Primal (20 page)

“I don’t know. But it is not that life isn’t fair all the
time, it is that sometimes it’s not fair.”

“Fair is an all or nothing thing. How do I explain that to a
regular guy sitting here in his expensive office playing by the rules and
watching the days go by with seeming predictability, and believing that people
are civilized, believing you are in control of your life, and that there’s some
rationale behind things. How do I explain how helpless you actually are, how
everything you’ve learned in one moment can mean nothing the next, how the
person you are is completely irrelevant? You look at your life and you see
you’ve been kind and lived considerately and you think that matters, and then
some guy points a gun at your little boy’s face and your little boy looks to
you for help and all you can do is screech like a rodent in a glue trap. I
can’t explain to you what it is to be that kind of powerless. Turns out you are
not a man like everyone has told you. You are worthless. This is a world full
of monsters and predators and without the biggest weapon, you are just so much
meat. And when you understand that then the screaming starts inside of you and
it doesn’t stop. I don’t know who I am supposed to be right now. I surely don’t
know who Alison is. There is no reason on earth why she should remain mentally
stuck back at that camp. Maybe the screaming inside of her is too loud to get
over. Maybe that’s why I can’t reach her because she can’t hear me over all the
fucking screaming?”

Doctor Cartwell is silenced by the naked despair finally
flowing from Hank. He waits. A long silence rolls out between them because
there are no words, because there is no answer. Hank walks to the window and
looks out to the parking lot. He calms himself by looking at the parking
spaces, all of those symmetrical white lines on the blacktop. There is a
comforting orderliness to them, all perfectly angled, in their place, exactly
the same distance apart, lines being lines, simply, plainly, not trying to be
anything else, neatly placed next to each other. He begins to count them.

After a minute Doctor Cartwell says, “Hank, I am duty-bound
to tell you that there are genuine risks to not getting Alison some
professional help.”

“She won’t go.”

“I’m not sure she should be making that decision for herself
right now.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means when people need real help they are not always the
ones who see that clearly. Sometimes they need to rely on the people around
them, those who love them, to step in and assist.”

“You are not suggesting I commit her?”

“A residential facility may be the perfect place for her to
feel safe, get rest, and get the help she needs.”

“Is that what they call it now? A residential facility? Is
that the euphemism?”

“They aren’t the horror places that folklore suggests.”

“I don’t believe in taking away her rights to herself.”

“If she hurts someone that won’t be your decision any
longer.”

“She won’t.”

“I know you aren’t sure of that.”

“She would be helpless and alone in the hands of who knows
who. Forget it.”

“Just think it over. If she is dangerous, or suicidal, it’s
a temporary treatment to save her life.”

“There has got to be a way to prove to her that she is safe
now, that it’s time to move on.”

“If she’s having breaks with reality, if she’s seeing things
that aren’t there, she requires professional help and medication. There may be
some tough choices ahead for you. I just want you to prepare yourself for
that.”

Hank sits down in the chair and buries his face in his
hands. He sits there immobile for the rest of the hour. He thinks about all of
the blameless people in history who in one inconsequential moment made a simple
choice: who stepped off the curb one second too soon, who sprinted to catch
that doomed train, who took one wrong turn in the wilderness, who ran out for
that bottle of milk they needed for the morning they never saw, and a guy who
said simply to his son “wanna go fishing for your birthday.”

That night they are both up, Alison at her sentry position
staring out of the bedroom window to the street, and Hank watching the clock
waiting for morning. As soon as Jimmy gets picked up for school, he tells
Alison to get dressed. She knows he is furious and hurt and so she doesn’t ask
any questions she simply throws on her jeans and follows him.

