The End

by James Patterson

  Instead, I retreat upstairs to my bedroom and shut the door and windows, and still, that thump-thump shakes through the very wood and beams of the house. I lie down, staring up, pillow around my head, and try not to think of what’s in the basement.

  Chapter 27

  Later that night, I get up for a drink of water, and the noise and music are still there. I walk out to the rear porch and see movement out on the lake and hear laughter. On a tree near the dock is a spotlight the previous owners had installed. I’ve rarely used it, but at this hour in the morning, I go over and flip the switch mounted in the porch. Some shouts and there’s a shriek or two. Two powerboats, tied together, have drifted close to my shore. The light catches a young and muscular man, with a fierce black mustache, standing on the stern of his powerboat and urinating into the lake. His half dozen companions, male and female, yell and curse in my direction. The boats start up and two men and a young woman stumble to one side of a boat and drop their bathing suits, exposing their buttocks. A couple of others give me a one-fingered salute, and there’s a shower of beer bottles and cans tossed over the side as they speed away.

  I spend the next hour on the porch, sitting on my hands, just looking out into the darkness.

  The next day, I make two phone calls, to the town hall and the police department of Nansen. I make gentle and polite inquiries and get the same answer from each office. There’s no local or state law about coming to within a certain distance of shore with a boat. There’s also no law about mooring together. With Nansen being such a small town, there’s also no noise ordinance.

  Home sweet home.

  Chapter 28

  This visit Ron is wearing a bow tie, and we ramble on about necktie fashions before getting to the business at hand. Sometimes we never get to the business at hand—last session we talked for fifty minutes about an ongoing political scandal involving the governor—but this time, he says, “Still having sleeping problems?”

  I was proud to be smiling. “No, not at all.”

  “Really?”

  “Honest,” I say.

  “And why’s that?”

  “It’s fall,” I say. “The tourists have gone home, most of the cottages along the lake have been closed up, and nobody takes out boats anymore. It’s so quiet at night I can hear the house creak and settle.”

  “That’s good, that’s really good,” Ron says, and I smile and change the subject, and a half hour later, I’m heading back to my new home in Nansen, thinking about the other white lie I’d just told. Well, not really a lie. More of an oversight.

  I hadn’t told Ron about the hang-up phone calls. Or how every few days, trash is dumped in my dirt driveway. Or how a week ago, when I was shopping, someone drilled a bullet hole through one of the side windows of my house. Maybe a hunting accident. Even though hunting season hasn’t started yet, I know that for some of the workingmen in this town, it doesn’t really matter when the state allows them to do their shooting.

  I just cleaned up the driveway, tried to shrug off the hang-up phone calls, and cut away brush and saplings around the house to eliminate any potential hiding spots for, um, hunters.

  Still, I’m beginning to love it here. I can sit out on the dock, a blanket around my legs and a mug of tea in my hand, watching the sun set in the distance, the reddish-pink highlighting the strong yellows, oranges, and reds of the foliage. The water is slate-gray, and though I miss the loons, the smell of the leaves and the distant tang of wood smoke from my house seem to settle in just fine.

  In the years and months and weeks leading up to my retirement, this is what I’ve dreamed of, this is what I’ve desired.

  At moments like that, it’s easy not to think of what’s in the basement.

  Chapter 29

  As it grows colder, I begin going to downtown Nansen for breakfast every few days. The center of Nansen could be Exhibit A in a presentation on typical New Hampshire small towns. Around the small green common—with a Civil War statue in the center—is a bank, a real estate office, a hardware store, two service stations, a general store, and Gretchen’s Kitchen.

  I stop by Gretchen’s for lunch and occasionally dinner, but I also enjoy going for breakfast so I can read a handful of papers while letting the morning drift by. I listen to the old-timers sit at the counter and pontificate on the ills of the state, nation, and world, and I also enjoy seeing the harried workers fly in, trying to grab a meal before their eight hours of misery. I usually take a corner booth by myself, and a waitress named Sandy has taken some interest in me.

  She’s about twenty years younger than I am, with a pleasing body that fills out her regulation-pink uniform, and raven-dark hair and a wide smile. After a couple of weeks of serious flirting on her part and generous tips on my part, I actually ask her out, and when she says yes, I go out to my pickup truck and burst out laughing. A real date. The laughter stops when I think of Emily, dear, sweet Emily, and then I start my truck.

  She would understand. If anyone would, it would be Emily.

  And she would warn me to be careful, and, being who I am, I ignore her.

  Chapter 30

  The first date is dinner a couple of towns over in Montcalm, the second is dinner and a movie outside of Manchester, and the third is a homemade dinner at my house that’s supposed to end with an on-demand movie in the living room but manages to become a stumble into the bedroom. Along the way I learn that Sandy has always lived in Nansen, is divorced with two young boys, and is saving up her money so she can go back to school and become a legal aide. “If you think I’m going to keep on slinging hash and waiting for Billy to remember to send his support check every week, then you’re a damn fool,” she says.

