Drawn

by James Hankins

  Suddenly, the sound of an engine drifted up to him from below. A boat? It had to be that bitch and the kid. He didn’t want them escaping—if he stopped them, maybe he could go on with his life, no cops, no jail, just a little scar on his face to remind him to be more careful in the future. Larry bent down for the gun and things happened fast. The boat engine grew louder. Larry looked over his shoulder and saw, not far away, Miguel and the woman in the boat, just off the shore of the lake, heading toward open water. A sound came from in front of him and Larry turned to see the man charging him. Larry had only a split second to choose a course of action and see it through. Though he was an expert shot with his Les Baer, he didn’t know how many bullets he’d need to take out the two in the boat—if he could take them out at all—and he knew he had only five rounds left, after spending two cartridges shooting at the boy as he ran down the stairs and another when the scar-faced guy tackled him. So even though he could have easily dropped the guy with a single shot, he chose instead to sidestep the man’s charge and punch him in the gut. His movement was sudden and quick and the blow landed right where he wanted it, high in the stomach, hard enough that Larry heard the breath explode from the guy as his wind left him and he dropped to his knees. Larry brought the butt of his pistol down hard on the back of the guy’s head. The man fell onto his side and Larry hurried to the edge of the roof. If he had three seconds to spare he would have snatched up the guy’s knife and buried it in his neck, but he didn’t have the time, not yet anyway, because that ugly freak had delayed him too much already. After Larry killed the woman and the kid, though, maybe he’d take a little of his frustration out on the guy. He probably thought those scars had hurt when he got them. He’d discover that he knew nothing of pain before tonight.

  Larry turned. There they were in the boat, two figures, still just twenty yards offshore. It would take a good shot. With a rifle, no problem. But with a pistol, it would be tougher. Larry was good, though. Really good. He found shooting relaxing, so he practiced from a variety of distances. He could make this shot. Maybe a miss or two first, but he’d get them. He took aim as the boat started to pick up speed. He closed one eye and gently squeezed the trigger.

  NATHAN HAD JUST reached the foot of the castle when the gunshot sounded from right above him. He looked up and saw a lone figure at the edge of the roof, a gun in his hand, arm outstretched, his other hand steadying it. The man fired again at the boat, which was barely thirty yards from shore, and Nathan heard the sound of a bullet hitting wood. The woman screamed, though it sounded more frightened than pained. The man fired again and Nathan heard a dull thud and a grunt. Either the boy or the woman—Nathan couldn’t tell which—had been hit. As Nathan watched, whoever it was jerked sideways, hit the side of the boat and went over, into the lake.

  “No,” Nathan cried, and his cry was echoed from above by another voice, a hideously strange voice, crying something garbled, something that might have been “No.” Nathan looked up and saw the man at the edge of the roof back up a step as a figure dark enough to be pure shadow—Boone—rose up in front of him, hesitated, then flew at him, knocking him backward. They both pitched off the roof and tumbled eighty feet through the air. Nathan heard a sickening crunch-thump when they hit. Before Nathan turned his face away—he didn’t want to see—his eyes registered a broken, twisted pile of limbs. He closed his eyes.

  “Boone,” he whispered.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  NATHAN WANTED TO check on Boone but knew the fall had killed him. It was too long a drop. And he’d heard the shattering of bones when his newfound friend and the shooter had hit the ground. He’d seen the unmoving lumps that lay at the base of the castle wall. No, Boone was beyond help. He could wait. But the woman and the boy couldn’t. Someone had been shot and fallen out of that boat. Nathan, who had always been a strong swimmer, stripped off his shirt as he hurried toward the water. At the lake’s edge, he tore off his shoes, then dove in and began cutting through the water with smooth strokes.

  Jeremy’s voice echoed in his head. “You’re going to have to swim.”

  The water was cold. As good a swimmer as he was, he was seventy-two years old and hadn’t been getting the exercise he should have the past few years. His lungs began to burn, the muscles in his arms burned, while the frigid water chilled him to his core. He kept his head down, pulling himself through the water, willing himself to keep going, keep stroking, keep swimming—“You’re going to have to swim”—until he looked up and found he was only a few yards from the boat. The boy was hanging over the side, holding tight to the woman in the water, who didn’t seem to be conscious.

