“About what?”
The sergeant’s voice sharpened. “Gambling, hostage, Len Boudreau—this whole brainstorm of yours.”
“Nothing.”
The sergeant blew out some more of that sickly green smoke, this time from his nose. “Good at keeping things to yourself, aren’t you?” he said.
Cody shrugged.
“I’m six months from retirement, eighty percent pension plus benefits,” said the sergeant. “You realize that?”
“What are you going to do?” Cody said.
“Do?”
“With all your free time.”
Sergeant Orton laughed, a strange laugh, not at all amused. He choked on his cigarette smoke, gasped once or twice, tossed the cigarette out the window. “Maybe I’ll take up knitting,” he said.
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“Are you, um, married?” said Cody.
“Was,” said Sergeant Orton.
The headlights found a ruined farmhouse standing close to the road. Cody remembered it; not far ahead he’d lost sight of Big Len’s pickup and spun out. Sergeant Orton passed the farmhouse and then slowed down. Two or three hundred yards later, he almost came to a stop before turning onto a narrow track Cody hadn’t noticed that first time, if he’d come this far at all.
The track wasn’t plowed, but two deep ruts cut through the snow and Sergeant Orton followed those. They led over a shallow rise, down the other side, through a dense orchard—the trees black and twisted against the snow—to a lopsided hut or cabin with a chimney on top.
“What’s that?” Cody said.
“Old cider house,” the sergeant said. “Out of business.”
“Abandoned?”
“Yeah, abandoned.”
Clea was in there: Cody knew it beyond doubt. Sergeant Orton parked by a rusted-out tractor. They got out of the van. No lights showed in the cider house, but Cody smelled smoke. They walked to the door, a crooked, windowless door, the paint peeled off. Sergeant Orton knocked, one of those coded knocks— tap; tap tap tap; tap; tap tap tap. 309
The door opened. Backlit in the doorway by a lantern hanging from the ceiling stood Big Len. His gaze went from Cody to Sergeant Orton.
“What the hell’s this kid doin’ here?” said Big Len. Sergeant Orton drew his gun. “This kid, as you call him,”
said the sergeant, “knows everything.” He stepped behind Cody and stuck the gun in his back. “Get inside.”
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ORTON KICKED THE CIDER-HOUSE door shut with his heel. Cody took in a big dusty room with a cider-pressing machine, cobwebs all over it; old barrels stacked in the corner; tar paper over the windows to keep light from showing. “Sergeant Orton?” he said. “What’s going on?”
Orton’s features—big nose, small eyes, bushy mustache—
hadn’t changed but somehow he no longer looked like himself; now not just an older version, but no version at all. He made a little gesture with the gun. “Shut up,” he said. That gun: exactly like Cody’s father’s gun, the one in his bedside table—a Smith & Wesson .38. What was going on? Cody was standing still—they all were, nothing moved in the abandoned cider house—but in his mind things were happening at impossible speeds.
“You?” he said. “You shot Bud?”
“I told you to shut up.”
“What do you mean—he knows everything?” said Big
Len.
“Are you paying attention, for Christ sake?” Orton said.
“Didn’t you just hear him?”
Big Len glared at Orton. “Then why the fuck did you bring him here?”
“What was I supposed to do?”
“And when you did bring him here, why the fuck didn’t you throw a bag over his head?”
Orton’s mouth opened and closed.
Big Len’s gaze left Orton, shifted to Cody. “This is the old boyfriend? The one you had under control, quote? Back at the bar, sarge old buddy, I knew for goddamn sure he was out of control. Like totally.”
“Out of control?” said Orton. “Look who’s talking. If you hadn’t been out of control in the first place—or, it turns out, if you’d run a simple credit check—none of this—”
“Zip it.”
Orton zipped it, even though he was the one with the gun. At that moment Big Len’s cell phone rang. He grabbed it, said,
“Phil? What’s up?” He listened for a moment, said, “Can’t talk 312
right now—I’ll get back to you.”
And then, just as he was clicking off, Cody yelled, “Brand!
Brand!”
Big Len shoved the phone in his pocket. “What the hell? What’s Brand?”
