The Dispatcher (32 page)

 

 

 

Diego rolls a cigarette and looks out the window. ‘When do you think we’ll get there?’

‘Around sunset.’

Diego grunts in acknowledgment, lights his cigarette, and cracks the window.

The wind blowing through the car is very loud and very hot, but it feels good against Ian’s face even as hot as it is.

He looks to the gray road ahead.

In another four and a half or five hours they should be there. In another four and a half or five hours he gets his daughter back.

Maggie hears the car before she sees it, and Henry must hear it about the same time she does, because he gets to his feet from the curb where he was sitting with her and Beatrice and sort of leans forward as if that will help him see it sooner. Maggie feels a burning hope that it is her daddy. It is her daddy and he has come to save her and he will wrap her in his arms and take her away from here forever.

A white Toyota turns the corner and the face behind the windshield is not her daddy’s. It is nothing like her daddy’s. It is an ancient face into which time has carved great hollows. The eyebrows are thick and bushy and gray. The nostrils flare. The tongue, a colorless piece of meat, pokes out and licks the dry lips and disappears back into the pit of the mouth like some blind burrowing animal that’s sensed a predator.

The car slows and, though it is merely a machine, seems to approach them with great caution.

Henry waves.

The man behind the wheel of the Toyota lifts his hand in an automatic return wave, but for a moment his face remains blank and stupid. Then his mouth opens in an ah and he smiles and says, audibly, ‘I’ll be a goddamned son of a whore.’

He pulls the Toyota into the driveway, pushes open the car door, steps out into the daylight, and holds out his arms. He is wearing a beige uniform and a belt with a black stick and a pair of handcuffs and a can of pepper spray hanging from it and black shoes. His thin gray hair is cut close to his head.

‘Henry,’ he says.

‘Ron.’

They hug.

‘How you doin’, Bee?’

‘Okay.’

‘Good to hear it. And you must be Sarah,’ looking toward Maggie. ‘I can’t believe I never met you before. I’m your Uncle Ron.’

Henry grabs Ron’s arm.

‘Listen, we need to talk—now.’

‘Okay,’ Ron says, ‘let’s head inside.’

 

 

 

Maggie sits silent on the floor while Henry and Ron sit on the couch. Henry talks, and though his talk is at least half lies Maggie does not interrupt him. She merely watches and listens. While Henry tells his story Ron’s face changes, and his posture. His eyebrows lower on his head and his brown eyes seem to go black as shadows fill the deep pits of his sockets. The corners of his mouth curl down. His large nostrils flare. His loose bones weld together, locking him into a tight robotic posture. His round shoulders square, his c-shaped back snaps straight. His hands open and close in a motion Maggie recognizes from Henry. His tongue licks his dry lips. And when Henry is done Ron nods and says, ‘So how long we got, you reckon?’

‘I don’t know. He could be here any time.’

‘And he’ll be heading to the house?’

‘Best as I can figure.’

‘Okay,’ Ron says, ‘I know just what to do.’

Henry and Beatrice and Maggie pile into Ron’s Toyota as Ron said they should before he disappeared into a hallway, and now he emerges from the green-painted front door of his house with two rifles under one arm, boxes of shells in the other hand, and a pistol tucked into his waistband.

He hands the rifles to Henry, who slides them between his legs, butts on the floorboard, barrels aimed at the roof of the car.

Then Ron gets into the car himself and closes the door behind him.

Maggie does not understand what is happening, not exactly, but she knows it is bad. They’re going to try to use those guns on Daddy. She wants to do something, but she doesn’t know what. She can’t even run. This town is empty, and miles from anywhere else. She only wanted to go home. She only wanted to go home to her daddy and mommy and—

Stop it, Maggie. Stop it.

One two three four five six seven eight.

She exhales in a slow breath. She has to be a big girl. She has to stay calm. She has to stay calm and see what happens and if there’s anything she can do to help herself or help Daddy she will. But she can’t panic. That won’t get her anywhere. She closes her eyes and is enveloped by darkness. She opens her eyes, feeling a bit better, though still scared.

