by Donna Ball
At the edge of town, a good two hundred yards before the first cluster of buildings began, was a weather-rotted shack whose roof had almost collapsed. Swinging over the door by one nail was a sign that said, "cave springs" then the paint was so faded it was illegible, but the last word was "office."
Something made Cathy keep moving, even though the coldness in the pit of her stomach had spread all the way to her legs, making them feel like lead weights. Nothing moved. There was no sound but the wind rustling the trees and the bushes, occasionally rattling a loose shutter. Where were the people? Where was the noise, the activity, the life?
She felt as though she was walking through a movie set, and though she must have known the truth from the first moment she saw that sign swinging by a nail on the rotting building, she kept going, compelled by the same sort of fascination a tourist might indeed feel while moving through a Hollywood set. The sidewalks were made of boards, rotted through in places and shot through with weeds in others. Many of the buildings, she noticed, had false fronts —a two-story Victorian-looking hotel was, when viewed from the side, just a rectangular box with a facade no more than a board's width deep. There were watering troughs for horses, and hitching posts, and even a saloon with bat-wing doors. Lace curtains, rotted by moisture and feasted upon by rodents until they were little more than tattered shreds, fluttered through a broken window as though moved by an unseen hand. Cathy walked from one end of the town to the other, examining every detail with stunned, incredulous absorption, until the piney field began to take over again and there was nothing more to see.
There was no one here. This was a ghost town.
She checked the phone. No signal.
Still numb with disbelief, Cathy turned back the way she had come, and her foot nudged something half-buried in the dust. It was a painted board, and she picked up it, wiping away the dirt until she could read the faded letters.
cave springs. est. 1872.
"No," she said out loud. Her fists tightened on the board as the rage and horror and the impotence swelled within her. She lifted the board and threw it as hard as she could toward the nearest deserted building.
"Noooooo!"
**********************
She was tired. All she wanted to do was rest. She went inside the building and let her numb legs give way beneath her, sinking into a dusty wooden chair. She couldn’t think; she couldn’t feel. She just sat.
She didn’t know how long she was there. She didn't expect to hear footsteps. She didn't count on receiving any kind of forewarning. There was no need for him to take chances while searching for her; she had not tried to hide or keep her location secret, and she figured he must have been hiding in the hills for the past hour or so, watching her through high-powered binoculars, biding his time.
But even though she expected no warning, not from an expert like Kreiger, still she was startled, and could not suppress a stab of cold, raw fear when, with no sound or precursor at all, the bat- wing doors of the saloon swung open and he stood there, silhouetted in the doorway with his gun raised, less than twenty feet away from her.
The scene was so much like a clip from a bad western that Cathy felt a gurgle of laughter back up in her throat; she suppressed the hysteria with an effort. But when he moved forward out of the sunlight and she could look him in the eyes the coldness inside her stomach dissipated, and her heartbeat was normal.
Wolf, she thought. That's what he reminds me of. A wolf. And even more so now, with the shadows under his narrow eyes and the blond stubble bristling his cheeks. The forest had been no kinder to him than it had to Cathy and Dave, but she took little comfort from that fact.
He had a shotgun slung over his shoulder, but the weapon he held on her was a pistol. As she looked at him he smiled, and lowered it. "Hello again, Catherine," he said.
********************
Cathy was sitting at a table in the center of the room. Most of the others were broken or overturned; she had righted this one, dusted it off, and found a chair with all four legs. Her backpack was on the table before her. Before Kreiger entered, she had been resting her head on it. Now she folded her hands atop the backpack and spoke in a voice that was so calm and detached it hardly sounded like her own.
"How did you find me?" she inquired. "Oh, I know you had inside help to get to Oregon. But once we took to the woods, how did you know which way we'd gone? How did you stay on our trail?"
His smile, cold as a dying sun, widened a fraction. "Our government spares no expense on the training of its agents. I've tracked trained killers through the jungles of South America; keeping up with you wasn't much of a problem. And of course, once you got here you made it easy for me. Any reason you chose to stop here?"
"I was tired," Cathy replied, and her voice reflected it. "Tired of running. On the map this looked like a town. But it was a camper's map. I guess hikers come here sometimes. Tourists."
He made a sound that might have been a chuckle. "Well, those are the breaks." He tucked his gun carefully into his shoulder holster and started toward the table. "Now I think it's time you and I had a talk."
Cathy reached into the outer pocket of the backpack and brought out the pistol. She held it in both hands, the way Dave had taught her, supporting her wrist on the table edge. "You probably shouldn't have put your gun away," she told him. "Don't come any closer. Please."
He registered no expression as he glanced at the gun, but he did stop moving. He said, "I guess your boyfriend has told you all kinds of nasty things about me. Some of them might even be true. But that doesn't change the facts. You have the information I need and you're going to tell me. So put the gun down. Make it easy on yourself."
She said, "That's just what I'm going to do."
He shook his head. "I'm not going to kill you, you know that. It was the cop I was after. He could cause trouble for me, but you—all you can do is help. He's dead, by the way. So if you're expecting him to come bursting through the back door in the nick of time, don't."
