Quiver (13 page)

She didn’t say anything, just slid out from under him and got up and walked across the room naked, Jack staring at her perfect ass. He said, “Hey, where’re you going?” She was acting strange. And wasn’t it her idea?

Her robe was hanging on the back of the bathroom door. Kate put it on and pulled it closed and looked at herself in the mirror. Knew why she did it. She was lonely and stressed out and liked Jack and needed someone to comfort her. Now she felt guilty. It didn’t have anything to do with Owen. He would’ve encouraged her to move on. It was Luke. She felt like she was betraying him, going to bed with someone while he was being held hostage.

She went back in the bedroom. Jack was still under the covers with his head propped up on pillows, a grin on his face.

He said, “What’re you doing? Get in here, we’re just getting started.”

Kate said, “I can’t. I’ve got to go down and wait for them to call.”

“It’ll be over soon,” Jack said. “Luke’ll be home and you can get back to your normal life.”

Kate said, “You think so, huh? I don’t know what normal is.”

Did he dream it or did it really happen? He opened his eyes, focusing now on the handcuffs. His wrists stung where the metal cuffs had cut into his skin, drawing blood. The handcuffs were connected to a chain that snaked across the bed and continued across the scuffed floor to an eyebolt that was drilled into the hardwood.

He’d been there a day and a half and they hadn’t said anything about what they intended to do with him, although it didn’t take a genius to figure out what was going on.

He thought there were four of them: Camo, the girl, the black guy, and one more who wasn’t around much—Luke thought of him as the mystery man. He’d seen the others but not him.

Luke could hear them through the thin walls of the cottage, talking like they were in the room with him. He could hear them doing other things, too, the bed shaking. He’d put the pillow over his ears so he
didn’t have to hear her making all the sounds. He’d never heard people having sex and it sounded awful.

Of all of them, Camo was the worst, coming in the room at different times, hitting him across the face or pushing him down. Luke nervous when he heard the man’s voice—hick accent with a nasal twang—flinching when Camo walked behind him, not knowing when he’d get hit again, Camo laughing, getting a kick out of Luke’s misery.

The girl wasn’t much better. She brought him scraps of food, gnarled pieces of chicken they’d eaten but didn’t finish—a drumstick, a couple wings with a few slivers of meat. For the first time in his life, he understood what it was like to be hungry. He could hear Camo saying, “Tell that little rich prick that’s all he gets till his momma pays us.”

She liked to taunt him, too.

“You a virgin, Luke? I’d like to help you out but …”

Then she’d pull her shirt up and show him her boobs and say, “They’re beauties, ain’t they? Want to touch them?”

He didn’t know what to do.

She also liked to rub his leg and say, “How’s that feel? That wake up the little trouser mouse? Him want to come out, have some fun?”

He couldn’t help it, he’d get all excited.

She’d say, “Look at you popping the big tent, you little deviate. Teddy saw us right now, he’d come in cut that little thing off with a knife.”

Then she’d get a grin on her face and walk out of the room.

Celeste and Teddy seemed like they were perfect together—a couple of freaks.

They were in their room, watching TV, a show called
Dog Eat Dog
that Teddy loved. After every outrageous stunt, Teddy’d say, “That looks easy. Shit, I could do that.” He was sitting on a lawn chair in a black Drive-By Truckers T-shirt and Jockey briefs that had once been white but now were gray.

Celeste looked over at him and said, “What’re we going to do with him?” Teddy wasn’t what you’d call a great communicator.

He said, “Huh?”

“The kid,” Celeste said. “What’re we going to do with him?”

He said, “Don’t have a lot of choice in the matter.”

She wondered if he was being vague on purpose. “What does that mean?”

“You know.”

It sounded like he was planning to do something bad. Celeste said, “I never agreed to nothing like that.”

Teddy said, “He seen your face.”

There was a bottle of beer on the floor. He reached down without looking, picked it up, and took a drink.

Celeste said, “What difference does it make, where we’re going?”

Teddy slid his hand in his underwear and started scratching. He said, “Tell me that when your picture’s on CNN and federal marshals are looking for you.”

Celeste said, “That seems a tad exaggerated.”

“Think so, huh?”

Celeste said, “How ’bout the mom?”