Hank drives. Alison is antsy in the passenger seat, shifting
her weight around, putting one leg under her and then the other trying to find
the right configuration but always looking out and around: looking for him. She
realizes after a few turns that Hank is driving her back to the police station.
Maybe he’s going to have me arrested she thinks. Would he? Would he do that?
That’s crazy. Well, not crazy. I don’t mean that is actually crazy. I just…and
her mind shuts off so she can concentrate on the car behind them. The stress
between them is like a pinball banging back and forth. She feels it physically
and expects to have black and blue marks later. They don’t chance talking to
each other. Hank plays his iPod through the car radio and he pretends to
listen, he taps his hand to the beat on the steering wheel, but a careful
observer would notice he’s just a beat off. Alison stares out the passenger window
and scans the cars that pass them studying each driver.

Once they are inside Crane’s office the tension persists and
the words unspoken between Hank and Alison form a messy glob of thick air in
the room. Crane feels an ache of sympathy for these folks. He has witnessed
years of indiscriminate violence perpetrated on good people like these. He has
seen their marriages collapse and their lives ruined. He would like that not to
be the case with these two, but really, he has little hope of that. Alison Kraft
definitely needs help, but she is evidently resistant. Hank seems like a really
good guy, devoted and caring. Maybe they’ll make it.

“Whatever we can do to help,” Crane reassures them.

Hank says, “Maybe actually seeing him dead will make the
difference for her. Maybe that is what she needs.”

“Yes,” she agrees. This is a good idea and she tries to
smile at her husband. That may be exactly what she needs. “I need to see it.”

Officer Thomas enters while she is talking and adds “Gotta
admit ain’t nothin’ prettier than a dead Burne boy.” Crane rolls his eyes at
the indecorous comment. Thomas couldn’t care less.

He holds a large envelope full of 8 x 10 photographs of the
scene.

Crane turns to Alison and speaks gently, “Mrs. Kraft, just a
warning: it’s pretty gruesome.”

She looks at him plainly, “I hope so.”

Thomas smiles to himself. He likes her. He can’t help it.
There is something so bluntly honest about her. She’s no Pollyanna, like her
husband, or political pencil pusher like Crane. She gets it. She’s tough. She’s
smart. She just needs to see it. He absolutely understands that. He needed to
see it for himself, too. People who have no connection with Ben Burne just
can’t appreciate how sticky pure evil is - it’s real hard to get it off of you.
Thomas narrates as he flips through the pictures one at a time. “This is a
picture of Burne entering the cabin.” Alison lays her eyes on the figure
walking up the brick stoop toward the front door of a small log cabin. It is a
densely wooded area similar to the fishing camp. Woods will never be pretty to
her. She will not be one of the tourists running to watch the colors change in
the fall. It crosses her mind just then that perhaps they should move somewhere
there are no woods at all. Perhaps a total change of environment is what they
need. What about California for the ocean or New Mexico for the desert?
Studying the photo, Ben’s body is purposely turned toward the shade. He is
conscious of being watched, she can tell that by his body language. She can
also see quite clearly that it is Ben. It is definitely him and in Canada.
Thomas lays down another photo. “This is the cabin minutes later at the
explosion. And here’s one seconds after the explosion.”

Okay, Alison thinks. I see it. Destruction.

Thomas continues, “And inside. This was the living room. And
there,” Thomas’ voice has fallen to a quiet tone. He and Alison share these
images as though they are alone. They concentrate. Thomas continues, “See, on
the floor by the window, that’s him.” Hank leans over, looks, and quickly turns
his eyes away from the gooey charred skeleton with the hanging eyeball. Alison
reaches for the picture. She holds it in her hands. She brings is close to her
face and she studies the details. They all wait for her sigh of relief because
that man is dead, dead before her very eyes.

She asks, “Did you match dental records?”

“Aren’t any,” Crane answers.

“How do you know this is him?”

Detective Crane explains patiently, “We had a stake out. We
have all these photographs of him entering the cabin. Then the shootout, the
explosion and fire directly after.”

She studies the picture again. “But this could be anyone.”

All three men look at her.

“Mrs. Kraft, we are confident, the Canadian police are
confident, the FBI, and the ATF are confident that it is Benjamin Burne.”

She looks him straight in the eye. “But there’s no proof.”

Hank starts to boil, “That’s him. Walking in. Right there in
the picture. Can’t you see that?”

