“You don’t know the way out of here. Only thing you can do is get lost and die.”
“I . . . I’m . . .” Jack’s parched throat was unable to let his voice pass.
“What’s that?” Boots said, pouring more water onto Jack’s face and into his mouth.
“I’m going . . . for help . . .”
“Help? Help? What you think I’ve been giving you?”
“I . . . I want to . . . get home.”
“Home? Huh . . . What kind a home you got, Jack? Especially one where you leave your wife behind? Don’t sound like no home I’d want to go back to.”
The accusation was quick and brutal. Jack had left Laura behind in the cabin. He told himself that her staying was her choice, that he would come back for her. But her staying allowed him what he wanted, to run off on his own, unencumbered by her. No matter how he tried to justify his actions in his head, he came to the same conclusion. He had left her. Not just in the cabin, but before that. He had left her long ago. The pain of this epiphany was soon eclipsed by the pain of a boot heel pressed into his lower back.
“You want me to put you out of your misery right here, Jack?” Boots said, pressing harder with his foot into Jack’s right kidney. “Naw, that would be too easy. How about I just rough you up a bit? Maybe that will get you thinking straight.”
He started to circle around Jack’s near-lifeless body on the desert floor like a vulture. With a quick half step, Boots kicked Jack in the side of the stomach, causing him to temporarily leave the soil and crash back down.
“Yeah, dying would be too easy. That’s the safe way out, ain’t it. You don’t have to worry about nothing no more then, huh?” Another quick kick in the side made Jack vomit what water he’d been able to swallow just a minute earlier.
“Look at you,” Boots whispered, squatting down again next to Jack, “puking on the ground like an animal. What are you, Jack? You think you’re Superman?” Boots tipped his brimmed cowboy hat back and gazed off toward the distant ring of mountains. “Naw, you’re not Superman. I ain’t never seen no superman. Seen plenty who thought they were, no doubt about that. But they all end up the same way. Rolling in their own puke, unable to wipe the spit from their lip.” He poured some more water onto Jack’s face as he went on. “Naw, the way I see it, ain’t no superman . . . never will be. Just men butting their heads against a brick wall, wondering why their skulls ache. Kinda like you, Jack. Except you just can’t stomach the fact that maybe that there wall was built by someone tougher than you.”
Boots looked at the ground next to Jack. There were black scuff marks and footprints.
“Looks like you had some company here, Jack,” he whispered. “You best be thankful I’m here now. Who knows what’s out there that would like a piece of you.”
Jack found the strength to push himself up, and he sat on the ground. His head was spinning and he felt like he might pass out again. Boots caught his shoulder and poured more water down his throat. He revived quickly, and though his head pounded like a jackhammer, the cobwebs in his mind started to clear. Boots sat down on a rock across from him, seemingly enjoying the train wreck of humanity before him.
“You’re a mess, Jack. Why’d you do this?”
The words echoed in Jack’s skull. Why’d you do this? The same words Laura asked in the car. The same question he asked himself every day of his life.
“You ever read the Scriptures, Jack? Huh? No, probably not. Ain’t no one reads them no more. But you remind me of this man, much like you. He was pigheaded too. Ain’t listen to reason. It took an angel coming down to whoop him good to get his head on straight. Maybe that’s all you need. Someone come and beat you down a bit.” Boots took a swig of water from the canteen. “What you say, Jack? You want me to beat the stupid out of you right here?”
Jack remained silent.
“You think I’m too old?” Boots smiled, his grizzled features bearing malice and lightheartedness mixed together. “Maybe so. I’ve been in plenty of scraps though. Brought down bigger mules than you, that’s for sure.”
Jack looked at Boots. He wanted nothing more than to jump up and drive his fist square into the old man’s face. He scripted out the scenario in his mind, unrelenting, swinging until Boots’s blood mixed with the rocks and he laid there begging for mercy. He would keep punching, pouring out all his pent-up frustration onto this bag of bones.
“Ahhh . . . thinking up something, eh, Jack? Just wishing you had the strength to smash me in with that there rock? What’s that gonna do? You’ll still be stuck out here, no place to go. You’re trapped, ain’t you?” Boots smiled again. He tossed the canteen over to Jack and it landed in his lap, followed by a chunk of dried meat. “You better get your strength up. We need to start heading back before dark. It’s a good thing you didn’t make it too far. I didn’t bring enough food for no camping trip.”
From the top of the ridge, Jack could see the horse looking down on them. Boots stood up, grabbed Jack by the arm, and hoisted him up. They climbed out of the little valley, mounted the horse, and began the ride back.
56
Molly and Laura spent the day on the front porch. It had now become routine. The days had started to blend together, each passing hour melting into the one before. They tried hard to guess what day of the week it was, even made a little game of it, but ultimately decided that since there was no way to verify the answer, the game had little point.
Laura kept looking for the horse and riders to return, envisioning herself in some cheap dime-store romance waiting for her cowboy to come home. She couldn’t explain why she felt a sense of calm come over her when Boots had left, but something about the old man’s countenance had convinced her that he would return with Jack in good health.
