American Subversive

by David Goodwillie

  But it was closed.

  What was I doing? Chasing a character I’d invented through the landscapes of my youth. The truth was, I barely recognized the single-minded person I’d become. I guess I’d never taken anything so far. But now there was nowhere left to go. Did I give up then? I think so, yes. I drove to the Purple Moon (it was on the way back to the motel) to get a drink and curse this brief foray into fiction.

  The place was half-full and a ball game was under way on the TV behind the bar—the Mets and Sox at Fenway. Sunday-night interleague baseball. That was something, at least. When the bartender finally came over, I ordered a Ketel One and tonic.

  “Stoli’s our best,” she said dispassionately.

  “Sure, fine.”

  I had one, then another, tipping well each time, and finally the bartender began to thaw. I switched to beer and ordered a cheeseburger. When she brought my food over, I took out the picture. I had nothing to lose.

  “She’s an old friend,” I said. “Moved up here to get away for a while.”

  “If she’s a friend, why don’t you have her number?” She looked at me, pleased.

  “We’ve lost touch.”

  “Well, you’re not a cop, obviously, so I’ll tell you the truth: I’ve never seen her. And I see everyone, sooner or later. It’s not that big a town.”

  “That’s what I keep hearing.”

  I switched back to vodka. It was only the fourth inning.

  Chirping birds and a buzzing cell phone and the sun pouring in through the screens as if the world were in a microwave. I was lying in my boxers above the sheets, and still I was sweating. And then I began to remember . . . the drunken drive back from the bar and . . . oh, no . . . the midnight text to Derrick. What did I say? I picked up my phone to check.

  D . . . Srry so late but fam emrgncy mother till tues. Wll cll tmrw. A

  Not even predictive texting could help me. I’d never stuck him with Roorback for an extended period before, let alone at the last minute. I was pushing things too far.

  It was Monday morning. I had calls to make and texts to answer and who knows how many e-mails piling up. I showered and dressed, then drove to the Internet café, where I ordered the largest Green Mountain Roasters they had. When a computer came free, I sat down to catch up with the world. Nothing new on Indigo. Nothing on the bombing at all. I spent a half hour going through Derrick’s posts from Friday. They weren’t funny, and the commenters were getting restless. I needed to get home. Paige Roderick had been a long shot, and long shots don’t come in.

  When I walked back into the cabin, I felt that same eerie sensation I’d experienced earlier in the supermarket. Nothing was missing—I’d brought hardly anything with me—but . . . the back door. I’d left it partly open to get some air circulating, and now it was closed. Maybe it was the wind, except there was no wind. Just heat. No maid yet either, as the bed was still unmade. Well, whatever. I packed up and went to check out.

  There was no real rush, so I drove slowly, peering down roads and into driveways, already nostalgic for the day before, the week before, when finding Paige had seemed truly possible. Now, I just felt like an idiot. Touché had been right. I’d allowed myself to get swept up in something so blatantly . . . hopeful. There was a small backup where Route 100 met 17, and I waited my turn as a line of cars snaked slowly past in front of me, cars packed with people, kids and grandparents—families. A cop was stationed at the intersection, and I rolled down the window as I inched closer.

  “What’s going on?” I asked, when I reached him.

  “First day of the fair. Always a mess.” He waved me forward. There was a pause in the passing traffic. I could turn left and head back south, or—

  I put my blinker on and turned right, with everyone else. What the hell? I’d never been to a real county fair before. And I wouldn’t reach the city until dark anyway. What difference would two more hours make?

  The tents started a mile up the road. I parked in a field, then bought a $15 ticket at the front gate. Booths and rides fanned out in every direction. Signs advertised the Waterwheel Park, the Hayseed Theatre, the Woodsman’s Forest. A public address system announced a steady stream of impending events—Sheep Dog Trials, a Pig Scramble, something called a Fireman’s Muster. The midway, lined with food stalls and freak shows, seemed a good place to start. It was the pulsing main artery of the fair, already alive with carnival barkers and confidence men honing their pitches for the week to come. I stopped to watch a little boy shoot baskets. He was trying so damn hard, but the whole thing was rigged, of course, the ball too big or the hoop too small, and shot after shot hit the rim and clanked away. But the prizes were right there, superheroes and stuffed animals so close you could almost touch them. When the boy was out of basketballs, he looked up at his father and another dollar came out. A crowd had formed to root the kid on, everyone disregarding the laws of physics and common sense, because it could happen, was possible, it would just take luck, or perfection—

  Someone was behind me. Too close. A hand grasped my arm above the elbow. I started to turn, then heard a voice in my ear, stern and steady.

