Death of the Extremophile

by Stuart Parker

  *

  Whatever gifts had died with the Young brothers, a penchant for gardening was not one of them. With its thriving contortions of brambles, vines and imposing cedars and beeches, it was impossible for the uninitiated to know where their backyard ended and the woods of Sacksville began– like the brothers themselves, the backyard was choked in a wilderness that was primitive without being natural.

  Hope hurried into it, grateful for the cover it was providing and glanced back to ensure that Hawkshaw was coming too; if they could get away unseen, the cops just might convince themselves that it was their bullets that had ripped through the Youngs and that there was no third party that needed pursuing. It was possible. Why would the cops not want to take credit for putting holes in the Youngs? But Hope continued to pick up speed even after the house was lost from view: for the Youngs to have lasted this long, it might have meant more than a town without a moral compass, there might have been a blood relative in high places. The time to stop running would be far from here.

  Hope protected his face with his elbows as he ploughed through a nest of low hanging branches; he glanced back again for Hawkshaw only to find she was almost passing him. The armpits of momma’s dress were darkened with patches of perspiration. Hawkshaw was running fearlessly in her bare feet, taking scratches on her arms as she too shielded herself.

  The trees and bushes became more organised and evenly spaced which perhaps marked the end of the Youngs’ domain. The ground fell away into a sharply sloping gully. Hope and Hawkshaw dug in their heals as they skidded down on loose soil. It was a good fifty feet journey and there was a fast flowing stream at the bottom. Swarms of inquisitive mosquitoes were stirred up.

  Hawkshaw was not slowing as she approached the stream. She knew to hold her pistol up to keep it dry and she was not stopping to test the water temperature with a tentative toe. Hope had seen banks robbed bare with a whole lot less composure. He, however, did need to pause at the stream, for there was an assortment of weapons that had to be gathered out of his pockets and hoisted into the air. Now it was Hawkshaw looking back, wading through the tannish water up to her chest.

  ‘Are you surrendering?’ she called out.

  ‘Very funny,’ replied Hope as he started in.

  ‘You have three guns. And there’s the one you gave me.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Where on earth did you get them all?’

  ‘I finally decided to unpack.’

  ‘I knew it.’ Hawkshaw reached the other side of the bank. Her first few attempts at extraction were foiled by the slippery mud. She wrapped her wrists in the dense undergrowth and this time successfully hauled herself from the water. Hope, in the meantime, had caught up and was preparing to assist her with a nudge; he adjusted quickly to getting himself out in turn. Hawkshaw positioned herself to assist him, taking him by the arm.

  ‘Knew what?’ Hope queried as he wriggled up the bank.

  ‘The day you first knocked on my door I knew there was something odd about you. Not that I equated it to a bag full of guns.’

  ‘Disappointed?’

  Hawkshaw shook her head. ‘In these parts a gun is about as common to a farm as a hoe or rake. I would probably just have assumed you came from a very big farm.’

  Hope stood up, taking her with him and kissed her on the lips. ‘Let’s keep moving.’

  The hand on his arm, however, held him back a moment longer. ‘The police here never stood up to the Youngs like you did,’ Hawkshaw said. ‘No matter what happens now, I know what you saved me from would have been worse.’

  The words were all too prophetic, for just as they started to run again there came a retort of rifle. Away to the right. The shot zipped away off a tree trunk, close enough that it could not be confused with a farmer trying to ward off pesky crows. Hope and Hawkshaw sprinted away from it through a thickly grassed glade and bullets continued to tear into trees around them. It was the one rifle. And it wasn’t giving up.

  ‘What’s at the end of this?’ Hope called out.

  Hawkshaw had run hard, but her breath was starting to give out. ‘A road, then fields.’

  It was marked by another bullet ripping through the trees. Still close.

  ‘Change of plan,’ said Hope, taking her by the arm and leading her down into some bushes.

  ‘Was there a plan?’ murmured Hawkshaw. She put her hand up to the bright red berries on a branch. ‘Poisonous but not nearly poisonous enough. You want to rest here?’

