(2008) Down Where My Love Lives

by Charles Martin

  I shook my head again.

  He laid the shotgun on a velvet cloth laid out across the countertop. "You hunting something else close-up?"

  I bit my lip and half-nodded. There was one choke wider than skeet. It was called cylinder bore and was used primarily by law enforcement. It gave the widest pattern in the shortest distance and really had only one purpose.

  Vince looked at the shotgun. "Police and SWAT carry theirs down to fourteen inches." He ran his fingers along the blued steel. "But us normal citizens can't go below eighteen." He shrugged. "Unless you want to apply for a special permit, or your buddy comes in here and puts it on his books."

  I shook my head. "Let's just go eighteen, maybe even eighteen and a quarter." I laid my hand across the barrel. "Legal, but..

  Vince picked up the shotgun again and interrupted me. "You sure you want to do that to this? They don't make them like this anymore."

  I nodded. Given the right machinery, cutting off a shotgun barrel took about thirty seconds. Vince had the machinery that could cut, sand, and polish it.

  He stubbed out his cigarette and said, "Give me about ten minutes."

  I shopped the aisles and then returned to the counter as Vince was pulling off his black apron and oiling the shotgun. He handed it across the counter.

  "I saw a lot of those in the war."

  "What do I owe you?" I asked.

  He shook his head. "Nothing. But if your greens or watermelon come in this year, I'll take whatever you got."

  "Will do."

  I SHUT THE DOOR OF THE VAN, EYED THE NOWshorter shotgun, and decided to leave it behind the backseat. I shuffled under the fence and up the drive. I smelled smoke and saw the white cloud wafting up just beyond the trees. When I cleared the canopy, a trash pile was smoldering not far from Bryce's trailer. It was mostly ashes and soot, meaning it might've been lit sometime yesterday.

  I walked up to the trailer and knocked on the door. No answer. I walked around to what was now Bryce's film library and projection house. No answer. I walked around back toward the obstacle course and whistled, then I walked back to the trailer, pushed open the door, whistled inside, and waited. Nothing. I turned around. And almost peed in my pants.

  Not three inches from my face stood Bryce, and it took me a second or two to recognize him. He had lost weight. A lot of weight, maybe fifty pounds. He was chiseled, clean-shavenboth his face and head-and he wore military BDUs. They were camouflage, starched, and ironed to a crease. His black boots were polished to a mirror shine, and he carried what looked like an ivory-handled Colt 1911 in a shoulder holster.

  He stood looking at me, studying my face and features as though we'd never met. While he studied, he reached into the pocket on his thigh and pulled out a pack of chewing gumthe kind with the little pockets protected by foil. He popped all twelve pieces out of the sheet of gum, tossed them into his mouth, and started chewing with great labor.

  The smell of spearmint was overwhelming. Bryce chewed for several seconds, swallowing what was obviously extreme production by his saliva glands, and continued to study me while his eyes watered. When he had the gum in a manageable wad, he looked me over and said, "Dylan."

  I stepped back. "Hey, Bryce."

  His sleeves were rolled up and buttoned, exposing arms that were suntanned and rippling with muscle and veins. On the opposite strap of his shoulder harness he carried a large silver-handled, brass-butted survival knife. The thing was at least a foot long. The handle hung down toward his waist and could be slid from the sheath with a simple flick of the tab that locked it in place. Both the knife and the pistol were oiled and appeared to have had their fair share of use.

  I eyed the weapons and Bryce, who was still chewing vigorously. Without a word, he turned with precision, hopped off the steps, grabbed a rucksack that I had not noticed, and hoisted it onto his shoulders. It was fully loaded, probably weighed a hundred pounds, and Bryce didn't even seem to notice it. He cinched down the straps and waist belt, nodded, turned toward the woods, and began what can only be described as a cross between a march and a jog.

  "Bryce!" I managed.

  He stopped, double-timed it back up the hill, and stopped once again just inches from my face. He was sweating, the vein along the right side of his brow was throbbing, and he looked magnificent.

  "I just ... we just ... ummm, Maggie's pregnant."

  Bryce stopped chewing, looked from me to the ground to the treetops and maybe to an image in his head. "Maggie?"