  And everything else fell away.

  PAIGE

  KEITH CAME RUNNING IN FROM THE GARAGE AND LAUNCHED HIMSELF THROUGH the open deck door and into the kitchen.

  The car keys, he said, breathing hard. His face was a study in opposing forces—agitation and self-control, anger tempered by experience.

  They’re on the mantel. Why?

  Got a text from Lindsay. The emergency code.

  What happened?

  I don’t know. I’m going to meet her right now. You need to wipe the house down. If one of us isn’t back in two hours, then get out of here. We’ll meet behind the Downhill Edge. Take the bike.

  And then he was gone. We’d run through this scenario over and over in our first weeks here, and I was ready. I donned a pair of surgical gloves and got started. Tables, counters, windows, doors: any flat surface. Plates, glasses, dirty silverware. I rushed from room to room, rounding up our personal effects and stuffing them into a single garbage bag (that’s how lightly we lived). Keith had taught us to see the house as a grid, and now I walked it, foot by foot, downstairs then up, dusting, wiping, cleaning. Bathrooms were the worst; one loose fingerprint could mean everything. It took forty minutes, but I got it done, and as I pondered the next problem—namely, how to inconspicuously carry a large garbage bag filled with clothes to a meeting point three miles away on a mountain bike—I heard a car in the driveway. Panic hit me like an uppercut. But there was nothing I could do; it was one of them, or it wasn’t. I held my breath, then peered out the window.

  Lindsay’s blond hair was bobbing up toward the house. I exhaled. I’d never been so thrilled to see her, to see anyone, though I tried not to show it. I walked over and opened the door with a dishrag.

  Don’t touch anything, I said.

  You finished? That was fast.

  What’s going on?

  Funny you should ask, because that’s exactly what we’re wondering, she said. Some guy showed up at Shaw’s two hours ago looking for you.

  That’s not possible.

  Paige, I saw him. He came through Tyler’s lane with a couple of bottles of wine and then asked him if he knew a girl named Paige Roderick.

  He actually said my name?

  Yes. And he had a picture.

  What?

  I couldn’t get a good look at it without being obvious, but I think it was you. I mean, he said it was.

  Fuck.

  I know.

  And Tyler?

  He said he’d never seen you before. Which he hasn’t. So there’s that, at least.

  What’d the guy look like?

  Our age, maybe a few years older. A little scruffy, good jeans, cool shirt . . . definitely not a local. He was kind of put together. He had a look . . . like he could have been someone you know.

  He can’t be.

  Are you sure?

&n
bsp; Please.

  Well, he seemed pretty determined. I waited till he’d walked out, then told the manager I was feeling sick. I texted Keith from Tyler’s cellphone and caught up with the guy as he was getting into his car—it’s a Subaru with New York plates, by the way. Paige, he was going store to store, showing your picture to everyone he saw. He ended up at the Purple Moon. Keith’s there now. We have to go meet him.

  Are we coming back?

  I don’t know.

  We took one last quick walk through the house, then carried the trash bag out to the car. For a moment we both stopped and looked at the garage.

  What do you think? Lindsay asked.

  I think we shouldn’t worry about it. Keith always uses gloves when he’s in there. Anyway, I don’t have a key.

  Really? Lindsay said. You should get one.

  Lindsay backed out of the driveway and we started down the hill. Someone wielding my name and picture was sitting in a bar a few miles away. I rolled the window down and began searching for an explanation.

  You should roll that back up, Lindsay said, just in case.

  Seven silent minutes later, we turned into the Purple Moon’s dusty parking lot and pulled up beside Keith’s car. Lindsay kept the engine running. Keith must be inside, she said. Stay here, one of us will be right back. With that, she hopped out, walked across the lot, and disappeared through the front door of the bar. I climbed behind the wheel and stared at the neon window signs as my mind raced through dozens of faces, men I’d known, and boys; lovers and friends; coworkers from New York, from Washington; activists from Carolina. Could it be a stranger? But how was that possible?

