“Archer! Wait a minute—you don’t know what’s out there!” shouted Connor, chasing her.
She speeded up, flashing the light up ahead, then close, ahead, then close. Then she saw. Five hundred yards ahead, three coyotes had encircled Hadley. One lunged at her flanks just as Archer flashed the light that way. Hadley was turning in frantic circles. Archer could see that her slow old Lab was terrified.
In an instant, Archer also could see that she couldn’t get to Hadley in time to make a difference. She turned and raced back into the cabin, straight to the closet in the front hall. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that Connor had grabbed a smaller flashlight from the kitchen utility drawer, then had snatched up a four-foot maple branch, and was running toward Hadley.
“Wait!” she yelled to him over her shoulder as she dragged a flattish box from the bottom of the closet, opened it, and pulled out the parts of her assault rifle and night vision scope. She had it assembled and loaded in eighteen seconds. She ran past Connor.
Connor tried to grab her arm. “Archer, you can’t—you’ll shoot Hadley.”
Without pausing, she ran toward Hadley and the coyotes, then stopped. She brought the rifle up and sighted through the scope. She could see one of the coyotes clinging to Hadley’s flank. Another had the side of her fleshy neck in its mouth. Hadley was staggering. The third coyote was closing in.
Her training ran through her head. Sight . . . focus . . . steady . . . squeeze . . . The rifle cracked, and the coyote on Hadley’s flank fell away. A second later, its yelp drifted back to her on the still night air.
“Archer, stop. Please. No way can you make that shot,” Connor pleaded from a dozen steps behind her.
Without lowering the rifle, Archer sighted again and fired. The coyote at Hadley’s neck dropped, and then she heard the yip. The third coyote ran into the darkness.
Archer engaged the safety and laid the rifle down on a grassy hummock, and she and Connor raced toward Hadley. Without a word, they lifted the mauled Lab onto Connor’s jacket and carried her swiftly but gently to the Jeep. Archer got her jacket and car keys and hopped in, while Connor got in the backseat with Hadley. She lay there motionless but for her labored breathing.
“You’re gonna be fine, old girl,” he crooned to her, smoothing her wrinkled brow. “Just fine. Such a good, brave girl you are.”
At the end of the driveway, Archer jumped out, unlocked the gate, and pulled out of the driveway, wheels skidding in the wet dirt. For the first time in memory, she didn’t relock the gate. She called the veterinary clinic from her cell phone. The vet on call, a Dr. Tulloch, assured her they would be ready. When Archer pulled into the parking lot, the staff was in gear.
Two assistants got Hadley onto a stretcher. Twenty minutes later, she was in surgery. Archer and Connor waited in silence in the little waiting room. Unable to sit still, Archer began to pace.
“So, Arch, why’d you name her Hadley?” Connor asked in an effort to distract her.
Archer sat down on a bench and leaned forward, head in hand, staring straight ahead. Finally, she looked at Connor, as if realizing for the first time that he was there.
“Sorry. Did you say something?”
He repeated his question.
“Oh, right. Hadley Richardson was Hemingway’s first wife. He loved her best.”
“Really? How many wives did he have?”
“Four.”
“Didn’t know you were a Hemingway fan.”
“I shouldn’t be. I hate war, hunting, fishing, bullfights, boxing—most of the stuff he wrote about and loved. But I love the way he tells a story: direct, simple . . . and always about love, or dignity, or courage. You know, winning even in defeat because you fought for something true, something that mattered. In two sentences, he made you feel exactly the way he wanted you to feel.”
“I’ve only read a little Hemingway. I’ve read more of Fitzgerald.”
“Well, you can’t like Hemingway and Fitzgerald both. It’s impossible—they’re mutually exclusive.”
“Oh, really? Says who?” asked Connor, sounding both puzzled and amused.
“Just my opinion,” she said, uncharacteristically declining the challenge. Silence. “We got her for Annie when Annie was eight. She was cute as all get-out. We all went to pick her out. Adam and I were playing with the lively, funny ones, but Hadley walked over to Annie, sat at her feet, and just stared at her. Annie picked her up and put her in her lap. Hadley lay there, happy, and Annie kept saying, ‘This one, Mommy. This is the one.’”