Teddy said, “How ’bout her?”

Celeste said, “She hasn’t laid eyes on you.”

Teddy said, “Want to bet? I talked at her in the bar. She seen you, too. Remember?”

That’s right. She was sitting at the table. Celeste said, “What else you got planned?”

Teddy said, “Wait and find out.”

Celeste said, “This is like going to a movie, you know it?” She took off her jeans and lifted her T-shirt over her head and sat on the edge of the bed naked.

Teddy glanced over at her. “Better, on account of we’re in it.”

Celeste said, “I’ve always wanted to be a movie star.”

Teddy said, “Well, you look like one, setting there in the altogether.”

There was a knock on the door. DeJuan swung it open and came in the room. “Nighty-night,” he said, “and don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

Celeste saw him stare at her like a hungry dog. She picked up a pillow and held it up to her chest.

Teddy said, “What the hell you think you’re doing? We got people undressed in here.”

“You don’t want visitors, lock your door.”

“You check on the kid?”

DeJuan said, “Little man tucked in all cunchkey.”

He turned, walked out and closed the door.

Teddy said, “That bother you, him walking in seeing your taters?”

Celeste said, “Not too much. My dad would be loading a shotgun right now.”

Teddy said, “Then it’s a good thing he ain’t here.”

Celeste said, “I’ve been meaning to ask you—what kind a name is DeJuan? It doesn’t sound like a jig name, sounds more like a character in a
Star Wars
movie. Hey, maybe he’s really a space jig, come down
from the cosmos to observe the ways of us white earth people.”

Teddy said, “He didn’t come from the cosmos. He come from the west side of Detroit. His given name’s DeJuan Green. Think you can put your prejudice aside and work with him?” Teddy grinned. “That’s not going to piss off the cosmic being or your warrior kinfolk, is it?”

Luke didn’t have anyone to blame but himself. He shouldn’t have come back up north. He shouldn’t have yelled at his mom. He didn’t know if she and Jack had slept together. It sure looked like it. But if his mom said it didn’t happen, he believed her, contrary to what he’d said earlier. He felt like everything he’d done the past seven months was wrong—one mistake after another—like he was being controlled by someone else. He knew it made no sense, but that’s what it felt like.

Luke was grateful for one thing. He talked to his dad and felt better about things, as Del Keane had said he would. He remembered looking up at the canopy, sunlight angling through the trees. It was mystical, like a scene from
Lord of the Rings
.

He said what was on his mind. Told his dad about
seeing the first buck and how his hands shook and he couldn’t breathe. He told his dad how dumb he felt and how sorry he was, and how he wished he could replay it, try it again.

It was strange. When he finished saying what he had to say, he felt relieved. Felt a sense of calm, like his mom’s Land Rover had been lifted off him. He also remembered having a strange sense that someone was out there watching him. He turned a bunch of times, looking around, but didn’t see anyone.

He walked to the edge of the woods, looked out at the cornfield where he left his dad, saw him alive for the last time. He thought about walking into the field and finding the exact spot, but what good what it do? What purpose would it serve? He’d reconciled his feelings and that was enough.

He could see the farm in the distance. He remembered the farmer, a big man with beard stubble, wearing a beat-up old blue parka and a grease-stained cap with a bent brim that said cat diesel on the front. He hadn’t said much or changed his expression when Luke told him what had happened, but the man came through. Luke’s mom sent him a check for a thousand dollars thanking him for his help, and the farmer sent it back, saying he didn’t
deserve to get paid for doing the right thing. Which had a lot more impact when Luke heard his farm was going under; the man could barely make ends meet.

Luke walked back in the woods. He was going to the lodge to apologize to his mother—not only for what he’d said earlier but for the way he’d been acting since his dad died.

He saw something move on the ridge above him—a man in green camo—coming down the hill toward him. What was strange, he was dressed like a hunter, but he wasn’t carrying a rifle or a bow. Something wasn’t right.

Luke changed direction, started walking fast, moving away from him. He saw the second guy through the trees about thirty feet ahead. He was a black guy dressed in a gold tracksuit like Eminem wore. He looked out of place, lost.

