by Serra, D. A.
Gravel jumps up, “This is boring. Who plays poker? Ben?”
“Gravel, I’m busy.”
Gravel points to Hank and Dan. “You and you. We’re playing poker.”
“I don’t know how to play poker,” Hank says.
“No shit? What are you a fuckin’ pussy? Listen, kid…” Every time one of the Burne boys addresses his son, Hank has to suppress a surging rage. He stays calm only with great effort. Gravel continues to Jimmy, “If your dad can’t teach you to play poker find someone who can.” Gravel looks at Bella, “Maybe your mom. My mom taught us.” Jimmy starts to say something and stops. He looks at Bella, turns away, and buries is head in his dad’s lap. Ben sees this. Ben and Hank make eye contact. They hold for a moment. Even with his attention buried inside this carburetor Ben can tell something isn’t right over there. Something is off with this little family. He will have to figure that out soon as he is done with this.
Gravel says frustrated, “Where the hell is Theo? He plays a good game.”
Kent agrees, “No one can bluff like Theo.”
Ben says to Kent, “Go check on him. Maybe he needs a hand.”
“Not as if he can yell if he needs help.” Gravel finds himself funny.
“Hey, yeah,” Kent adds excited to show off his knowledge, “if a mute yells in the forest and no one hears him, did he still yell? Wasn’t that a Zen thing? I don’t know if you noticed Ben, but I’m very well read since you were gone.”
“Yeah, I did. And obviously saving time by reading every other word. Go check on your brother.” Kent throws on his trench coat. “And take the flashlight.” Kent takes the light from the table. He walks to the door buttoning his coat and leaves. Over in the corner, the hostages recognize their advantage. Only two Burne brothers at the moment and Mike’s hands are free. Now. Now is the time. Hank whispers to Bella behind him. “Can you get him closer?” He indicates a totem statue he can kick with his foot. She gets it. They are instantly primed, encouraged to try something. The helplessness of waiting and the fear of what’s coming are eating away at them.
Mike whispers to Hank. “I’m gonna go for the automatic on the chair.” The large weapon lies on the wooden rocking chair not far from the hearth.
Bella makes a little humming noise. Gravel looks. Slowly, seductively, she licks her lips. Gravel doesn’t need much encouragement; he is rock hard in his pants day and night. He grins and starts over to the group. She eggs him on with a look and a small knowing grin.
He stands near the group. “You know,” he says to her, “I could be extra nice...”
Hank’s leg juts out kicking the base of the totem. It crashes down on Gravel’s left shoulder! Mike is instantly on his feet. He leaps over Jimmy and goes for the weapon on the rocking chair. Ben dives for his weapon on the floor not far from where he is working on the carburetor. Gravel throws off the totem, which hit him hard. Ben is too quick. Mike is in midair lunging for the gun when Ben fires one shot nailing Mike between the eyes and Mike is dead before he hits the floor.
Ben turns the gun on the group with an eerie calm, “Who’s next?”
The hostages huddle closer together. Julie closes her eyes. Bruce and Grant drop their heads and wait, not knowing what will come now. Gravel removes his gun from his belt and as he points, “They’re all next!”
“Gravel, a moment.” Ben’s voice stops him. Gravel whips his angry face back toward his brother. Ben asks politely, “Please.” Gravel drops his aim, walks quickly over to Ben and a quiet exchange ensues. Ben speaks slowly with a hint of condescension. “So this is the deal. We don’t know who else is on the island, or who else might show up here. At present, these people are our insurance, our chips in the game so to speak. Understand?”
“Of course, I understand. I’m not stupid. I risked my ass to get you out of the pen. It was my brains, my plan!”
“And full of your usual subtlety.”
Gravel hates it when he talks to him this way. “We could’ve left you there.”
Ben grabs his shoulder affectionately, “No, you couldn’t.” They grin at each other. No, he couldn’t. Breaking through the rivalry is their affection. Ben acquiesces to satisfy his brother. “Okay, tell you what, go ahead and waste…” he looks over to choose.