  Hope gazed through the bushes for any movement within the glade. ‘There’s only one shooter. If we split up, he’ll have to make a choice. And I’ll be offended if he doesn’t choose me.’

  ‘Split up? Hawkshaw was bewildered. ‘What should I do?’

  ‘Go home.’ Hope glanced her way without making eye contact. ‘Keep going in this direction. Don’t show yourself to anyone. Especially if there’s someone on the road. Even if it means lying in the grass the rest of the day. It’s important.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘I’ll be a diversion. A loud one. Looking for you is going to be like trying to read the paper during the Fourth of July fireworks.’

  Hope started to move, only for Hawkshaw to restrain him by the belt and she said, ‘You didn’t say anything about going to the house yourself, did you? If you’re not coming back then I’m coming with you. And don’t feed me a line about you not being relationship material. This will do fine.’

  Hope betrayed a glimpse of concern. ‘I’m getting a nasty feeling I’m already dead.’

  Hawkshaw frowned. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘The shooter has been missing us by twenty yards with every shot. If he’s accurate enough to do that there is no reason he couldn’t put a round right into the centre of my back.’

  ‘Then why doesn’t he?’

  ‘I get the feeling he’s trying to corral us like we’re a couple of stray cattle.’ Hope returned to glancing out into the glade. Still not even a hint of movement within. ‘Don’t ask me why he would want to do that.’

  ‘I’m wondering if you’ve lost your mind. How do you even know how much he is missing us by?’

  ‘I’ve got a honed ear to that kind of thing.’

  ‘You mean this isn’t the first time bullets have been fired at you?’

  ‘As you know, it’s not even the first time today. And you’ve got to learn to listen to them or else there will come the bullet you don’t hear at all.’

  ‘So you read them like tealeaves? What are they telling you to do?’

  ‘I’m going in the opposite direction to where the rifle is herding us. It’s the only way to test my theory.’

  ‘Which theory? The one about the bullet you don’t hear?’

  Hope smirked. ‘My real name is George Hope, if you’re interested.’

  Hawkshaw’s voice darkened. ‘If I’m interested?’

  ‘I know it’s a sad state of affairs when it takes a moment as absurd as this to find out something true about a person.’ Hope stopped her reply from the outset by clutching onto a shoulder. ‘Go home and if you’re still appalled don’t ring the number I left under your phone.’

  ‘What if I do dial it?’ asked Hawkshaw bringing her mouth so close that Hope kissed it.

  ‘Patrick is his name. Tell him it’s time now to weigh anchor.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘That will start something.’ Hope sighed. ‘If you have a change of heart, don’t give the cops that number. For their sake. The man at the other end of it exiled himself from New York because he was tearing it apart. I wouldn’t want to be responsible for bringing New York to him.’

  He kissed her again and her hand slipped away as he ran out low from the cover of bushes, somewhere approaching the direction of the rifle. The look on his face was not one of being the hunted. It haunted Hawkshaw. She remained still awhile longer, resisting the temptation to put the new found reali
sation of how fast she could run into practice - perhaps it was because she did not know whether to run with him or away from him. She did not know how she was feeling. There was surely excitement, but that might have been some peculiar survival instinct. Having never been shot at before, there was nothing to reference it against.

  She peered through the bushes into the glade. It felt as though Hope had run off the face of the earth. But there would be traces of him still at her home. The guns would be gone, but there would be clothes and smells and there would be the number under the phone. Hawkshaw knew she would only see him again if she called that number, but she was less sure about whether or not she would actually do it. The only certainty was that there was no parent, no brother or sister, no friend who could give her advice on this. This was the kind of relationship she could not share. And she feared she would not be even able to share it with the man concerned.

  And suddenly there was another retort of rifle, deeper into the woods, and with it came a sharp realisation of what it was she was feeling. It was neither the concern of Hope having gone off to confront the gunman, nor the confusion of what she in turn should do. It was the feeling of absolute relief of finally being able to understand why her marriage had failed so terribly, of what had been so desperately messy in all those long painful years. Hawkshaw found herself grinning like she had not done since she was a child - and she did feel young again. For it was a giant weight off her shoulders, the realisation of how much easier it was to love a man who didn’t drown in his fear.