Frank began to run, carrying the Winchester 30/30 with both hands.
Despite all the violence and the battles on this island, he himself had not fired a gun.
In fact he had not fired a gun since just after high school when he and a few buddies spent an afternoon at a shooting gallery. What if he found Larson?
What would he do?
The weapon was heavy; the trail, mushy.
As usual the wind battered his face, but it didn't matter.
Nothing mattered.
There was just Latisha. She was in danger and he had to save her.
Frank winded quickly.
His side hurt.
Rudy's words came to him.
Keep your mind busy, Frank.
Okay, don't think about the pain in your side, keep sucking in air.
Latisha.
In the hands of a brute.
Think.
The wind howled at him from the southeast and a sudden snow squall almost blinded him.
He remembered a nun he had in grade school, Sister Mary Louise.
Everything was "Blessed be."
"Blessed be the hot sun."
"Blessed be God's rain."
The kids made fun of her by saying things like, "Blessed be the recess bell," but the "Blessed be's" stuck with Frank all his life.
Blessed be Adak's wind.
Destroyer for some, freedom for me.
If only it were behind me to make me go faster.
He passed the Diesel Electric Plant on the left. He pictured the whirling generator with its big blades.
If only his legs moved as fast as the whirling blades.
Round and round the blades went.
Dollars.
Diesel fuel brought in by armed Navy refueling vessels.
But only when ten thousand dollars could be subtracted from the Bureau of Prisons, Adak account.
Round and round.
Life was not a great crusade or a noble prison experiment.
It was keeping the generator going, keeping the families warm and the lights on.
Blessed be the holy generator.
He lengthened his pace.
He pictured Latisha in Larson's grasp and ran even harder.
Blessed be beauty.
Blessed be her caring heart.
The snow squall stopped as suddenly as it started and up ahead he saw the waters of Sweeper's Cove now suddenly calm.
Blessed be the peaceful waters.
To walk with Latisha along the shore.
He tried to run faster.
He grasped his rifle hard and pushed himself forward.
He reached the bridge over the Lake Leone creek. He was getting closer.
Past the barren hills, down the road to Finger Bay, then up ahead, the cottages.
He sneaked around to the front of the cottages, facing the water.
The last one, an A-frame with a large front window, had a flickering kerosene lamp in it.
Larson stood in full view, his back to him.
Hopefully Latisha was there, too.
He squatted down behind a clump of tundra grass and assumed the commando crouch.
Doc always told him to be a commando.
Maybe if he'd been a commando all this wouldn't have happened. But then there would have been no democracy.
Blessed be democracy.
His eyes focused on Larson.
He lined him up in the rifle scope.
Larson was eating something.
He moved toward a bedroom door, unlocked it, went in and came out a second later pulling Jeannie by the hand.
Latisha held her other hand, holding her back.
The animal. The pig. A grinding hatred filled Frank, more intense than anything he'd ever felt.
He aimed at Larson, but he did not have a clear shot.
He crouched and waited, gripping the Winchester firmly.
Blessed be the Winchester.
It was a gun that had sent him to prison.
Cursed be guns.
It was a gun, a rifle that might now save Latisha.
Blessed be guns.
Blessed be the complexity of life.
When the moment came, would he overcome this complexity and pull the trigger?
Latisha heard the key turning in the lock.
He was coming. Nothing else mattered now but Jeannie.
To save her life, to save her from rape.
To keep alive that spirit, the life that radiated from this young girl.
One of the women had come down to Finger Bay after the battle and told them of Sam's death.
Jeannie was devastated, but it seemed to help knowing that Sam had died trying to avenge her mother's death.
Latisha had hugged her for a long time and in that hug Latisha knew she was forever tied to Jeannie.
The old chair Latisha had propped up against the door splintered. Larson pushed his way in and grabbed Jeannie.
He tried to push her, Latisha, back into the bedroom.
She fought like a mad woman, hanging on to Jeannie.
This girl was her responsibility in life now.
If she had to die in this little A-frame, so be it, but Jeannie was not going to suffer a rape by Carl Larson.
But how to save her?
This was the living room of the A-frame, one old chair, a beat-up couch and the big window with its view of Finger Bay.
All the vases and knickknacks that she might have thrown at Larson were long gone from this abandoned building.
There wasn't even a heavy glass ashtray to throw.
Should she cooperate?
Strip her clothes off and suggest a three-way relationship and then knee him in the balls?
No, she didn't want to do one thing for this man.
"Fight, Jeannie," she screamed.