Cathy's hands tightened convulsively on the butt of the weapon, but she didn't take her eyes off Kreiger. How strange it was. She felt nothing inside—not fear, not anxiety, not sorrow. Just a great, engulfing fatigue, a chasm of numbness.
Kreiger said, without changing his tone from the mild conversational one he had used from the beginning, "I said I wouldn't kill you. But I can hurt you. I'm an expert in hurting. You're going to tell me what was said in that phone call, you know you are, so let's just get it over with. Haven't you been through enough for something that isn't even any of your business? Do you really want to be a hero for this?"
"No," Cathy admitted slowly. Every word was an effort to speak. "I don't want to be any kind of hero. And you're right, it's none of my business. All I wanted to do was get to Albany. All I
wanted to do was see my brother. But I saw two men die, I almost killed another. You had me arrested, you stole my car and my purse, you kept me away from my family." Her voice tightened, but her hands remained steady and dry around the butt of the pistol. "Now you tell me you've killed the only good man I've ever known, and I hate you for that, I hate you for all of it, but you know something? It's still none of my business. I know there's thirty million dollars' worth of dope out in the countryside somewhere, and I don't care. I don't care if you get it or the police get it or no one ever gets it. I'm just tired of it all. And that's why I'm not going to run anymore."
"Then tell me what you heard on the phone, and we'll part company."
"You'll kill me."
He shook his head, still smiling. "You watch too many movies. With that kind of money, I don't have to kill anybody. I can disappear forever."
"Maybe," she admitted slowly. "Maybe not. But if you came back, the police couldn't protect me. They couldn't protect my family. It would never be over."
"Why would I come back? Just talk to me, Cathy. Stop wasting time."
She said, mildly curious, "What if I don't remember?"
&nbs
p; Still, no expression crossed his face. "Then I guess both of us will be very unhappy. Now let's stop wasting time." He took a step toward her. "Put the gun down, and let's talk."
"No." Very carefully, Cathy slid from her chair and knelt on the floor, so that her line of vision was even with the sights of the gun and her wrists were braced on the table. Amusement flickered in Kreiger's eyes.
She thought sadly, It's so much neater in fiction, Jack. So much easier. And she realized with some surprise that Jack would not have known what to do then.
But she did.
Very carefully, Cathy pushed the button that released the safety. Kreiger followed the motion with his eyes. "I can't run anymore," she said. "I just want it to be over."
He took another step. His eyes were like chips of ice, and he wasn't smiling now. "Come on, Cathy, stop jerking me around. You're not going to shoot me. Put the goddamn gun down."
Let your arms take the impact. . .
He was eight or nine steps away from swiping out with his arm, snatching the gun from her.
Stay as relaxed as you can . . .
Seven steps now. The sights were steady.
He said, "I know you, lady. You can't pull the trigger. People like you never can. That's how come people like me always win."
Squeeze the trigger, don't jerk it. . .
Five steps.
Get your target in your sights, and when you do. . .
He was reaching toward her, a look of impatience and disgust on his face, when Cathy pulled the trigger. The impact of the bullet that severed Kreiger's aorta caused blood to spray the opposite wall, and as he died his eyes registered surprise.
************************
The woman who was reflected in the plate glass window of Mercy Hospital in Albany, Oregon was pale and gaunt, bruised and hollow-eyed. Her clothes were rumpled and stained and her hair was wild and tangled around her shoulders. Against the backdrop of the night she looked like a refugee from the netherworld. It took Cathy a moment to recognize herself, and then it was with a dull and distant shock.
The uniformed policeman who opened the door for her was not Dave Jenks.
It had taken the FBI approximately forty-five minutes after she shot Kreiger to find her. The Forest Service rescue helicopter had taken another hour to find Dave. She had refused to talk to anyone, or to leave his side, until the Emergency Room surgeon told her he was going to be all right. Then she spent five-and-a-half hours in a small room that smelled like stale cigarette smoke telling her story to two FBI agents, wondering if there was any punishment strong enough to repay them for what they had put her through. All the time they had been less than an hour away, watching. She knew she should hate them for that, and one day she would, but at that time she had reached her limit of anger, had had her fill of hate. Until she stepped out of the patrolman's car a little after midnight and saw the quiet facade of Mercy Hospital before her, she was unable to feel much of anything at all.
She had talked to Ellen once during the ordeal, but had been unable to tell her much. Now Jack was waiting for her. She had made it.
A rush of cool, hospital-scented air met her as she stepped inside. The patrolman touched his hat and said, "I'll wait for you here, Miss Hamilton." She barely heard him.
Her sneakers made no sound on the tile floor as she crossed to the registration desk. A gray-haired woman behind the desk was reading a paperback book and looked up inquiringly when Cathy approached.
"My brother, Jack Hamilton, is here." she said. "He was in Critical Care. Which way?"
There was no fanfare, no victory march, no triumphant welcome to mark her arrival—just a sleepy-looking gray-haired lady who scrolled a computer screen, smiled absently, and said, "Take the first right and ask at the nurse's station. It's rather late for visitors, you know."
Cathy said, "I know."