  “I grabbed her as soon as she fell,” the boy said, groaning with exertion. “I think she hit her head. I can’t hold on—”

  Nathan forced himself to swim just a few more feet until he reached the boat. He pushed the woman from underneath as the boy pulled her from above and together they got her over the side and into the boat like a prize catch. With the last of his strength, Nathan pulled himself in after her.

  He shivered and tried to catch his breath as he examined the woman. She was bleeding from her side. “We have to get back to shore,” he said.

  “Larry?” the boy asked.

  “Dead.”

  Relief momentarily scrubbed the fear from the boy’s features before concern took hold of them again.

  “Is she going to be okay?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. We’ll do our best.”

  The boy nodded, taking the news bravely, but Nathan could tell that he wanted to cry. Nathan sort of did, too.

  “And the other man?” the boy asked. “The one who was with you?”

  Nathan hesitated. “He’s dead, too.”

  MIGUEL STEERED THE boat, which the old guy showed him how to do, and under most circumstances, Miguel would have found it exciting. But Alice was lying now in the bottom of the boat while the old man, who said his name was Nathan, tended to her with a first-aid kit he had on board. He pulled her shirt up and Miguel saw an ugly little hole in her side pumping blood.

  “You know what you’re doing?” Miguel asked the man.

  “Learned how to field-dress wounds in the Army,” Nathan said.

  “Will she be all right?”

  “I think she might be. The bullet went right through, which is good.”

  Miguel couldn’t imagine how the bullet going all the way through Alice could be a good thing—after all, that would make two holes instead of just one—but Nathan seemed to be glad about it.

  Soon, Nathan had applied something from a tube to the bullet wounds and taped thick gauze pads over them, both on the front and the back, then he sat next to her and held his hand on the gauze, pressing down a little.

  As they neared shore, Nathan said, “Slow down now a bit, Miguel, we’re almost there. Good, just like that. You’re doing great.”

  Finally, rocks and sand scraped against the bottom of the boat as the craft thumped against the shore.

  Nathan showed Miguel how to put pressure on Alice’s wound. Miguel was afraid of pushing down on the gauze, afraid it would hurt her, but Nathan insisted.

  “I’ll be right back,” Nathan said as he stepped out of the boat, onto the shore. “Stay here and keep the pressure on, okay?”

  Miguel looked down at Alice’s pretty face. She looked like she was sleeping. She looked like one of the angels in the Bible Miguel’s mother used to read to him when he was very young.

  THEY’D BEACHED THE boat almost right in front of the castle, so Nathan didn’t have to walk far to reach the bodies. He kept his head down, not wanting to see Boone’s broken body any sooner than he had to. He glanced up and saw a dark, oddly shaped lump on the ground. As he neared it, he saw that it was a single body, lying in an awkward, twisted heap. It was the man who’d shot Alice. His limbs stuck out at unnatural angles, his head was bent too far to the side, and his were open and glassy. His face was a bloody, broken mess. He couldn’t have been more dead. Or
more alone.

  Nathan heard a sound and looked up to see Boone hurrying around the corner of the castle, rubbing the back of his head.

  “Boone?” Nathan said.

  Boone snapped his head up.

  “Nathan? Where’s Alice?”

  “Boone, you’re alive.”

  “Yeah, I know. Where’s Alice? And the boy? Where’s that son of a bitch with the gun?”

  Boone’s head swiveled around.

  “Whoa, calm down,” Nathan said. “Alice and the boy are okay. And the bad guy’s dead.”

  Relief washed over Boone’s features.

  “How?” he asked.

  “How what?”

  “How’d he die?”

  Nathan was confused. “You…you killed him.”

  “I did?”

  “Yeah. He was at the edge of the roof, shooting at Alice and Miguel in the boat, and you rushed him, tackled him right off the roof.”

  “Off the roof?”