Suddenly a massive arm struck her face and knocked her to the floor.
Stunned, she struggled up.
Larson's back was to her.
Jeannie's pants were pulled down, but Jeannie was struggling.
Larson had his arms around the girl, trying to wrestle her to the ground.
Latisha looked up.
A chandelier, old, dusty.
If she got up on the chair and grabbed the chandelier and swung herself feet forward into his head…
Hurry. Another second and he would be on top of Jeannie on the floor.
Latisha got on the chair, on the very top.
It started to tip.
She grabbed for the chandelier and swung at Larson, her hiking boots smashing into his head.
She dropped to the floor, grabbed Jeannie and ran for the door, but Larson had already recovered.
He scrambled along the floor and suddenly she felt an iron grip on her ankle.
"Run, Jeannie," she cried.
Another hand gripped her knee. The pig was pulling himself up, using her.
She tried to shake free, to no avail.
She heard the door slam.
Jeannie was gone.
Thank God.
Larson pulled her pants down, then tackled her. She struggled, but he was in a rage now and she was no match for him.
He got on top of her,
ripped her parka open, pulled up her sweater, tore her bra off.
With one hand he held her down, with the other he loosened his pants.
She saw his ugly penis sticking up under his shorts. Fight, she told herself, fight all the way.
Oh God, here I come. I'm going to die fighting.
He sat up straight to pull his sweater off and a shot crashed through the window and then another.
Larson fell over dead.
*
*
*
Frank stood when he saw Latisha get up.
Larson's body lay still on the floor.
A fog bank moved into Finger Bay from the ocean and started to settle around him.
He walked toward the cabin, carrying the rifle in front of him.
He carried it not as a hunter might, but as if he were offering it to the gods.
Near the door he saw Jeannie, hiding alongside the next cabin.
He motioned her to join him.
At the entrance to the cabin he carefully leaned the Winchester against the siding. He felt free somehow, like killing a man had freed his soul.
He shook his head at himself. Rudy, I don't understand.
Wasn't killing wrong?
Inside he hugged, Latisha hugged, Jeannie hugged.
They all cried.
Here was family, here was love.
Latisha, Frank and Jeannie sat in the fog on a large hunk of driftwood, the trunk of a tree.
Latisha reflected wryly that it was one of the few pieces of driftwood that Boss Gilmore Enterprises hadn't grabbed and cut up for firewood.
Gilmore was like the wind - he blew here and he blew there, firewood and cars and now his new bank.
Latisha sat between Frank and Jeannie.
She put an arm around each to surround them as the fog surrounded the three of them.
On their way to this beach in Sweeper's Cove, they had to hang onto each other so as not to get lost.
And then - just as Frank predicted
- a kayak appeared out of the fog.
An old Aleut got out stiffly and approached them.
Latisha saw the strength in his face and in his walk, but she also saw the hard life he'd had.
Frank stood up to greet him.
"Welcome."
"You are still here?
I'm surprised."
"Yes, we are here."
"I come every year to honor my father.
Williwaw killed him in this bay twenty-nine years ago."
The old man looked at her and Jeannie.
"Who are these people?"
She stood up.
"I'm Latisha.
I work here.
This is my daughter, Jeannie."
The old man stared at her face, then at Jeannie's, then at Frank's.
"Are you a family?"
Frank started to sputter something, but she put her hand firmly on his arm and looked the old Aleut straight in the eye.
"Yes, we are a family."
He grunted acceptance of her statement.
"I will go now and get some fresh water and then I will stand on the beach and honor my father."
Some minutes later he returned.
"Come again," Frank said.
The old man looked at him intensely.
"Be careful of Williwaw.
He will drive you into the ocean."
Latisha stepped forward and kissed the old man on the cheek.
"We respect Williwaw."
"Yes, the old man said and pointed to Frank.
"I see the man wears Williwaw around his neck."
He turned toward his kayak.
"You know there are many ships out there?"
He pointed to the ocean.
"Yes," Frank answered.
"This is a prison.
You must be careful when you leave."
"Are you prisoners?" he asked, glancing at all three.
"I used to be," Frank said, "but now I'm a free man."
Latisha smiled and took his hand.
###
Ed Griffin teaches creative writing at Matsqui Prison, a medium security prison in Western Canada. He has published five books, including
Prisoners of the Williwaw
,
Veto
, and
Dystopia
, a non-fiction account of prison written with Mike Oulton. Ed is hard at work on a new novel about the future of the prison system.