Just then Dr. Tulloch came out.
“Hadley’s going to make it,” he said with a smile. “She lost a lot of blood, and we want to keep her here for a few days for observation. But she’s a tough old gal. Strangely, all that extra flesh that she . . . um, carries around her neck protected the artery. That chunkiness probably saved her. Two more bites and . . . well, anyway, I’m just glad we could save her. She’s a sweetheart.”
Archer laughed out loud and hugged Dr. Tulloch. Then she turned and hugged Connor. He looked surprised and pleased.
“Can we see her, Doctor?” Archer asked.
“Yeah, sure, but she’s pretty sedated. She’s sleeping in room four. Come on along.”
Archer and Connor stepped softly into the room. Hadley was lying on her good side, eyelids fluttering. Archer touched her broad head lightly, bent forward, and kissed her brow.
“Dear old Haddie, we love you, and you’ll be home soon, eating everything you see,” Archer whispered. She gave the dog one last nuzzle and moved away.
“Thank you, Doctor. Thank you so much.” She kept turning to thank him as they moved toward the outside door.
“You looked like one of those Japanese dolls that just keeps bowing once it gets going,” Connor teased her when they got outside.
She punched his arm, and they both jumped into the Jeep. It was just after one a.m. The shift from high adrenaline to relief had left them drained. Archer guided the car out of the parking lot and onto the highway toward the cabin. The night was quiet.
“So do you want to tell me about that?” Connor asked after a few moments of silence.
“About what?” asked Archer, not looking at him.
“Uh, the high-speed assault rifle that you keep in your closet. Oh, and which you just happen to be able to assemble in the dark in under twenty seconds, and which you keep with night vision goggles and scope, too—like all of us do, just in case of the random invasion. And then there’s the little matter of you making two shots—standing—that even the best shot in a crack SWAT team could only dream of making. That’s what I thought you might give me some background on.”
“Oh, that,” she said, with a little wave. “No big deal. I told you I took a self-defense class after Annie died, and that’s some of the stuff I got.”
Connor looked at her, amazed and shaking his head. “Huh. I took a self-defense course myself. I don’t remember assault rifles and night vision scope being part of the equipment. I guess you took the advanced class.” He tipped the brim of his Stetson forward, leaning his head back on the headrest. He closed his eyes. “Yeah, right. And in my self-defense course, they handed out grenades to those of us who completed the class. Fine—if that’s how you want to leave it.”
“Well, don’t get mad.”
“I’m not mad. I’m just sorry you don’t trust me enough to be honest.”
Archer made no reply.
When they pulled into the driveway fifteen minutes later, Connor hopped out to lock the gate once Archer had pulled in. Alice wagged her tail in greeting at the cabin, and Connor petted her without a word. He turned to Archer, cocked his head as if about to say something, then shook it. He gave her a hug, holding her head in the hollow of his shoulder for a moment. Then, giving her a little smile, he backed away and grabbed his lantern, whistling for Alice. And with a tip of his hat, he walked out the door.
Archer stood silently at her kitchen sink, deep in thought. She s
hook her head and began to clean up pieces of the shattered baking dish. When she finished, she went out the back door with her flashlight to retrieve the specially outfitted rifle she’d left in the grass at the edge of the woods.
It wasn’t until a few minutes later that she realized she hated deceiving Connor. She wanted them to be on the same side of the fence, with no secrets between them.
* * *
Connor arrived at the cabin with his few possessions and dropped them on the floor. He plopped down on the chair and watched in amusement as Archer hurried from room to room, gathering her things. She was going away for two days to do Gavin’s project, and Connor had agreed to stay in the cabin with Alice, pick up Hadley from the clinic when she was ready, and take care of her until Archer returned.
Archer was in a good mood, running around the cabin, leaving sticky notes about heat, plumbing, and old-dog idiosyncrasies. She wore a new black and white tweed sweater, cropped at the hip and buttoned down the front, black gabardine slacks, and low black boots.