Kent throws open the lodge door, “Theo’s dead!”
Ben and Gravel ask in distress, “What? What happened?”
Kent is visibly upset. “I found some tracks and followed them. Looks like he slipped off a drop into some rocks. I almost went over myself except I was walking really slow with the light.”
“Did you check him?” Ben demands.
“Can’t get down there.”
“Give me the light.” Ben and Gravel rush for the door. “Make sure they’re tied. Tied sufficiently this time. And keep your gun on you.” Left behind, Kent kicks one of the chairs. He cannot believe his brother is gone. He pushes and kicks each of the hostages around as he checks their ties.
Bella says sympathetically, “I’m so really sorry about your brother.” Kent looks at her unsure of her meaning. “I had a little brother. He was hit by a drunk driver.”
“Whenever we got drunk Theo always drove. He didn’t drink because he was afraid it would blur is speech.” Kent chuckles sadly, “Yeah, he was really funny.”
She smiles warmly trying to engage him, “Yes, I could tell that about him.”
“Awfully good thing Mother isn’t here.”
“Mother’s do have special feelings for their sons.”
“Mom was the best, most of the time. She didn’t want to get old so we suffocated her.”
Bella swallows hard, “Oh, how thoughtful.”
“Mom would want us to pray. Yes. We should all pray. All say a prayer to Jesus for Theo right the fuck now!” Everyone bows their heads. Every time Hank thinks he’s getting some kind of useful profile on the Burne boys something like this throws him off. He begins to wonder if there is a way to get inside Kent’s head if he’s religious. Maybe he’s the weak link in the Burne chain. And each of them on the floor realizes they again have an advantage alone with only Kent there, but their last advantage is lying with blood dripping out of the hole between his eyes.
* * *
Chapter Fourteen
Running with precise footfalls Alison’s breathing has fallen into a heavy rhythm. She has followed the directions Curtis gave and sees the log cabin up ahead. She runs to it, bounds up the steps, opens the door, and steps inside.
Curtis sits at the table in front of the shortwave with a pile of books, and a mess of dirty plates. He levels his gaze on the woman in the doorway, muddied hair, ragged clothing, with various cuts and bruises, Alison stands gulping air and shivering.
“Well, well, Barbie goes commando.”
She thinks are there only animals on this island? “Where’s the gun?’
“Coffee?” He offers her a steaming cup. She looks at it not wanting to give in. “Come on, looks like you need it. No charge.” She grabs the cup and drinks down the hot liquid feeling it like a warm palm running down the inside of her throat. She did need it, but she refuses to feel grateful. Not to him. Not to this guy. She looks at this strong able man, unwilling to get off his ass to help, and her mind goes icy. She would hate him but that takes energy and time, neither of which she has.
“The gun?”
“You look about ready to collapse there, lady.”
“I don’t have that luxury. Whatever it is you want, can we just get on with it quickly?” There is an implicit sexual connotation hidden in the words, assuming he is the lowest life has to offer. She challenges his hard gaze and a tear rolls down the side of her nose. It is peculiar because she doesn’t feel like crying, or like she is crying, she feels like the whole inside of her is shut down. She would be surprised to learn tears are on her cheeks. Tears are so useless. There is no time for useless.
Curtis eyes her. She is about what he expected some middle-aged crazy chick hoping someone else wi
ll fight her battles. She pays her taxes and expects the cavalry on call. What could he possibly want from her? “I don’t want anything from you.” His tone suddenly tinged with ire, “I don’t want anything from anyone. I would’ve thought that was obvious.”
“I could use some help,” she demands.
“My hero days are over.” He points to the footlocker. “Gun’s in there. Help yourself. Just bring it back.” Alison kneels down and rummages through the footlocker. She finds a small caliber handgun.
She asks, “Is this big enough to kill someone?”
“If you’ve been taught to aim.”
“I was absent that day.”
“You’ll have to dig around in there for the ammo.”
She begins to haul things out of the trunk and onto the floor.