  I nodded. His brow wrinkled a bit, then control took over once again. He stuck out his hand, and I took it. Or rather, he took mine.

  I'd never felt a hand that strong. It was a vise. If he had wanted to crush mine, he could have. The muscles in the palm were thick and covered in callus. But like the rest of Bryce, his hand wasn't dirty. He was meticulously clean and smelled of deodorant and aftershave. He grasped my hand, shook gently, turned, and then disappeared into the trees. Within seconds, I couldn't even hear him walking.

  AN HOUR LATER, I PULLED INTO THE DRIVE AND idled around back. I admit, I was growing accustomed to airconditioning and cruise control-but the minivan couldn't hold a candle to my truck. Maybe my identity was too closely linked to some rusted metal and a few working parts, but the absence of my truck had left a sour taste in my mouth. I missed it: I missed the musty smell of sweat mixed with oil, the way it sounded when I cranked it, the way it needed a few minutes to warm up in the morning, the way I knew when to add to or change the oil, the play in the steering wheel, the way the door sounded when I shut it, and the sound the window made when I lowered it.

  I put the Honda in park, shook my head to get out the bitter taste, and then imagined my wife strapping our son or daughter into the child-restraint seat behind me.

  It was late, and the sun had already fallen behind the trees. I grabbed my scanner-now my constant companion, since Blue seldom left Maggie's side-and stepped out of the van.

  First thing I saw was Maggie sitting on the back steps with a large carving knife in one hand and a chunk of watermelon in the other. Her feet straddled a huge melon that had been whacked down the middle and already had most of the heart cut out of it. She had red juice smeared onto both cheeks and dripping off her chin. Her cheeks were so stuffed with watermelon that she looked like a chipmunk. Blue was licking the right side of her face.

  I rested my foot on the first step and eyed the watermelon. "Where'd that come from?"

  Maggie took another bite and smiled earlobe to earlobe. She took another enormous bite, squeezed juice out the sides of her mouth, and forced her lips into a funnel. She leaned back, lifting her heels off the steps, then lurched forward, spitting the seed high over my head and into the grass.

  Blue jumped off the steps and started sniffing the grass. I wiped my face where Maggie had just covered me in watermelon puree. She pointed the carving knife out across our pasture toward Old Man McCutcheon's farm, which bordered ours.

  Old Man McCutcheon was rather particular about his watermelon crop. Not only was growing watermelons a science that he studied; it was also something he protected-vehemently. And it had been this way as long as Amos and I could remember.

  Sure, we'd stolen a few back in our day, but that ended with us tangled in an electrical fence after being spotlighted like two deer in the headlights. After McCutcheon cut the power and relieved us of the melons we'd been trying to steal, he sat us down in his kitchen, handed us the phone, and made us call our folks. And since stealing was stealing, that ended poorly too.

  It would be years before we ventured back into his fields, and then only when we were certain beyond any shadow of a doubt that he and Mrs. McCutcheon had driven their motor home north for their every-two-years ten-day vacation.

  Evidently Maggie had no such inhibition. She pointed the carving knife behind her. Stacked up like firewood sat five more watermelons just as large as the one she was currently dissecting. Given their size and weight, and what I knew of her size and wei
ght, that meant she'd made no fewer than six trips across Old Man McCutcheon's fence and into his fields. One trip and you might get lucky. Two and you're tempting fate. Six and you're courting the dark side.

  I smirked. "You go shopping?"

  Her mouth was packed. There was no way on earth she could form a complete sentence. Maggie bit again, squeezing out more juice. "Uh-huh."

  "Wow," I said, sitting next to her. "Must have been a long walk home from the grocery store, since I had the van."

  Maggie's only reply was to lean back, lift her heels, inhale deeply, funnel her lips, and lurch forward again, sending the seeds out farther than the first. I looked closer and noticed that the ground was covered in shiny black dots. I got up and grabbed a melon, set it between my legs, and pulled Papa's yellow-handled Case Trapper from my back pocket. I slit the melon down the middle, cut out the heart, and buried my face in sweet South Carolina. Few things are better, and knowing she'd robbed Old Man McCutcheon made it all the sweeter.