She followed the woman's directions through the softly lit corridor until the nurse's station came into view. Two nurses were behind a desk, talking to a woman in a pink sweatshirt. The woman turned. It was Ellen.
Cathy stumbled the last few steps of the journey. Ellen ran, her arms open, and caught Cathy to her. For a moment neither woman spoke; they simply hugged each other fiercely, desperately, with all the strength they possessed.
Then Ellen pushed Cathy away, holding her shoulders, her eyes anxiously scanning her face, "My God, Cathy, we've been so worried! What happened? You look like hell! I couldn't make sense of anything you said on the phone, what — "
Cathy interrupted, "The children. Where are they?"
"It's all right," Ellen assured her. "It's so late, their grandmother took them back to the motel. They're doing fine, honey. She got here before I did and has been spoiling them rotten ever since. The old lady really does love them, even if she did try to take them back to Cincinnati. I wouldn't let her, of course."
Cathy pressed her face against Ellen's shoulder. That, and a tired smile, was all she could show of her gratitude just then. "Oh Ellen, I should've known you would come. That I could count on you."
"When I didn't hear from you, and you didn't show up, I had to come. I had to see about the kids, and Jack needed someone with him, and I knew you'd want somebody to be here . . ."
Cathy looked up at her. "You," she said. "I wanted you here. And so did Jack."
Ellen looked confused for a moment, and then she smiled in shy, uncertain understanding.
Cathy said, "How is he?"
"Like I told you on the phone, getting stronger by the minute. They moved him to a private room not long after you called. Come on." She took Cathy's hand. "See for yourself."
Ellen pushed open the door of a dimly lit room, and Cathy stepped inside. Her brother, anchored by IV tubes and wearing a white gauze skullcap, lay on the bed bathed in the soft yellow glow of the nightlight. His face was darkly stubbled and his lips were pale, and there were bruised hollows beneath his eyes. But his breathing was strong and steady, and when Cathy approached the bed he sensed it, and opened his eyes.
"Hiya, kiddo," he murmured. "I've just been thinking about you."
Cathy took his hand in hers, closing her fingers on it firmly. Her throat thickened, and it was a moment before she could speak. "Yeah. Me too."
"Sorry —I missed the concert."
Cathy sat on the chair next to his bed, holding his hand against her cheek. "It was great."
"With you in charge, it had to be." His eyes drifted closed, and he released a long sigh. "I'm kind of tired now, but later ... we have a lot to talk about."
Cathy smiled, and slowly brought her face down to rest upon the pillow beside his. "Yes," she agreed softly. "We sure do."
************************
Epilogue
Ellen said, "Are you sure you don't want me to drive you to the airport?"
And Jack added worriedly, "Maybe she'd better, Cath. You know how rattled you get in traffic . . ."
Cathy just grinned and lifted the strap of her bag onto her shoulder. "You two just stay here and take care of the kids so I don't have to worry about them. Tell them I'll bring them—no, don't tell them anything. Let it be a surprise."
Ellen had made sure the twins were down for their naps before it was time for Cathy to leave for the airport, thus avoiding tearful goodbyes. In helping Cathy while she cared for the convalescing Jack, Ellen had gradually assumed more and more of the duties that Cathy had once considered exclusively her own. And Cathy found that she liked it that way.
The two of them followed her to the front porch, Ellen carrying her violin case. Jack's hair had started to grow back but he still wore a red baseball cap for vanity's sake. Cathy had given it to him, because it reminded her of another cap worn by another man, and she liked to see him wear it.
Cathy took the violin case and hugged Ellen, then Jack. Then, in a burst of love and gratitude, she hugged them both again. She stood back, gnawing her under lip. "I don't know what we're all making such a big deal about. I'm not going to get i
t," she said.
"Probably not." Jack winked at her. "But then again, you might."
Cathy grinned. "You're right," she said. "I might."
They all embraced again to a chorus of "Good luck!" and "We'll miss you!" and "Drive carefully!" When Cathy glanced back after depositing her luggage in the trunk, they were standing on the porch with their arms around each other, smiling. She waved and they waved back, then she went around the car to the driver’s door.
“Hey!” Jack called.
She looked back.
“Do you have your phone?”
She laughed. She couldn’t help it. Then she reached into her purse, pulled it out, and waved it at him. He grinned back at her, and Jack and Ellen went back into the house.
Cathy did not even notice the plain blue sedan that was parked at the curb until the driver's door opened and a man got out. He came slowly up the walk toward her. Cathy's heart began to pound.
He wasn't wearing his fishing cap, and the breeze ruffled his light brown curls. He looked younger than she remembered, even with the cane that helped him favor his right knee. The sun was in his eyes, making them crinkle at the edges,when he stopped before her. For a long time they just looked at each other.
She had visited him twice in the hospital, traveling the hundred miles between Jack's hospital room and his because she needed to see for herself, to know without a doubt, that he was all right. The shattered knee would heal, but he had survived the bullet wound for two reasons: because Kreiger had used the handgun instead of the shotgun, and because simple disorientation had caused Dave to fall back down into the gorge, where Kreiger assumed he was dead or dying. Even now, when Cathy thought about it, she knew it was a miracle. But one for which they were both overdue.