  After a bedroom interlude that surprises me with its intensity—well, at least on my part—we end up back in the enclosed porch. I open a window for Sandy since she needs a smoke, and I won’t allow cigarette smoke in my home. The house is warm and I have on a pair of shorts, while she’s wrapped a towel around her torso. I sprawl out in an easy chair while she sits on a nearby couch, feet in my lap.

  Both of us have glasses of red wine and I feel warm, comfortable, and tingling, and Sandy glances at me as she works on her cigarette. I’ve left the lights off and lit up a couple of candles, and in the hazy yellow light, I make out a small tattoo of a unicorn on her right shoulder.

  Sandy looks at me and asks, “What did you do when you was in the government?”

  “Traveled a lot and ate bad food.”

  “No, really,” she says. “I want a straight answer.”

  Well, I think, as straight as I can be without violating certain agreements. I say, “Sometimes I was a consultant to foreign armies. Sometimes they needed help in using certain weapons or training techniques. That was my job. Other times I worked straight up for the Department of Defense, doing what I was asked to do.”

  “Were you good?”

  Too good. “I did all right.”

  “You’ve got a few scars there.”

  “That I do.”

  “Your legs look pretty messed up.”

  That long and seemingly endless night in Serbia. “That they are.”

  She shrugs, takes a lazy puff of her cigarette. “I’ve seen worse.”

  I’m not sure where this is going, and I’m even more unsure when she says, “When are you going to be leaving?”

  Confused, I say, “You mean, tonight?”

  “No,” she says. “I mean, when are you leaving Nansen and going back home?” I look around the warm enclosed porch and I say, “This is my home.”

  She gives me a slight smile like a teacher correcting a fumbling but eager student. “No, it’s not. This place was built by the Gerrish family. It’ll always be the Gerrish place, doesn’t matter that you live here. You’re from away, and this ain’t your home.”

  I try to smile, though my mood is slipping. “Well, I beg to disagree, Sandy.”

  She says nothing for a moment, just studying the trail of smoke from h
er cigarette, and then she says, “Some people in town don’t like you. They think you’re uppity, a guy who should be someplace else, a guy that don’t belong here.”

  I begin to find it quite cool on the porch. “What kind of people?”

  “The Garr brothers. Jerry Tompkins. Kit Broderick. A few others. Guys in town. They don’t particularly like you.”

  “I don’t particularly care,” I shoot back.

  A small shrug as she stubs out her cigarette. “You will.”

  Chapter 31

  The night crumbles some more after that, and the next morning, when I sit in the corner at Gretchen’s, I’m ignored by Sandy. One of the older waitresses serves me, and my coffee arrives in a cup stained with lipstick, the bacon is charred black, and the eggs are cold. I get the message and start making my own breakfast at home, where I sit alone on the porch, watching the leaves fall and the days grow shorter.

  I spend a lot of time alone on the porch, wondering if Sandy had been here on her own, or if she had been scouting out enemy territory on someone’s behalf.

  If. Dumb word.

  Civilian life seems to be softening me.

  At another visit, this one in December, I surprise myself by telling Ron about something that’s been bothering me.

  “It’s the snow,” I say, leaning forward, hands clasped between my legs. “I know it’s going to start snowing soon. And I’ve always hated the snow, especially since…”

  “Since when?”

  “Since something I did once,” I say, remembering so much in such a small amount of time.

  Emily.

  “In Serbia,” I say.

  “Go on,” he says, fingers making a tent in front of his face.

  “I’m not sure if I can.”

  Ron tilts his head quizzically. “You know I have the clearances.”

  I clear my throat, my eyes burning and tearing a bit. “I know. It’s just that it’s…it’s the snow, Ron.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The snow,” I say. “Ever see blood on snow, at night?”

  I think I have his attention. “No,” he says, “no, I haven’t.”

  “It steams at first, since it’s so warm,” I say. “And then it gets real dark, almost black. Dark snow, if you can believe it. It’s something that stays with you, always.”

  He looks steadily at me for a moment and says, “What happened over there?”

  “It didn’t go well,” I said. “I went in with four other folks. I was the only one who came out.”

  “Do you want to talk about it some more?”

  Emily.

  “No.”

  Chapter 32

  I’m short with Ron when he asks me about the dreams. I say of course I have dreams, but they don’t bother me. He raises his left eyebrow in a way that tells me he thinks I’m lying, but for once I’m not. Dreams don’t bother me, not at all.

  There’s an entire collection, beginning from dank and noisy nights in Laos, through places on every continent in this world—including Antarctica, believe it or not, and God help a certain senator if that story ever gets out—ending with Central Europe and Serbia. The dreams vary but they have a common theme: of bloodletting, of being trapped, of being cut off with the enemy approaching, and me sitting there, bumbling and out of ammo.

  For the first few seconds after waking up, I’m always disconcerted and maybe a little upset, but with the bed firm beneath me and the smell of the forest, I calm down in seconds. The dreams don’t bother me, not a bit. They are merely reminding me that I am alive, that I can fear, that I can be scared. Some of my old comrades told me that they never dreamed, never knew fear, and I never could understand them.