  “Yeah, I saw you both fall and hit the ground. Right here.”

  Boone cocked his head, looking down at the body near their feet.

  “Wasn’t me,” Boone said.

  “It had to be.”

  “It wasn’t. That guy knocked me out. I woke up a minute ago on the roof. Must have pistol-whipped me. Feels like a grenade went off inside my skull.”

  “Anyone else up there with you two?”

  “Nope.”

  Nathan didn’t understand. He looked up at the roofline, remembered Larry crying out, the dark shadow rising in front of him, flying at him, both of them pitching over the edge, spinning as they fell, then the sickening thud of impact.

  “But I saw you, Boone. I saw you rush him, tackle him over the edge.”

  Boone shook his head. “It wasn’t me.”

  BOONE STILL HAD no idea exactly what had happened while he’d been briefly unconscious. All he knew was that the bad guy was dead and the good guys were okay. He followed Nathan down to the boat, eager to see Alice again. When they reached the water, Boone heard the boy say, “I kept pressing on the wound, like you said.”

  Boone said, “Pressing on…what?” He turned to Nathan. “What wound? What’s he talking about?” He tipped his head and saw Alice lying in the boat with the boy kneeling beside her. “Alice?”

  “Alice was shot, Boone.”

  “You said she was okay. You said she and the boy were okay.”

  Boone couldn’t believe it. Earlier tonight, at the rest stop, she’d saved him. She might not have known it, but she had. And he thought he’d never see her again. Then, miraculously, she was there on the roof. And from the second he woke up on that rooftop, all he could think about was seeing her again. It didn’t matter that she’d left him behind at the rest stop. He wouldn’t even care all that much if she had done it because of…well, because of his issues. The fact was, she had saved him and he just wanted to see her again, to know that she was safe. And now there she was, lying there, having been shot, for God’s sake, maybe dying.

  “You said she was okay, Nathan,” Boone said.

  “And I think she is. I really do. I dressed her wounds. If she gets to a hospital soon, she’ll be just fine.”

  “But how bad—”

  The boy interrupted. “She woke up while you were gone, Nathan. She spoke. I think she’ll be okay.”

  “That’s great news, Miguel,” Nathan said. “I think she’ll be okay, too.”

  “Boone?”

  Boone’s heart jumped. It was Alice. Her voice was strong. Her voice was…music.

  “Alice?”

  “Hi, Boone. It’s really good to see you.”

  “It’s nice to hear your voice again, Alice.”

  “But how can you be…how did you get here? How can this be possible? I don’t understand how—”

  “Shh,” he said. “You should probably stay calm. Everything’s okay now.”

  She nodded. After a moment, she said, “Boone, I’m…I’m so sorry I left you before…at the rest stop…I didn’t want—”

  “It’s okay, Alice. I understand.”

  And he thought he did. He’d already come to grips with it. They were strangers and the world could be a dangerous place.

  “No, please, listen to me. I didn’t plan on leaving you. I didn’t want to. But I was following…um…I was following signs…not road signs, but, well, other kinds of signs, signs I can’t really explain…and I saw a sign when I went out to the parking lot and…oh, I know you couldn’t possibly understand, you have no reason to believe me, and I know it sounds crazy, but—”

  Now Boone got it. He smiled again. “You want to talk crazy, Alice? You want to hear something crazy? I do understand. I do believe you.”

  “What? You do?”

  “Totally.”

  “But how could you?”

  “Trust me.”

  He couldn’t see it, but he thought she might have been smiling.

  “We’ve gotta get help,” Nathan said. “I’ll head up to the road, either find a house with a working phone or flag down a car if I see one. Someone’s gotta have a damn cell phone. Hell, maybe I need to get myself one, after all this.”

  Boone cocked his head. “Why don’t you go flag down one of those cop cars?”

  “What cop cars? I don’t hear anything.”

  “You will.”

  A moment later, sirens sounded in the distance, getting louder by the second.

  “Good ears, Boone,” Nathan said. “Guess someone must have heard the gunshots. I’ll head up to the road, tell them what they’ll find down here, and make sure they have an ambulance on the way. Miguel, keep pressure on that wound.”