“I’m not a particularly neat person.”
“What are you some kind of hermit?”
“Hell, no. I talk to people all over the world. It’s the way I like it. Connected and yet blissfully uninvolved in the tribulations of others.”
Every second she is away from the lodge, she is wondering if her family is still alive. She begins to feel panicky. “I can’t find ‘em! Where are the bullets?”
“They’re in there.”
She turns on him with palpable vitriol, “Look, I don’t know if you’re a psycho, an asshole, or just a damn coward, but I need bullets and some clue how to load and fire this thing.” He feels slapped; it is jarring. Alison’s strength is born from quaking desperation. It impresses him. She walks over to where he sits. She puts her hands on the table so they are face-to-face. She drops the battle-edged energy and lets her voice come through, a voice that has the quality of all mothers in pain. Leaning in, “They are going to shoot my little boy.” She reaches through the cobwebs draping Curtis’ long capitulated conscience. “His name is Jimmy. He’s nine years old.” Curtis hears these words as though he were his old self, before it all. After a pause of connection, Curtis swings his chair around and cautiously lowers himself to the cabin floor revealing the utter uselessness of his legs. Alison stands aside as his arms pull him over to the footlocker. In another time, in another place, she would have felt genuine sympathy, but there is no room for that now. She is becoming a hunter; the aperture of a once expansive mind has closed down to a single focus. She feels no pain from her scratches and bruises. She doesn’t notice the blood dripping down her cheek. All she thinks now when she watches Curtis crawl is that he will not be as useful as she’d hoped.
Moments later, on Curtis’ dilapidated porch, Alison loads the gun. He remarks, “Hope this old thing works. Haven’t tried it in years.” Alison raises the weapon and aims. “Wait!” he stops her.
“What?”
“Stop.”
“Why?”
“The sound will carry. Might as well announce you’re here over Hobbs’ P.A.”
“Thunder. I can use the thunder as cover.”
“Good you’re smart. You’ll need it.”
“I need the SEALS.”
“You will have to separate these guys to have a chance. Take them out one at a time.” She nods her head. Her chin shakes a little. It is the only visual evidence that she is holding back emotion. Curtis continues, “Course, they are stronger and better armed.” A flash of lightning and she counts.
“One banana, two banana, three banana, four…”
Crash thunder.
She confirms “Four and a half.”
“Storm’s moving away.”
“So I go on five.”
“On five.” And they wait. She stares into the night and waits for lightning. She waits for it. She wills it.
* * *
Back at the lodge, Kent has been left behind with the hostages. In frustrated moves of callous disrespect, he drags and kicks Mike’s body out the back door. Hank exchanges a look of condolence with Dan who is dazed having just witnessed the murder of his best friend. Julie cries soundlessly with only her shoulders moving up and down slightly. Ed looks powerlessly at his weeping wife and wonders just how short their new lives together are going to be. Bruce and Grant who are sitting cross-legged have leaned all the way forward until their heads rest on their knees. Bella manages to stroke Dan with one of her tied hands.
This swimming feeling in Hank’s head is counterproductive. He knows he must manhandle it and achieve rationality. He needs order and calm to function. Control. Review: Gravel seems to be the most violent and unpredictable. Kent could probably be talked into anything, he seems a little bit like a lap dog: easy to command and eager to please. Ben is a mystery, although he seems the most reasonable. He might be convinced to let Jimmy live. He’s only a kid. They are clearly heading for Canada. Jimmy can’t hurt them. Perhaps with the right words he can at least save his son, which could be okay since Alison is still out there and with this thought his head swims again. His wife. His tender wife who did not want to come. Who came for him. She is surely in shock, frozen in the icy rain, watching terrified and alone. He knows there is no help coming. This is his fault. This trip was his idea. Guilt begins to bury him and he stops it - no, not constructive, stop. He must do. Now is not the time to accept, but to keep trying. His last try killed Mike. These men didn’t even flinch before gunning down Hobbs and Mike. It was as ordinary to them as tossing a ball. Hank’s eyes drift out the window. Are you there? My darling, can you see me? Can you hear me? Forgive me for not being able to help you. Stay hidden. Stay safe. As he sinks into worry over Alison, he feels heavy and exhausted.