Cody didn’t answer.
Big Len turned to Orton. “What’s Brand?”
Orton shrugged.
Len took a step closer to Cody. “What’s that mean, Brand? Tryin’ to pull something?”
Cody kept his mouth shut. Big Len smacked him hard right across it with the back of his hand, a heavy, heavy hand. Cody staggered back but kept his balance and didn’t say a thing.
“Who knows about this kid?” said Big Len.
“How do you mean?” Orton said.
Big Len glared at Orton again. “Use your head.”
“Nobody knows, not really,” Orton said.
“So he could be a drifter?”
Orton’s mouth opened, as though to bring up an objection, but he ended up just nodding his head.
Len’s gaze—pale and intelligent—returned to Cody, examined him in an unhurried way, almost as though Cody weren’t a living, breathing thing. “Maybe we can do even better than that.”
“Like how?” said Orton.
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Len’s eyes remained fixed on Cody. “Comes a time when you get out of the game, cut your losses.”
“What game?” said Orton.
“‘What game?’” Len said in a high, mimicking voice. “Suck it up, sarge. Him bein’ here—a big mistake, and all yours.”
“What was I supposed to do?”
“You already said that. It didn’t help. Say something that helps.”
“Cut your losses—Christ. How did you think this was ever going to work?”
A vein bulged in Len’s forehead, big and blue. Cody thought he was going to shout, but instead his voice dipped low. “Nobody cheats me,” he said. “That clear by now? I’ll burn their fuckin’
house down, blow up everything, down to the ground.” He stared at Orton until the sergeant dropped his gaze. Orton moved toward the fireplace, a blackened fireplace filled with ashes. It was cold in the room, and Orton made a breath cloud when he spoke. “He’s got a car.”
“Yeah?” said Len. “Here?”
“Not far,” said Orton.
“We’ll need the keys,” Len said.
Orton took Cody’s car keys from the pocket of his parka, held them up.
“Well, well,” said Len with a smile. “You’re way ahead of me after all.”
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Orton shook his head, a vigorous side-to-side motion, as though that suggestion was unthinkable.
Len laughed.
“What’s funny?” Orton said.
Len stopped laughing. “Not a goddamn thing.” He picked up a roll of duct tape that lay on the floor by the cider press. Len had to stretch a little to do it; the movement made his sleeve slide up past the wrist, revealing the shark tattoo.
“What’s the cop expression?” Len said. “Secure the prisoner?”
Orton hesitated. Len made a gimme motion with his hand. “I’ll hold the iron for you.” Orton took two or three steps across the room, gave the gun to Len. Len didn’t quite have it when Cody wheeled around, grasped the door handle, shifted it the wrong way— come on, come on— then the right way, finally throwing the door open. He bolted outside. Or started to bolt outside: Cody hadn’t even completed one full stride—not his usual explosive burst, his knee still unready for that—before something hard and heavy came crashing down on the back of his head. He sagge
d to his knees in the snow, tried to get up—
maybe even rising a little—and thought for an instant that he was going to stay conscious, but did not.
“Is someone there? Who are you?”
Cody dreamed he heard a voice.
“Can you talk? Are you all right?”
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The best of all possible voices. Down where he was, under the pain, he settled in for a long listening session, but the voice went silent, leaving nothing to hear but a throbbing, very close, and, farther off and faint, the occasional crack and pop of burning wood. Cody opened his eyes. He saw nothing at all, total blackness. He tried to reach up with his hands, explore the space around him; but his hands would not move. They were bound behind him: duct tape. Everything came back to him, and with memory came the full force of the throbbing pain in his head. His body sent other signals—like he was lying on a cold floor, kind of twisted up. He tried to rise, found that his legs were taped together from just below the knee down to the ankles.
“Is someone there?”
That voice, not a dream voice, but real, the source close by but muffled, maybe by an intervening wall: Clea’s voice. He called out, “Clea!” Or tried to; they’d taped his mouth shut too, muffling the Clea sound down to something between a grunt and a groan.
“Cody?”
Cody made the sound again, more of just a grunt this time, the kind of grunt that said yes.