“Hey, fashion plate, you better snip that tag hanging off the back of your sweater before you hit the Big Apple.”
“Yikes! Thanks. Could you grab the scissors from my sewing box on the table next to my bed? I’m just calling to see when Hadley gets out.” She spun around, cell phone in hand.
“Sure, whatever it takes,” said Connor, ambling into the little square bedroom. He saw the mahogany sewing box, shiny and compact, sitting on the bedside table. Archer’s suitcase lay on the bed, lid open, but bulging and unlatched. Connor leaned over and opened the sewing box, taking out the scissors.
“Hey, Arch, want me to close your suitcase and put it in the car?” he called to her.
No answer.
He walked to the bedroom door and leaned out, holding on to the doorjamb with his left hand and balancing on one leg. She waved but was still talking on the phone. He walked back into the bedroom and tried to latch the suitcase, pushing the top down to compress the bulky contents. As he did, he saw a glint of metal in the front corner. Not really thinking, he opened the top to resettle a sweater with a protruding sleeve.
Then he saw it: an HK Tactical, cocked and locked, with two spare clips and a sound suppressor. He blinked as if not quite believing what he saw. He looked again, his eye falling on an open piece of paper next to the weapon. He read, “Wayne Bremmer. Child molester and murderer. Opportunity: leaving the gym.”
Stunned, he closed the suitcase and carried it to the front door. Archer mouthed a thank-you, finished her call, and grabbed her coat. She stood on tiptoe to kiss him on the cheek, then left for two days of “legal research” in New York.
CHAPTER 15
When Archer returned from New York, the fall days fell into a routine. Around midmorning she would jog down the logging path with Hadley. Connor and Alice would be ready at the camp, and they would all set off on a two-mile run: Archer in front, followed by Connor, with the dogs weaving behind them, surging ahead, snuffling for interesting smells in the grasses and the forest duff.
One morning, just before the end of October, Archer arrived to find Connor on his knees with a small gardening trowel, making holes in a circular pattern around his camp. He was wearing black sweatpants and a faded navy sweatshirt.
“Hey, what’s with the gopher holes, McCall?” she yelled out as she approached the campsite.
“Daffodil bulbs, you philistine,” he called back. “Feel free to join in.”
“I didn’t know you liked flowers,” she said, jogging in place, then stopping.
“Well, now it’s out: I do. Nothing better than seeing a field of daffodils in the spring. Rain’s due this afternoon, and I want to get these in before it hits.”
Archer knelt down and began dropping bulbs into the holes, covering them with the little piles of dirt, patting each spot firmly. They moved along in assembly line fashion. Within ten minutes, the forty remaining holes were covered.
“How many did you plant in all?” asked Archer, patting down her last two.
“Hm-m. I started with three hundred. I’ve been at it for hours while you were sipping decent coffee, woman!”
“So, you’ll be here in the spring, then?”
“Don’t know. But they will be. There—last one. Three hundred bulbs, all set.”
Connor shook off his hands and then dipped them into a bucket of water near the tent door before drying them on a clean towel.
They began their jog. Archer was in her usual navy blue and red print running shorts, with a white sweatshirt over a white tank top. The sweatshirt always came off at the top of the first hill and was tied around her waist for the rest of the run. They ran uphill and down, around, and up again to the highest point of their little corner of the Berkshires. As close to heaven on earth as they could ever hope to get, Archer always said when they got there.
“This is the only way you’re getting to heaven, McCall,” she would say, panting and leaning forward, hands on knees, catching her breath after the uphill grind.
“Oh, yeah? How little you know about my secret good works! Anyway, I’m sure I’ll have lots of company where I’m going.”
“Hm-m, how true.”
The clearing was perhaps a hundred feet square, with a granite ledge overhanging one side and thick forest bordering the other, but the view was spectacular: green hills in every direction, caramel-colored canyon, under a dome of pale blue sky. They called it “the Cloisters” after the monastery and sanctuary at Manhattan’s upper edge.
Sunday afternoon, weather permitting, was their time to picnic there. Archer and Hadley would show up at Connor’s camp in the early afternoon, a basket dangling from Archer’s arm. Connor would look up when he spotted them, grab a book and a blanket, and take the basket from Archer, and they would head up the steep hill, chatting.