  I usually get back to sleep after one of those nightmares with a smile on my face. Once again, I’ve proven that I’m human.

  It’s gray outside late one afternoon, and I’m in the little cubbyhole off the bedroom that I’ve turned into an office, trying to get a new computer up and running. I’m intrigued by the idea of connecting myself to the world of cyberspace after spending so much time on the move. I’m no longer in the mood for traveling, but my innate curiosity and temperament tells me that I still want to find things out, even if it’s only over a computer and a fiber-optic cable.

  When everything is humming along, I go downstairs for a quick drink and I look outside and there it is, snowflakes—big and fat and white, lazily drifting to the ground in a fierce torrent.

  Forgetting about the drink, I go out to the porch and look at the pure whiteness of everything, of the snow covering the bare limbs, the shrubbery and the frozen waters of the lake. I can’t see much out to the lake because of the snow, but what I do see is beautiful. I stand there and hug myself and see the softly accumulating blanket of white, and not in a single place do I see the dark snow.

  For now.

  Chapter 33

  Two days after the snowstorm, I’m out on the frozen waters of Lake Marie, breathing hard, sweating, and enjoying every second of it. The day before, I drove into Manchester, went to a sporting goods store and came out with a pair of cross-country skis. Early in my training, I had learned how to use the thin skis, and I’m surprised by how quickly it comes back. The air is crisp and still, and the sky is a blue so deep I half-expect to see brushstrokes. I go out a ways and look back. For the very first time, I see my home from out on the lake, and I like what I see. The house is fairly well hidden among a stand of white birches, and looking at its white paint and plain construction makes me smile for no particular reason.

  I turn to continue skiing, getting into the particular rhythm of breaking a trail through the snow. I don’t hear a single sound, except for the faint drone of a distant airplane. I stop again after a few more minutes, resting on my ski poles. Before me, someone has placed signs in the snow and orange-colored ropes, covering an oval area near the center of the lake.

  Each sign says the same thing: DANGER! THIN ICE! I rest and recall hearing the old-timers at Gretchen’s Kitchen, back when I still ate there. Some story about a hidden spring coming up through the lake bottom, or some damn thing, that always causes the ice at the center of the lake to be thin, even in the coldest weather. I rest for a while, hearing some creaking noises from the ice, and then I get cold and it’s time to go home.

  About halfway back to the house is when it happens.

  At first it’s a quiet drone, and I think that it’s another airplane. Then the noise gets louder and louder, becoming distinct and separate.

  Engines.

  Several of them. I turn and they come out of the woods, speeding out into the snow, tossing up great rooster tails of snow and ice. Snowmobiles, an even half dozen, and they’re heading straight for me.

  I crave my weapons so much that it makes a bitter taste in my mouth.

  I turn away and keep on my steady pace, trying to shut out the growing sound of the approaching engines. There’s an itchy feeling crawling up my spine to the base of my skull, and the loud noise explodes in pitch as they race by me.

  Even with the roar of engines, I can make out the yells as the snowmobiles roar by, tossing snow in my direction. There are two people to each machine and they don’t look human. Each one is dressed in a bulky zippered jumpsuit, heavy boots, and padded motorcycle crash helmet. They race by and sure enough, they circle around and come back at me. This time I flinch as they race by—and sure, I’m not proud of myself—but the engines are quite loud and each machine has its headlight on. This time, too, a couple of empty beer cans are thrown at me.

  After the third pass I’m getting closer to my house and the roaring in my ears is competing with the roaring of the snow machines. I’m thinking that it’s almost over when one of the snowmobiles breaks free from the pack and races across in front of me, about fifty feet away.

  The driver turns so the machine is facing me lengthwise, and he sits there, looking at me, racing the throttle, his companion at the rear. Then he uses both hands to pull off his helmet, showing an an
gry face and thick mustache.

  I recognize him from a few months ago, the one who had the powerboat in my cove. He hands his helmet to his woman friend and steps off the snowmobile and pulls down the front zipper. It only takes a moment, as he marks the snow in a long, steaming stream of urine, and then there is more laughter from the other snowmobilers as he pulls his clothing back on, gets back on the machine, and speeds away.

  I ski over the soiled snow and force myself to take my time climbing up the snow-covered lakeshore and enter my home, carrying my skis and poles like weapons over my shoulders, feeling like a soldier defeated in the field.

  I hate that feeling.

  Chapter 34

  That night and every night afterward they come back, breaking the winter stillness with the throbbing sounds of engines, laughter, drunken shouts, and music from portable sound systems. Each morning I get up and clean up their trash and scuff fresh snow over the stains, and in the quiet of my house, I find myself constantly on edge, always listening, always waiting for the noises of the engines to suddenly return and break up the day.

  A couple of more phone calls to the police department and the town hall reconfirm what I already knew: except for maybe littering, no ordinances or laws are being broken.

  One particularly loud night, I break a promise to myself and go to the tiny, damp cellar to undo a combination lock on a green metal case. I take out a pistol, go back upstairs to the enclosed porch, and with all of the lights off, I switch on the night vision scope and gaze at the scene below me.