“Oh my God—Cody. It’s you.”
He grunted again.
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She moaned, a soft, despairing sound, but he could hear.
“What did he do to you?”
Cody tried to grunt in a reassuring way. Where was he? Where were Orton and Big Len? He looked around, every movement igniting stabbing pains in his head, and saw nothing. Were his eyes taped, too? He blinked; he could blink, no problem. Would that have been possible with duct tape over his eyes? No.
Cody wriggled a few inches across the cold floor, bumped up against something solid and vertical, a wall or door. He rolled the other way, used his momentum to get up on his knees. Not very high, but high enough to make him dizzy. Blackness spun around him and he lost his balance, tilting sideways, falling into that solid vertical, headfirst. He cried out in pain, a cry that didn’t get out, got bottled up in his throat, and slumped to the floor.
“Cody? Cody?”
Cody lay on the floor, inhaling air through his nose, finding he couldn’t get quite enough. Did he feel liquid in there? Was his nose bleeding, drowning him in blood? Cody rolled over onto his stomach, heard a faint drip drip on the floor. Yes, his nose was bleeding, but now he could breathe better.
“Cody? Cody?”
He breathed, tried to get himself together. He was in some 317
unlit space—most likely in the cider house—separated from Clea by a wall, meaning she was in an adjoining room. Where were Orton and Big Len? He’d been making noise, noise they would have heard. At that moment he remembered something Big Len had said: We’ll need the keys. Oh, God. He rolled onto his side, kicked out with his taped-together legs, struck something solid.
“Cody?”
He grunted.
“That’s the door. You’re—he must have put you in the closet. I can’t see, but I heard the sounds of it.”
She couldn’t see? Had they—Cody couldn’t even allow himself to have the thought.
“He—he never lets me see him. But it’s Len, isn’t it—from the bar?”
Cody grunted. How much time did they have? Bear claw place and back: His mind was foggy, refused to make calculations. But in a closet? Had to get out. He squirmed around, rolled a bit, rose again to his knees, again felt a wave of dizziness and pain. This time he fought it off. Cody curled his toes up under him, rocked back, forced himself to his feet. More dizziness, more pain. He leaned against the wall; or maybe door—he could feel the doorknob pressing against his thigh. Cody tried moving his fingers. They moved; the duct tape 318
didn’t extend that far. He shifted around, got his back to the door, felt for the knob with his fingertips. He tried turning it. The knob turned, despite the awkwardness of his grip, but the door didn’t open.
“Cody?”
Balancing against the door, Cody got down on his knees again, tricky with his lower legs taped together. His attempt to ease himself onto the floor ended with a sideways fall and another head bang, this one on the side but a pain igniter just the same.
“Oh, Cody.”
Had he made another one of those throat cries of pain? That had to stop. Focus. And not a hard floor, anyway, but a dirt one as he was now realizing, kind of late; so no more fussing. Cody rolled onto his back, arms jammed beneath him, and raised his legs. His feet touched a wall. He changed positions, rotating his body, his feet touching another wall—and then the doorknob. Cody felt around, found the door frame, shifted his feet—bound together, yes, like the end of a battering ram—
just to the other side of the knob, away from the frame, and drew his knees back until they must have been almost touching his face, had he been able to see them. Then he kicked out with all his strength.
A loud thump; the door didn’t give. Cody battered it again, 319
and again, and again, giving everything he had, grunting with the effort, ignoring the pain that awoke in his bad knee. Again and again and— crack. Crack! Something splintered. Cody bashed at it once more, and the door swung open.
“Cody? Are you out? I’m over here.”
Cody knew where she was. He could see her. The night sky, visible through two high windows, shone with a dark kind of light, illuminating a cellar full of shadows and one shadow in particular, the shadow of a human figure, seated in a corner. A human figure with her arms behind her back and a black bag over her head. And not only that: Cody could see the dull gleam of chain links, running from a ring in the wall to a shackle around her ankle. He wanted to kill.
Cody rose up on his knees, tried to move toward her, found he could barely inch along. Much faster to roll: He dropped down, rolled across the cellar floor, bumped up against her leg.