At the summit, the two would sit cross-legged on the big cotton blanket, eating and laughing, periodically feeding a morsel of chicken or cheese to the closest dog. Sometimes they stretched out on their stomachs, side by side, sharing an apple or a slice of baguette, joking about their present lack of gainful contribution to, oh, pretty much anything.
“I went from Type double-A to type G,” Connor commented.
“That’s not too bad—I fell off the whole chart.”
By the second picnic, they each started bringing a book. Connor had brought Pearl Buck today, but he was ignoring it, just resting with his eyes closed. Archer had picked it up and started reading aloud. She read a paragraph and stopped.
“That’s good. Keep going,” Connor said without opening his eyes. She read, and when she tired, he took over. Though at first it seemed a little corny, it quickly proved to be a luxury just to listen, with nothing more required.
“This is like kindergarten, McCall,” Archer said one balmy afternoon. “And I loved kindergarten. School went downhill from there, if you ask me.”
“Yup. I always loved story hour, too. My favorite was the Hardy Boys.”
“Where’d you go to school? We never got anything like that. We got Winnie-the-Pooh and Dr. Seuss.”
“We were advanced in South Boston, unlike you kids off in the hinterlands of Litchfield, Connecticut,” he said, winking.
Archer threw a handful of leaves at him, but they fell short of their mark. They were more than halfway through The Good Earth, with Connor reading. Archer lay back, using a yellow cotton sweater folded to make a pillow. She was popping grapes into her mouth. They were just the way she liked them: really crisp, seedless, red. Connor read another page.
“I don’t get it,” she interrupted, shaking her head, still lying down. “Now, why don’t they see it was the land that got them where they are? Why would they jeopardize their whole way of life by even considering selling off some land?” she asked accusingly. “And why would he take on that tart when he has such a loyal, hardworking wife? People can be so blind to what really matters.”
“I’m just reading it, not writing it, Archer,” said
Connor drily.
“Yeah, but what about that? I would see it. I would . . .” She went on; then, seeing him looking at her over the top of his glasses, she stopped. “Okay, okay, you’re just reading. Go on. You’re doing a fine job, I might add.”
Later, with the chapter done, they just lay on their backs. Connor chewed on a blade of glass. Archer watched a long V of geese overhead. It was quiet and peaceful.
She broke the silence. “So, why do you think we haven’t become lovers?” Without looking at him, she quickly added, “I mean, we’re both free and over the age of consent, as they say. We like each other. We’re here. Why do you think it hasn’t happened?”
Dead silence.
Connor flushed, but Archer was still on her back and couldn’t see him. He turned to his side. Putting a hand on her shoulder, he pulled her to her side to face him. They were looking at each other, but neither spoke for several minutes. Finally, Connor said, “Well, that was a surprise.”
He waited for her to comment, but she said nothing.
“Uh, just for the record, was that a pass?”
She looked down, then away.
“No. I was just curious—you know, from a sort of academic point of view.”
Connor gazed at her and said, “Academic interest, huh? Okay, well, fine. Look, in case you were wondering but didn’t want to ask—although that’s hard to imagine—and just for the academic record that we’re setting straight here, I’m not gay, or impotent, or infirm, or taken.” Connor paused, weighing his words.
“And . . . since I think you are the most maddeningly attractive woman I’ve met since, oh . . . puberty, it’s not for lack of wanting on my part, either, in case you wondered that. You are my type, after all: complex and difficult,” he said, aiming for a joke and coming up lame.
Archer rose up on her elbow. “But you’ve never said anything.”
Connor sighed, then said in almost a whisper, “To what end, Arch? How does it help either of us for you to know that . . . that every time I touch your hand, I want to take you in my arms and never let you go; that every time I see you in those crazy psychedelic running shorts of yours, I want to pull you into my tent for the rest of the day; that every time you whisper in my ear, I feel like I’m sixteen again? You aren’t in the market for that, as far as I can see, and I won’t risk what we have by pressing the point.”
Tell Me When It Hurts Page 11