuck."
Sandwiches…and cars…were a way into his heart.
They drove in silence for a few minutes and passed the earthquake-damaged, split-level slab of concrete that used to be Runway B.
The road swung to the right and climbed a hill, steeper than Bering Hill.
They crested the hill and saw Larson in the middle of the road trying to free his jeep from a big pothole.
Joe braked, turned off the key and jumped out of the van.
"Be careful, Joe," she shouted after him.
They were right near the little clump of trees the Navy had planted fifty years before, the only trees on Adak.
The sign, which was about a man's height, said, "You are now entering…and leaving… the Adak National Forest." The sign stood taller than most of the trees.
She squirmed over to Joe's seat and got out of the van.
Larson ran through the trees and Joe was right behind him.
What would happen if he caught him?
She entered the clump of trees in pursuit - there were only a few dozen trees in the whole forest.
The trunks were gnarled and twisted like a giant had shoved them down every time they tried to grow.
Suddenly off to her left, behind a little ridge, she saw Larson heading for the road.
Joe ran after him, twenty paces behind.
He had his gun drawn. "Joe," she called out,
but either he didn't hear her or he ignored her.
Larson got to his jeep, reached inside, hesitated a second, then when Joe was right behind him, he turned and swung a tire iron with massive force. Joe took the blow on his shoulder and slumped to the ground.
Maggie pushed a few little trees out of her way and ran toward the two men. She saw Larson take Joe's gun and then struggle to lift his jeep out of the hole.
Every muscle on his huge shoulders and neck strained.
Just as she arrived, he succeeded, got in the jeep, spun it around and headed for Downtown.
Maggie bent down to help Joe up, but he stood up on his own, his face intent on the departing jeep.
"I'm gonna get that bastard."
He ignored her help, almost pushing her aside.
"Come on," he ordered.
She tried to get in the van through his door as quickly as she could.
Behind her she felt his impatience.
Again he struggled to start the van, but this time he wasn't the artist with the recalcitrant machine; he was the short-tempered mechanic, cursing his machine.
"Would you like another sandwich, Joe?"
"No.
I'm gonna get that guy."
How could she ever stop him, wake him up, tell him that real police use their heads?
Dark clouds full of rain hung over the island.
The mist intensified and Joe had to stop twice to clear the windshield.
They had lost sight of Larson. As they neared the Sea Otter Joe suddenly accelerated again and turned sharply into the parking lot of the club.
Larson's jeep was in the parking lot and Larson himself was approaching it, coming from the club. Joe slammed on the brakes, turned off the key, jumped out of the van, and ran toward him.
"Stay there," he shouted back at her.
Maggie saw Joe push Larson against the jeep and search him. She was glad to see Joe take his own gun back. But suddenly she noticed another man creeping along the edge of the next car.
A scene from one of her father's western movies flashed into her head: the sheriff arresting the bad guy in front of the saloon while another bad guy crept up alongside the building.
Maggie pushed at the horn of the old van.
Nothing happened.
She tried to roll down the window on her side, but it wouldn't move.
She hit at the horn again and again, pushing as hard as she could.
The other man had a short stick like a policeman's club in his hand.
He was crouching down, getting ready to spring at Joe from the back.
She pulled herself into Joe's seat and opened the door, but it was too late.
The other man hit Joe on the back of the head and then Larson turned and hit Joe with a blow to the stomach, one to the head, then another to the stomach. He grabbed Joe's gun again.
Maggie jumped down from the van.
"Stop, you!" she shouted.
Larson and the other man looked up and saw Maggie coming toward them.
She recognized the other man as one of Gilmore's men, a man who had worked at the factory once or twice.
Larson pulled his leg back and kicked Joe hard in the chest.
Then he and the other man got in the jeep and took off.
Maggie lifted Joe's head out of the mud.
At first he did not respond, but then he opened his eyes.