Molly sat next to her, her dark hair blowing across her face. She had become a chatterbox now that they were alone, as if the men in the house had left her feeling unsure of her own voice. The girl started talking of home, and though she had been through a lot, a trauma that not too many people could fathom, she seemed to be returning to the same mall girl she might have been in Columbus.
Laura tried her best to listen, to keep the conversation going, mostly because she knew it offered a release for Molly, but her thoughts were in other places. Plus, out here in the desert, and with her own experiences the past week, she didn’t feel like talking about the follies of teenage boys. No, her mind was on the quiet praying for Jack to come back in one piece.
The morning slowly gave way to day, when out in the distance the women could see something stirring. Faintly at first, the dust trail of a moving object appeared like pencil lead across a blank page.
“What is that?” Molly asked.
“I don’t know.”
Laura stood, put her hand to her head to shield the sun, and squinted her eyes. She fought to focus on the distant object until it became clear what it was.
“It’s a car,” she whispered, and then her excitement poured out. “It’s a car!”
Molly stood up and imitated Laura. They felt like hugging each other. The ordeal was finally over. The rooster tail of dust grew larger as the vehicle sped across the desert. Closer and closer into view.
Ominous.
Malignant.
“That’s not a car,” Molly said, her exuberance subsiding. “It’s a truck . . .”
“Are you sure?” Laura said, still trying to make out the details.
“Oh my . . . it’s him . . . it’s him!”
Molly grabbed Laura’s arm and did her best to drag her into the cabin. The realization slowly dawned on Laura when she saw the horror on the young girl’s face.
The pickup.
The man who had kidnapped Molly.
He had found them.
They got inside and slammed the door. Molly stood in the middle of the room screaming, looking frantically for a place to hide, a weapon, anything to protect her from what was coming. Laura grabbed her and tried to calm her down while working to que
ll the fear that was crawling on her own skin.
“What are we going . . . what are we going to . . .” Molly stammered frantically, unable to catch her breath.
“Shhh . . . calm down, you have to calm down.”
“What are we going to do?”
“We gotta get out of here . . . we got to hide . . .”
Laura pushed Molly to the bedroom and toward the window facing the back, all the while looking around for inspiration, something that would jump up and tell her that everything would be all right. Some object of comfort. Molly stood ashen, staring back at Laura with eyes begging for rescue.
The women could hear the truck pull up outside.
“Shhh . . .” Laura whispered, as she placed one hand over Molly’s mouth.
The girl nodded wide-eyed.
Fear.
Laura could feel it envelope the cabin. But there was no one else to face it for her. All these years of passively waiting in the shadows, leaning on other people’s actions would not serve her now. Her father was not here, Jack was not here, and now Boots was gone. Staring at Molly’s face, she could read the panic racing through the girl’s mind and how this young soul was looking to her for resolution. For rescue. For determination. A position that Laura had shied away from most of her life.
But now it had arrived. Fear of harm mixed with the fear of standing strong.
They listened as the door of the truck opened and a man got out, his footsteps strutting up to the cabin door.
Laura removed her hand slowly from Molly’s mouth and motioned for her not to move. The girl nodded again. Turning, Laura quietly walked out to the main room, careful not to make the old floorboards creak. She stared at the cabin door and imagined the evil on the other side just waiting to come in.
———
Colten stepped slowly onto the porch and tried to look into some of the windows, but the glare from the sun prevented him from seeing anything. He moved slowly.
He knew this was the place.
He had been led here.
The woman was inside.
Alone.
Acting calm, but with anticipation mounting in his blood, he knocked three times on the door.
———
The sounds reverberated through the cabin like the slow tap of a ball-peen hammer on hollow steel. Laura could feel the waves pass through her, settling in the base of her spine. Her stomach was forcing itself up into her throat. Her eyes darted around the room, from the couch, to the table, to the kitchen area, back to the door, looking for some source of salvation . . . a movie cliché of arrival and rescue. There was none.
It was just her and a homicidal maniac separated by a rotting cabin door.
57
Jack sat on the back of the horse, holding on to Boots, as the mare sauntered into the west, back to the prison that he could not escape from.
The breeze blew gently, and the smell of Boots filled his senses. It was surprising, half expecting the old man to smell of dirt and filth, he smelt like the pages of an old book from some secondhand shop.
The slow rhythm of the horse’s cadence set him at ease, and Jack’s mind slowly unwound. He could feel his strength returning to him, almost by mystery. He could not tell whether the little food that Boots had given him had restored his energy, or if it was the ride that infused him with newfound life. All he knew was that with each passing hoofbeat he felt better. Stronger. Restored.
The nagging question in the back of his mind surfaced as they walked on. “How’s Laura?”
Jack wasn’t sure if he wanted the answer. He wasn’t ready to see his wife’s eyes when they returned to the cabin. The silence. The glaring. The hopeless chance of trying to explain why he had done what he did. She would let him talk, but she wouldn’t listen. He had abandoned her. He could see that now. In his determination to get out of the cabin, he had thought only of himself.
“She’s fine,” Boots replied. “Worried, but fine.”