  A minute passed, maybe two, then the front door opened and Keith walked outside. He stretched his arms, rolled his neck around, and came strolling toward me. When he reached the car, I unlocked the passenger door and he climbed in. Without so much as a nod, he took out his cell phone, pushed a button, and handed it to me.

  Know this guy? he asked.

  The image was dark and unfocused. I couldn’t make anything out.

  Here, zoom in.

  I did as he asked, and now a few figures emerged from the photographic gloom. Bodies on bar stools.

  He’s the one on the end, Keith said. I got him while he was watching the ball game.

  This is the only picture?

  Were you expecting a photo shoot?

  Sorry.

  I stared hard at the glowing image. Keith stared hard at me. He wanted answers. I’d always been good with faces, and when I spoke again, it was with certainty.

  Keith, I said, I’ve never seen him before.

  He looked at me a moment more, into one eye, then the other.

  I figured as much, he said, because I don’t think he’s laid eyes on you either.

  And you’re sure he’s not with the Feds or something?

  I don’t think so. He was drinking. And he didn’t look the part. No beeper, no badge, no gun. The only thing he had on him was a Xeroxed photo. I tried to get a look when he showed the bartender but couldn’t. She said she’d never seen you—assuming it was you.

  Well, I’ve never been in there.

  I know.

  I handed the phone back. Keith snapped it closed and stuffed it in his pocket.

  I’m really sorry about all this, I said. But I have no idea who—

  Paige, come on. It could have been any one of us. And, besides, he doesn’t know you actually are here, so we’re okay for now. I told Lindsay to tail him in the other car to wherever he’s staying. Lets the two of us get back to the house and figure this out.

  So we’re not splitting?

  Not unless we have to.

  Fine, I said, putting the car in reverse. I turned on the lights, pulled onto the road, and drove us back up the hill. Keith stared into the twilight.

  Some way to live, he said.

  It was a long night, and we spent most of it cross-legged on the carpet in the living room, revisiting our last few months. We wore socks and gloves, just in case. Keith was sure the guy was from New York—there was the license plate, plus he’d been rooting for the Mets—so we went back through the two days we’d spent in Manhattan, hour by hour—people on the street, faces in passing cars—but came up empty.

  When we finally took a break, Keith grabbed a flashlight and went outside. He said he’d be back soon, but I knew better. The garage had a hold on him. Barely a week had passed since the Indigo Action, and already he was hard at work on his next device. He said the middle of the night was the only time he could truly focus, but Lindsay and I worried he’d nod off surrounded by all those wires and timers and, well . . . Every few days, I woke up dazed from a dream that had just ended with a horrific bang.

  Exhausted, I stretched out on the couch and closed my eyes. A ten-minute nap was all I had in mind, but more than two hours passed before Keith shook me awake.

  Come on, it’s almost four in the morning.

  What’s going on? I asked, sitting up quickly.

  I’ve been assessing our situation.

  And?

  I need more time.

  To cover our tracks?

  To finish things. He nodded in the direction of the garage.

  Oh, I said. I’d been trying to clear my head, and Keith’s simple statement did it. He acted as if it were a model airplane he was assembling in there. Perhaps that was the only way to approach it.

  Also, Keith continued, Lindsay called me. From a pay phone down the road from some place called the Mad Mountain Motel. She’s staking out his cabin.

  I’ll go relieve her.

  Okay, good. But, Paige, just watching this guy isn’t going to be enough. We need to find out who he is, and why he’s here.

  How do you suggest I do that?

  Keith stared at me intently. It was the same look he’d given me the night we first met—half-charm, half-challenge. Before, I’d have taken the bait, answered my own question with determined resolve. Now, I did my best to ignore him. I walked into the kitchen and picked up the car keys.

  Park in the restaurant lot next door to the motel, Keith said, trailing after me. She’ll meet you there.

  What if he leaves?

  The motel?

  The valley.

  You can’t let him. Not without getting some answers.

  Fine, I said, walking outside. Keith began to speak again, but I was already shutting the door behind me.

  It’s not that he wasn’t right. It’s that he was. And he always knew it.