Gravel and Ben stomp into the room slamming the lodge door. They are pissed, which is how they grieve.
Ben paces, “Goddamn it.”
“I made them all pray to Jesus. So we got that going for him.” Kent reassures them.
Gravel responds, “His gun’s still on him down there.”
“So he slipped?” Kent asks.
“Looks like it.” Gravel plops down on the sofa.
With affection Kent says, “Clumsy big-footed lug nut.”
Ben, ever cautious, “What if he was pushed?”
Gravel asks, “You think someone’s out there?”
“Something just doesn’t feel right. Keep your guns on you.” Ben goes back to the carburetor on the floor.
Gravel says, “Hurry up and fix that fuckin’ thing so we can finish things up and get the hell outta here.”
“Not just dirty, got a part problem, I’m working it.”
Everyone on the floor knows perfectly well that finish-things-up refers to them, everyone knows this but Jimmy who thinks it means they’ll leave and he’ll be able to go find his mom.
“So, Dad, they’ll leave soon.”
“Yes, Jimmy, I hope so.”
* * *
Chapter Fifteen
On Curtis’ porch, they wait for lightning, knowing if it does not come in the next couple of minutes, she will have to go on faith that the gun will fire. Every second she wastes here, her son, her husband, and the others face the probability of being shot. She feels this responsibility in every cell of her body. In this brief pause, she admits to herself she will probably die tonight. Her family will probably die tonight. Please, for Jimmy, let him go first; let it be quick. How odd to know this in advance: to watch death approaching and to see that death comes not on a majestic pale horse at all, but on the wings of a whim, in a moment when someone asked shall we go fishing? How arbitrary. Who lives, who dies, each day - how arbitrary - and how pitifully frantic we are to make sense of it, to make order of it, to make it understandable when it simply isn’t. And then, standing on Curtis’ porch immune to the cold and the wet Alison asks for one thing from the universe - if Hank and Jimmy die, please me too. I cannot live knowing I had the chance and I could not save them. And I cannot live without them. I will not. She knows that it is this truth that is giving her the strength to fight. She doubts these men will leave witnesses. She will gladly take a shot to the heart rather than hold her dead family in her arms. She knows
what her odds are against three vicious men. Her strength comes not so much from a belief that she will be able to kill the bad guys and save the day, but more from an unconscious resolution to live together or die together. That is her truth. She has no illusions about who she is, or about how this will end. And it is this understanding that calms her. It will play out as it must.
Curtis says, “You’ll need to get close. You may only get one shot.”
She nods. They wait loaded and ready.
Then, quietly, to no one, “Nothing in my life has prepared me for this.”
“You can’t prepare for this.”
She cannot wait too much longer. Each passing second the drive to confirm her family is still alive pumps more adrenaline into her body. One more minute.
She asks him, “What happened to your legs?” Odd, she thinks, this would have been a question she was too polite to ask before this night. Tonight there are no social rules.
“Firefighter.”
“Oh. Something collapsed on you?”
“I was putting out a blaze in the hood and some gang kid used me for target practice.” She turns her eyes to him and sees Curtis for the first time as a person sitting on the porch. The crusty delivery of his words does not veil the betrayal. He is looking away into the distant dark nothingness. She reaches out and touches his shoulder. It is a fleeting gesture. It is what she has always done unconsciously. Sometimes it is a gentle brush of her hand on another’s arm as she engages in conversation; sometimes it is a little squeeze as she laughs, or a tiny push away meant to pull nearer. She penetrates the personal glass shell and just that simple contact draws people to her over the natural bridge it forms. He does not look back at her, but he feels being touched for the first time in years.
She turns her eyes out into the same darkness that holds his gaze as says quietly to herself, “The world is not what I thought it was.”