“I bet she’s pretty mad.”
“You think? Well . . . at least this walk taught you something. You’re finally starting to get how other people feel.”
Jack sat silently. It had been a long time since he empathized with Laura, had understood that she was her own thinking person, one with the same capacity to dream and wonder as he did. He just thought of her as a hanger-on to his ambition. One who should bask in his light as her benefactor.
“She say anything to you?” Jack asked, looking for some sign that the woman back at the cabin might be in a welcoming mood.
Hoping.
“She asked me to come get you. Pleaded. Said you’d die in a heartbeat out here by yourself. That woman knows you pretty well, Jack.”
The mare’s head rocked with each step, an organic metronome through the desert.
“I can’t believe you just left her, Jack. I’ll tell you what kind of man does that . . . a fool. You remember when I first brought you here? ’Course you don’t. You was half gone. I brought you in the cabin and started giving you some water. I filled up a quart jar from the hand pump and walked over to Laura, started pouring a bit in her mouth. You know what she does then? She opens her eyes after a small sip and says to me, ‘No, give some to Jack, please.’
“You hear that? Woman there dying of thirst and she tells me to give you a drink first.”
Boots spit to the side, his weight jerking the saddle, causing Jack to grab the old man for balance.
“Then what happens? I move over and start pouring some water down your throat. And you just keep drinkin’. No thought or mind for no other. Says more about you than you know.”
Jack didn’t respond. Though he didn’t recall the incident, it didn’t fall out of the realm of the possible. It certainly fit his nature, and he felt ashamed.
58
“Hello?”
Colten knocked again. No answer.
He stepped to the side of the door and looked in the window, cupping his hands to fight against the glare. He could see the kitchen with its small table, the couch. His eyes scanned the room, down the hallway. It was a small place, this should be easy.
He grabbed the door handle and tested it. Locked. Colten studied the doorjamb and saw that it was pretty weak. The age and rot of the place gave the cabin little strength.
He stepped back, raised his foot, and kicked at the door. The handle broke but the chain-lock held firm. The door parted a few inches. From inside he could hear a quick scream.
The prize.
He reached inside and felt for the chain but couldn’t get it.
———
Laura saw Colten’s fingers wiggle through the doorjamb. They resembled the legs of a spider feeling its way through the air. Catching her breath, she pounced forward, slamming her weight against the door, smashing his fingers in the process.
Screams of agony echoed through the desert emptiness.
Colten pushed against the door, doing everything possible to free his fingers pressed numb against the doorjamb. Laura stood on the other side, all her energy used in keeping it closed. He could hear her breaths, her exertions.
“I’m going to kill you! You know that, right!” he screamed through clenched teeth, his eyes rolling to the back of his head as he tried to process the pain coursing through his hand. He put his shoulder into the door again and again, pulling on his trapped fingers. Finally they came free and the door shut securely in the jamb.
Colten fell back on the porch, clutching his hand, whimpering. Underneath the door he could see the faint shadow of Laura’s feet. She was right there, inches away from him. His source of agony.
He stood and kicked the door with the rage of demons.
It flew open, knocking Laura back onto the kitchen table. It smashed apart as it broke her fall. She quickly regained her feet and stood facing him, a splintered leg from the table held firmly in her hand. She could feel a thin trickle of blood running from her hairline.
So this is how it starts, she thought.
/> A maniacal smile crossed his face.
“You? I know you,” he said with a mix of surprise and sick fascination.
He took two steps forward, seemingly unconcerned with the weapon she had. She swung it quick, as if she had been anticipating the move for years, and landed the blow low on the side of Colten’s knee. He buckled in pain and dropped to his knees. Laura brought the table leg back again, but before she could strike, Cole drove his fist into her stomach. She doubled over, and then he backhanded her across the head. The table leg went flying as Laura fell to the floor.
With his good hand, Colten grabbed Laura’s ankle. She kicked at his arm with her free leg, but he would not let go. Colten’s body was in such a state of shock that added pain had a diminishing effect. He refused to let go. Crawling on the ground like a wounded lizard, he fought the blows of the woman and pinned her to the ground. His fury out of control. He looked down into Laura’s face.
“This is going to be good!” he whispered to her.
His hands began to strangle her by their own will as if possessed by something outside his body. He was in the zone. The perfect zone. This woman was done.
Then the noise.
“Hey!”
Colten looked up. Toward the back of the cabin.
There was the girl.
His lost adventure.
Running toward him.
The table leg held back in her hands like Big Papi swinging for the fences.
Colten’s head tilted and his eyes widened in fascination as Molly swung the piece of wood across his face, his nose breaking on impact and spewing blood through the cabin. The shock of the blow sent him back through the doorway and rolling down the porch into the dust.
Molly helped Laura to her feet, the older woman’s eyes showing the realization of death in them. The two women stepped to the door and looked outside.
Colten was staggering to his feet, his wounded hand trying to offer comfort to his busted nose as his frame tottered on his swollen knee. His whole body was in pain. He looked at them through swelling eyes. His body began to shake. His rage uncontrollable.
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