Luke turned and ran for the cornfield about fifty yards away. He remembered being timed for the fifty-yard dash in gym class. The world record was 5.15 (Ben Johnson) and he’d run a 6.8. He looked over his shoulder and saw the two men running, closing in on him, and now a car appeared, a green-and-white 1970 Z28 Camaro driving up on the two-track road in front of him, cutting him off. It looked like same car Bill Wink pulled over the night before—
unless there were two identical green Z28s with white racing stripes tooling around the Leelanau Peninsula.

He had to slow down to get around the car and that’s when the black guy caught him, tackled him, took him down hard. Luke kicked the guy away from him, struggling to his feet, and that’s when Camo ran up and hit him in the chest, knocking the wind out of him. Luke went down, trying to draw a breath.

Camo said to the black guy, “Nice of you to show up. Where the fuck you been? I’ve been tracking this little asshole going on two hours.”

The black guy was rubbing a dirt stain on the knee of his track pants. He looked at Camo and said, “Want to know where we been? Been trying to find the road—that’s where we been.”

The girl said, “He’s right, we couldn’t find it.”

Camo said, “You taking his side over me?”

“I’m not taking anybody’s side,” the girl said. “I’m telling you what happened.”

“I said, take the two-track till it dead-ends. What’s hard about that?”

“Got to be able to find the motherfucker to take it. We be like, is he fucking with us or what?”

The girl had a roll of duct tape in her hands. She
said, “Think we could settle this later? Get the kid out of here before somebody comes looking for him?”

She had brown hair and pure white skin, a girl who was too good-looking to be involved in something like this. She handed the tape roll to Camo, pulled a long piece, and tore it off. She told Luke to get on his stomach—said it with authority, like she was used to telling people what to do. She taped his feet together, got another piece and taped his hands behind his back.

Camo and the black guy picked him up and put him in the trunk of the Camaro, wedged in between the spare and a toolbox. There wasn’t a lot of room.

Camo said, “You just lie there, don’t make a fucking peep.” He slammed the trunk lid closed.

Luke bounced around as the Camaro moved along the uneven two-track road, tools rattling in the toolbox, the thick smell of exhaust making it difficult to breathe. He was on his side, facing in, arms behind him. He tried to find a more comfortable position, but he couldn’t move. It was better when they turned on Kinnikinnik Road, the ride smoother on asphalt. He could hear the throaty rumble of the high-performance engine as the Camaro accelerated.

A few minutes later they stopped and he could
hear voices but couldn’t make out what they were saying. The trunk opened with a flood of light, Luke’s eyes squinting and Camo, in his southern accent, said, “That’s all you get. Just a peek.” And dropped the lid closed. It sounded like Camo was showing him to someone. So there were four of them. Then he heard them arguing, then fighting. Loud voices. Then a few minutes later they were back in the car, moving again. He wondered if they’d contacted his mother and how much they were asking for him. Camo finally told him.

He said, “I hope your momma loves you, boy. Think you’re worth two million dollars? You better hope so.”

He’d finally fallen asleep as the sun was starting to rise and woke up a few hours later to the sound of the TV. He could hear it on in the next room, a Road Runner cartoon. He could hear the Road Runner say “Beep, Beep” and hear Camo’s strange high-pitched laugh—not the kind of laugh you’d expect, the way he talked with that southern nasal twang he had.

Camo loved cartoons: Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck, Elmer Fudd, Marvin the Martian, he watched them all. It was the third morning Luke had woken up to
the man laughing, which seemed odd,’ cause he was such a mean person.

Now Luke worked on the eyebolt they’d screwed into the floor, trying to loosen it. If he could unscrew it, he could open the bedroom window and take off. He heard the black guy say they were at the Timber Lake Cottages. He’d never been here before but had seen billboards advertising them. They were in Northport, woods behind the cottages. All he had to do was get in the trees, they’d never find him.

He took his belt off and slid the skinny metal piece that was part of the buckle—he thought it was called the clasp—through the ring of the eyebolt, gripped it hard, using the buckle for leverage and tried to turn the screw till his hand hurt. They’d torqued it down hard. He tried it again, pressing the clasp and buckle together till his fingers were numb.

He heard Camo laugh again in the other room and it made him mad and he used his other hand now, gripping the clasp and pinching the buckle like it was a wrench, his hand in pain, and when he was just about to give up he felt the eyebolt turn.