  By dusk, about the time the first of the wood ducks screamed overhead en route to their roost somewhere south along the river, we'd covered the grass in seeds, spit, laughter, and watermelon rinds.

  It grew dark, and the fireflies lit up the night. They danced in silence over and in between the cornstalks, filling our eyes with wonder and lazy amazement. A gentle breeze ushered in and blew off some of the dust and heat. I grabbed a black plastic trash bag and began picking the rinds off the grass. The breeze shifted and swirled about the house, bringing with it an earthy smell and ... the smell of smoke.

  I stood, sniffed the air, and followed it toward the direction it had come from. Smelling smoke in the country was nothing new, but doing so on a breezy night like this, when the forest service never would have issued a burn permit, gave me pause. Then I smelled the unmistakable tinge of kerosene, which meant one of two things: a gas station had just blown up, or somebody's old house, made of heart of pine, also known as "fat lighter," was burning to the ground. Given the conditions and the absence of a gas station within ten miles of my house, I guessed the latter. When the scanner crackled five seconds later, it confirmed my fears.

  I ran inside, jumped into my firefighting pants and boots, slid the suspenders over my shoulders, and ran back out the door, carrying my helmet and jacket and tripping over my own feet. Maggie was sitting on the porch listening to the scanner, and her eyes told me that the seriousness of what she was hearing outweighed the sight of me in my suit. She ran with me to the van and said, "I'll check on Amanda."

  I threw my stuff in the back and took a long look south. The black billow of pine burning hot clouded the night sky, but it was the sight of the flames almost four miles away that really got my attention. I kissed Maggie, jumped into the van, slammed it into drive, and spun the front tires out the drive way. I turned onto the blacktop and nearly collided with Amos's truck as he spun sideways out of his own drive. I corrected and let him straighten out, and then I, too, punched the accelerator to the floor. I only looked down once, but when I did, the speedometer was pressing against the plastic somewhere north of eighty-five miles an hour.

  We pulled into the parking lot that was swirling in red flashing lights and firemen running around like ants. I threw on my helmet and started toward the source, but the heat was so intense that we couldn't get any closer than the front steps of the church. Pastor John's Cadillac, parked right up front, had already been consumed by the flames, and when I looked up, the steeple was just beginning to fall. The collapse of the narthex sent a huge flash of flame and sparks out onto the men holding the hoses, all of which were trained on the base of the flames.

  The fire must have started in the narthex, because not much of it remained. Based on the flames shooting out of the roof, half the pews were gone and the altar wouldn't be far behind. The church offices backed up to the rear of the church, and even in the darkness I could see smoke billowing from every orifice, window, or soffit.

  Amos hit the ground running and tapped the first guy he found holding the hose. "Where's John?" he demanded.

  The guy shrugged, and Amos took off for the back of the church. He returned a few seconds later, coughing, and grabbed an ax from the side of the ladder truck. With the ax spread between both hands, he disappeared again. I grabbed an air tank and a second ax and followed.

  When I turned the corner, the flames reflected off the river and lit the shape of a man climbing out of the water. I couldn't see his face, and he was draped in something, but his eyes told me all I needed to know. He stepped out of the water as though he lived in it and began climbing the bank toward us. He was just a few feet away, but I didn't have time to wait or ask questions, so I put my head down and followed Amos.

  Amos reached the door, braced his feet, and took one huge Paul Bunyan swing at it. The door literally came off at the hinges and flew backward into the smoke. Amos ran through the door into the smoke and disappeared. I lost sight of him, but he didn't have air and wouldn't last long. I followed.

  I ran down the hallway, shouting, but couldn't hear or see him. The heat was intense, as was the sound of crashing timbers in the church and flames overhead. I'd never been in something this hot, but I knew we had a minute or so at best and a few seconds at worst. If Pastor John was in here, chances were good he was long dead from smoke inhalation-and if Amos didn't turn around right now, he would be too.

  I ran down the hall toward John's office, turned right, and tripped on a body. I gathered myself, shone my light, and saw Amos's bloody face. A cross timber had come through the roof and hit him across the shoulder and back of the head. Pastor John's door was next to him and shut. I tried the handle, but it was locked. I kicked it, but it didn't budge. Smashed at it with the ax, and one hinge busted loose. Hit it again in the middle and loosened it again. Finally I swung as hard as I could and broke it free enough to wedge the ax in and hack it off the hinges.