“Yes. I see a body there but how do we know who that is?”
She points to the gelatinous glop of bones and burnt skin and blackened
eyeballs.

“Alison, they are telling you they saw him inside!” The
stress between them spills out into the room.

She points to the first picture. “But look. Look there, at
how he’s walking. He knows they’re watching him.”

“So that doesn’t change this!” Hank points to the dead mess
of a man.

She looks at Crane, “How about DNA testing?”

“The lab has a huge backlog and since there is no pressing
issue here as we are all confident of the identity, the test has been shelved.”

Alison asks, “Please, do the testing. If it costs money,
I’ll pay it. Whatever it takes.”

Crane shuffles his feet a little, “Let me see what I can
do.”

“How long does the DNA take to do?” Hank asks.

“Once you start, five to seven days.”

Unconsciously, her foot shimmies back-and-forth vigorously,
“That’s too long.”

Hank speaks over her “That would be fine.”

Crane equivocates, “Frankly, resources are tight and I can’t
guarantee...”

Thomas blurts, “Hey, I think Mrs. Kraft here did society a
pretty big favor and she should be able to jump the line.” She looks at Thomas
and almost smiles. He may be the only person who understands her. Thomas trails
off annoyed, “I mean seriously here. She wasted three of the four Burne boys.”

“But we have ongoing court cases that require evidence and…”
Crane looks at her. He looks at Thomas who throws his palms out in a
disbelieving gesture. Crane says, “I’ll see what I can manage.”

Hank and Alison exit the station and walk over to their car.
It did not work out the way Hank had planned. He feels like he has only created
more doubt for her. Or maybe she is creating her own doubt for some reason.
Maybe some part of her wants him to be alive because it lessens her
responsibility for wiping out an entire family. Or maybe it all just happened
so quickly, the trip, the chaos, and the death, that she needs this time to
slow it all down so she can get a grip on it. Or maybe she’s not going to get a
grip on it. He opens the door for her. He began doing this on their first date
and it is a little ritual that they both like, but today it just feels
perfunctory. She slides into the passenger seat. He walks around, gets in,
slams his door and starts the engine. She felt more at ease inside that police
station than anywhere else so far. Maybe she should ask if she could spend the
night in jail to get a good sleep, but no, because that would leave Hank and
Jimmy at home and at risk. Maybe Hank would agree for all three of them to
sleep a night or two in the jail. She could ask him. Jimmy might think it’s
cool. Maybe…

Hank blows, “So what is it you want exactly?”

“Excuse me?”

“Finally, the best news, and you can’t even accept it!”

“Not sure I believe it.”

“Because you’re more experienced and smarter than the FBI,
ATF, and the police force of two countries?”

“I’m not saying that.”

“You’re putting your feelings ahead of all their skill and
knowledge.”

“When he looked at me in the woods and we both knew I’d
killed his family and there was my family still okay, this, oh I don’t know,
there was this thread, or electrical charge, or something that went between us
- like a pact. I know it doesn’t appear to make any sense. And I know I’m
hurting people around me but the alternative is worse.”

Hank confronts her derisively, “So let’s review: you know it
doesn’t make any sense, you think you have some kind of deadly pact with a dead
mass murderer, and you are aware you’re hurting us all.”

“I think I would feel it if he were dead.”

His words drip with sarcasm, “You’d
feel
it, so to the above list add you’re also psychic now? So what
you need his blood on your hands to be sure?”

“What I need is to be sure.”

“The police say it’s him!”

“I just don’t see how they can be sure.”

“Why won’t you let us get back to our lives?”

“I want to.”

“I wonder.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You weren’t the only one on that island, Alison. Your son
was there. Remember him? He saw Hobbs and Mike and Bruce shot dead. They had a
loaded gun to Jimmy’s head! But he’s getting better. Working through it,
reaching for it. I was there, too. I was there terrified and useless. Do you
know what useless feels like?”

“Yes, I know.” Her voice has dropped to a whisper.