“Oh, God,” she said.
He kind of stroked her leg with his head, almost like a dog, but it was all he could do. Clea pressed her leg against him.
“Cody,” she said.
He grunted, an urgent, demanding sort of grunt.
Clea understood. “My fingers are free,” she said. Cody squirmed around behind her, saw her wrists tied 320
together with rope, her fingers facing out. He lowered his face to her right hand. She felt around. “Duct tape?”
He grunted.
Clea felt around some more, probing with her fingernails.
“Okay,” she said after a few moments. “My thumb’s under the seam.” Cody heard a brief ripping sound. “There. I’ve got a grip. Try turning your head.”
Cody turned his head. More ripping. He changed his position, moving sideways to her now, turned his head some more. Rip. He shifted again. This time when he turned his head, she turned her body the other way, and they made a much longer rip. “That’s it,” she said. Now they were working quickly, like a team that had practiced a difficult trick many times. Rip, rip, rip. The pressure of the duct tape over Cody’s mouth began to ease. One last rip and the tape drooped and fell away. Cody rose to his knees and then his feet. He got a corner of the black bag over Clea’s head between his teeth and pulled. The bag came off. Cody spat it from his mouth.
Their faces were close together. Even in the shadowy darkness, Cody could see how bad she looked, face so hollow, eyes two black pits. He saw, but tried not to show anything, instead just gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, almost shy. For a moment he thought she was going to cry, but she did not. “Crazy,” she said, “but I thought you’d come. I thought it 321
a lot.” Her voice broke and then tears did come, hers and his mingling on their faces.
“Not much time,” he said. Clea nodded, stopped crying at once.
&nbs
p; Almost without words, they knew what to do. Cody turned. Clea began digging with her teeth at the tape around his wrists. She found a corner, bit down. Rip. She jerked her head back. Rip rip. The tape loosened. Cody worked at it with the fingers of one hand, then squeezed his other hand free and tore off the rest of the tape. A few seconds later, he’d freed his legs. He felt for his cell phone: gone.
Cody hurried behind her, started on the rope around her wrists. “Is there light here?”
“Just when he brings the lantern.”
Cody fumbled with a knot. “You’ve been like this the whole time?”
“Mostly just the chain,” Clea said. “If he comes down he wears a mask. But tonight before they—are there two of them now?”
“Yeah.”
The knot loosened. “Before they brought you down, he tied me up and covered my head. I . . . I hate that.” She started crying again.
“Everything’s all right,” Cody said, probably a pretty stupid 322
thing to say. But she stopped crying. “Wriggle your wrists.”
Clea wriggled her wrists.
“Pull.”
She pulled. One hand came free. Then the other.
Cody drew her to her feet. They held each other. Over her shoulder Cody saw a seatless toilet close by, within reach of the ankle chain. To kill: oh, yeah.
He bent down, examined the shackle around her ankle, found the keyhole.
“Where does he keep the key?”
“I only saw it once, after he knocked me off Bud and brought me here,” Clea said.
“Outside that warming hut?”
“That’s where he brought me first. Before he tied me up, I tried to sneak a picture of him and hide my phone, but I guess it didn’t work out. Is Bud all right?”
“Yeah.”
Cody followed the chain to the ring in the wall. He tugged on the ring, then pulled at it, then kicked the wall; all useless.
“Is there an ax or anything?”
“Not that I’ve seen.”
“Maybe upstairs.”
“Don’t go.”
Don’t go: last words of the “Bending” poem. Cody didn’t 323
go. Instead, he hurried around the cellar—once bumping into the hot side of a woodstove he hadn’t noticed—finding nothing useful. But then a spade, lying in a wheelbarrow. Cody grabbed the spade, straddled the chain, attacked it with the pointed blade over and over, using the spade as a pile driver. No good. He moved to the wall, a wooden wall, the ring bolted in place. Cody started smashing at the wall with the spade, all around the ring, at first getting nowhere, but then a crack appeared, and another. He went a little crazy, fury overcoming him, entered a savage state, trying with such intensity to destroy that wall, destroy the whole cider house, that he almost didn’t hear Clea.
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