  I shoved the door out of the way and dragged Amos into the room, where the air was less smoky and a window AC unit was blowing outside air in. I figured that gave us about thirty more seconds. I heard another huge crash and jumped on top of Amos, covering him with my body, as sparks and flames exploded through the roof. I was hot inside my suit, and Amos wasn't wearing one, so I knew his skin had to be boiling. I shone my light around the office and saw no trace of John.

  Time was up. If I didn't get Amos up and over my shoulder right now, we were both dead, because the roof was about to come in on us and I could barely see my hand in front of my face. I tried to lift Amos, then heard a cough and a thump behind me. I crawled around the side of the desk, and there lay Pastor John. His eyes were closed, his face had been beaten badly, his clothes were torn, his hands and feet were tied, and he was covered in blood.

  I looked from Pastor John to Amos and back to Pastor John. I had time to get one person out of this hellhole before it swallowed us. I crawled over to Amos and slapped him in the face. "Amos! Amos! Get up! Wake up, Amos!"

  He was as limp as a sack of potatoes and just as responsive. I screamed again, but neither man moved. I grabbed Amos by the strap of his shoulder holster and Pastor John by the ropes tied around his feet. I dragged both to the door, but the two of them were more than I could drag out. The smoke had gotten inside my air mask and was killing my eyes; the heat was so intense. I took another deep breath, grabbed each man again, and tried to pull them through the door, but the roof came in above me and something very heavy hit my helmet and sent me to the floor. I blacked out and tried to get up on my hands and knees, but the room was spinning out of control and looked upside down and backward. Something big and fiery had fallen across Amos, and the flames were starting to climb up his legs. I crawled across him, tried to stamp out the flames, but it was no use. Flames were all around us, and sparks were burning my skin around my collar and between my sleeves and gloves.

  I threw the flaming thing off Amos, pulled Pastor John over next to us, covered Amos's body with mine, and cradled his head next t
o mine. I didn't know where the door was or used to be. I didn't know how I got in or how to get out, and the blow to my head had made me nauseous. I tried to control the urge to vomit but could not. When the first heave came, I started crying. I didn't want to go this way, and I didn't want Amos to either. I stood, made one last attempt to throw him over my shoulder. Then I took another look at Pastor John, and the tears came. How was I going to explain this?

  I stepped over Pastor John, took one last look, and ran smack into Bryce. He was dripping wet, covered in a blanket that was also soaking wet, and in his arms he carried what looked like another. I grabbed him by the blanket, shouted above the roar of the flames, and pointed. "Bryce! PastorJohn!"

  Without blinking, Bryce lifted Pastor John over his shoulder, turned, and shoved me in a direction I didn't want to go, and we lurched through the flames together. When we came out the other side, we were standing in what used to be the hallway. Bryce pushed me again, and eight steps later we were running into the spray of the ladder hose that was falling down across the church. We turned through one last burning frame, jumped, and landed on the dirt outside Pastor John's office. I guess we'd just run through what used to be his wall. Amos landed on top of me, we rolled, and when I came to my feet, I saw that his pant legs were on fire. I was standing just a few feet from the river, so I picked him up, hugged him to my chest, and ran down the bank.

  The weight of Amos's body pushed me down into the black, cool water. The hole was deep, much deeper than my six-foot height, and I had no footing. I threw off my helmet, wrestled myself out of my tank and jacket, and pushed Amos's head up and out of the water. I kicked hard, but my boots made it nearly impossible. I reached, grabbing for anything, knowing I needed air.

  I pushed Amos as far as I could and then felt him yanked out of my hands with a force I didn't know existed in another human. Amos left the water as though he'd been propelled by an engine. My pants had filled with water, as had my boots, and they were pulling me down. It'd been a long time since I'd had any air, and I needed it now. I saw the flames beyond the water, reached toward them, and felt a powerful, muscled hand grab mine. Bryce lifted me from the water as if I were a feather and flopped me on the beach next to Amos, where I lay sputtering and coughing as the flames that had engulfed the church lit the beach.