  Boone heard Nathan walk away. He stepped into the boat. “Let me take over for you—Miguel, is it?”

  “Sí, Miguel.”

  “I’m Boone,” he said as Miguel moved aside. Boone knelt beside Alice and put his hand on the gauze pad on her side. He pressed down gently but firmly. Alice groaned and sucked in a little breath, then placed a hand on top of his.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  “Thank you.”

  “For this? Nothing to do but wait here anyway, might as well keep busy.”

  “I meant for what you did up on the roof. He could have killed you.”

  “He could have killed us both,” Boone said. “I’m glad he didn’t.”

  “Me, too.”

  Alice gave Boone’s hand a quick squeeze.

  “I’m pretty glad to be alive, too,” Miguel said, “in case you guys were wondering.”

  Alice chuckled and Boone had to smile. It didn’t come naturally to him, as he hadn’t done much of it the past few years, but he thought he could get better with practice.

  Boone placed his other hand on top of Alice’s, sandwiching her hand between his…and his smile faded. She was wearing a wedding ring.

  THREE MONTHS LATER

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  AS ALICE TURNED into the driveway, her stomach fluttered just a bit, though not unpleasantly. It had been two weeks since she and Miguel had been here, and the days had dragged since then. It seemed like coming only every two weeks wasn’t enough.

  “Looks like they hung up a tire swing, Miguel,” she said.

  Miguel beamed when he saw the old tire hanging by a long rope from a thick tree limb.

  “I’ve never been on one of those,” he said, smiling.

  “Well, I bet you can figure out how it works. Go give it a try.”

  And the boy was out of the car like it was on fire. He sprinted across the snow-patched ground to the tire swing and jumped on it in full stride, his momentum carrying him forward, then back, then he started to spin crazily. Alice smiled as he laughed.

  She got out of the car and smiled wider when she saw Boone and Nathan on the porch.

  “Hi,” she said as she walked toward them.

  “Hi, yourself,” Nathan said, greeting her at the bottom of the stairs with a hug. “Excuse me, honey, but I have homemade m
acaroni and cheese in the oven. Maggie’s secret recipe.”

  He climbed the stairs and disappeared inside.

  Boone stood at the top of the steps. He looked better than she’d ever seen him. She wasn’t sure what had changed, then she realized that it might have been simply that he looked relaxed. He smiled down at her. He had a nice smile.

  “Hey, Boone,” Alice said.

  “Hey, Alice.”

  She climbed the stairs and gave him kiss on the cheek. He pulled her into a quick hug and kissed the top of her head. It wasn’t too familiar or inappropriate in any way. It was just the right amount of familiar. It was nice.

  As they separated, she said, “Which one of you morons climbed that tree to tie the rope up there?”

  “Nathan’s an old man, for God’s sake. I couldn’t ask him to do it.”

  Alice shook her head.

  AFTER LUNCH, MIGUEL and Nathan sat on the wooden dock, bundled in thick sweaters against the bracing January air, their feet hanging over the edge, fishing poles in their hands, their lines trailing in the water through a hole they had cut in the ice below. Up at the house, not far away, Alice stood at the end of the porch, watching them, paintbrush in hand, which was warm enough inside a thin glove. She looked at the canvas on the easel in front of her, added a little texture to Miguel’s shirt, then stood back. She liked it.

  The door opened and Boone stepped onto the porch with two steaming mugs of hot cocoa. He handed one to Alice, then sat in one of the rocking chairs Nathan said he and his wife used to sit in every evening.

  “Thanks,” she said. “What do you think? You like my painting?”

  “Looks great to me,” Boone said.

  She knew he couldn’t see a single detail on the canvas. She smiled at what had, in a short time, become a running joke between them, the kind that people who spend time together collect over the years like souvenirs.

  Alice decided the painting was finished. She sat in the rocker next to Boone’s, blew on the surface of her hot cocoa, then took a small sip, singeing her lips and tongue only slightly. After a moment passed in comfortable silence, Boone spoke softly.