  For the second time that night, I headed down the hill. This time I was alone. This time I could keep driving. Over the mountains and far away. No, I couldn’t. More faces came and went, before I settled on Keith’s. The look in his eyes: it was different now, more desperate. My headlights cut through the lingering darkness, the roads as empty as the ski slopes they serviced. A mile down 100 I saw the motel sign. I drove past it and took the next left, into an empty gravel lot in front of a boarded-up restaurant called the Castle Rock Tavern. Closed for the season or forever, it was hard to tell. Lindsay’s car was parked beside a dumpster around back. I pulled up beside it, cut the lights, and waited.

  When she knocked on the passenger window two minutes later, I was so startled I hit the gas with the car still in park, but quickly recovered and unlocked her door.

  What the hell are you doing? Lindsay hissed, getting in.

  I didn’t see you.

  I came down the path over there, she said, pointing through the windshield. It snakes up the hill behind the cabins. When it’s light you’ll be able to watch him without being seen. He’s in the one closest to us—number six. He hasn’t come out all night.

  Okay, I said.

  How’s Keith?

  A little nervous. He’s been in the garage tinkering.

  He doesn’t like surprises, Lindsay said.

  I know. He thinks we should stay in the house for now, but it depends on who this guy is. I need to find out.

  How?

/>   Not sure yet, I said.

  Well, be careful. She squeezed my arm and hopped out. A moment later her car came quietly to life and she was gone. I got out, locked the doors, and set off in the direction Lindsay had indicated. It took a little time to find the path, but soon enough I was creeping through the scattered trees and up a small hill. When I saw the cabin below me, I settled in behind some bushes and waited.

  It all came back to me as I crouched there: the way the woods could play with time. Make it seem more vital. We used to camp out all night, Bobby recounting old stories as the wind rustled through treetops—local legends of convicts and bootleggers, outlaws who knew the backcountry better then any pursuer. There was always someone famous hiding out in the Smoky Mountains. When I was growing up, it was Eric Rudolph, the antiabortionist who set that bomb off at the Atlanta Olympics. Bobby was enthralled by him, or at least the idea of him—his determination, his savvy. He eluded hundreds of FBI agents and teams of dogs. At one point, they even brought in trackers. They finally caught him, the year after I graduated from college, dumpster-diving behind a supermarket in Murphy. An ignominious end, but the legend had been solidified, along with an idea. That a person could still outwit an army.

  Now, but for opposing beliefs, I was Eric Rudolph. Alone in the forest, tracking the trackers, a world still to change.

  Dawn came—bees and birds, squirrels, a family of deer, then man and his machines, cars and early-morning trucks out on the road. Evolution in order, small to large, meek to menacing.

  I knew what was happening. This was my mess and I had to clean it up. Whoever this guy was hadn’t used Keith’s name or Lindsay’s; he’d used mine. I was at least partially exposed, and therefore a danger to the group. But if a chasm was developing between the three of us, its depth was limited. Because things had happened now, and we were all culpable. Was there any choice but to stay together?

  At 8:05 a.m. a man appeared in the back doorway of the cabin. I crouched down low, but he wasn’t looking in my direction. No, he was yawning, stretching, waking up. He wore a short-sleeved Cuban shirt, off-white and untucked, with jeans and gray sneakers. His messy brown hair had recently been towel-dried. He was tall and moderately thin and not too tan; all in all, he looked like the type of guy I’d made an effort to stay away from—the attractive ex-frat boy who’d lived in New York long enough to adopt a little style at the expense of substance. I watched him mat his hair down and walk back inside. The cabin had screens for windows, and if I could get close enough, I might be able to peek in. I started down the hill and had crept about ten yards when the front door slammed shut. There he was, walking along the path toward the office. If he was checking out, I had just enough time to race back to the car and tail him. But he didn’t have a bag with him, which meant—I hoped—that he wasn’t leaving for good. I took a chance and let him go. When I heard his car start, followed by a crunch of gravel as it edged toward the road, I hurried down the hill and across the small clearing to the back door. It had been left ajar, and the hinges creaked as I slipped inside. The room was hot and surprisingly messy—or maybe I’d just lived too long in meticulous exactitude. A backpack sat on the bed; boxers and socks were scattered across the floor. So he would be back. If he was going into town for coffee, I had ten or fifteen minutes. I gave myself five.