‘Where we going?’ Henry asks.

‘High school.’

‘High school?’

Ron nods.

‘Trust me,’ he says and starts the car.

They park in an otherwise empty parking lot. It is strange to be the only car in this vast field of asphalt. They get out of the car. There are several textbooks lying open on the asphalt, the hot breeze like a ghost occasionally turning their pages. Henry hands Ron one of the rifles and keeps the other for himself.

‘This way,’ Ron says.

They walk toward the front door of a two-storey building. It is a light blue color, the paint chipped and peeling. Not just the paint is peeling—time and weather have taken out chunks of the outer wall itself, leaving behind empty pits guarded only by what looks like chicken wire. They walk up five concrete steps and into a large empty corridor lined with lockers, some open, some closed, several still padlocked. The open ones have pens and pencils and books in them, pictures taped inside some of the doors. Books litter the vinyl floor. There are also occasional animal skeletons.

A rattlesnake lies on the vinyl floor in front of them. It looks to be in pretty bad shape. Ron pokes at it with the barrel of his rifle to make sure it’s dead. It is. They step over it and continue walking.

‘Beatrice and Sarah can wait for us in one of the classrooms,’ Ron says.

‘I’m hungry,’ Beatrice says. ‘Are you hungry, Sarah?’

Maggie nods.

‘You couldn’t’ve said nothing before this minute?’

‘I didn’t want to interrupt.’

‘We was at Ron’s house. There was food there. What the fuck do you think we’re gonna find here?’

‘I just wanted to use the vending machine.’

‘What fucking vending machine?’

Beatrice points. At the end of the hallway sits an ancient vending machine with ancient food in it. Bags of chips, candy bars.

‘All right,’ Henry says. ‘Let’s get you some.’

They walk to the end of the hall where the vending machine sits. As they near it Maggie can see that several of the bags have been chewed through by animals—small rough-edged holes in the packaging, and pieces of food visible, usually small crumbs of it littered with even smaller pieces of insect shit.

‘All right,’ Henry says, ‘stand back.’

He slams the butt of his rifle into the glass front of the vending machine and it cracks loudly, sounding to Maggie like God clapping His hands. Then he slams the butt of the gun against it once more, and it shatters and pieces of glass fall to the floor where they shatter further. He knocks more glass away, then hands the rifle to Ron and starts pulling out packages and going through them.

‘Most of this shit’s been got to, Bee.’

He throws the stuff that’s been gotten to to the floor.

But they still manage to find six bags of chips and three candy bars and two bags of pork rinds that seem safe, or at least undisturbed by animals. With Beatrice’s arms piled up with food, they head toward the nearest classroom.

‘I need to talk to my girls a sec,’ Henry says.

‘Have to it,’ Ron says, ‘but make it quick. I wanna get to the roof ASAP.’

Henry nods, and then guides Beatrice and Maggie into a classroom.

The room is bright with daylight. It is empty save about twenty desks stacked in the corner. A tattered poster of the multiplication table hangs on the wall. There are math problems written on the chalkboard, faded white ghosts of what used to be. The floor itself is littered with textbooks and math papers. A row of windows, some of which are now shattered, reveal the baseball diamond. Empty bleachers. A rusty dugout. Plugs where bases used to be. A pitcher’s mound. Dead grass.

Henry grabs Maggie by the arm and walks her to the stack of desks. He grabs one of the desks from the top of the stack and pulls it down and puts it on the floor. He shoves her into it.

‘Sit here.’

Then he stops, apparently thinking. Turns silently and walks out. When he returns he has a pair of handcuffs, Ron’s handcuffs, in one hand and a pistol, also Ron’s, in the other. He tucks the pistol into his waistband, and then walks to Maggie with the handcuffs. He puts one of the cuffs on her wrist, tight, and the other he wraps around the desk, around part of the metal frame that curves up from the seat and bends to become the desk-top frame, onto which the slab of wood is screwed.

‘What if I have to pee?’

‘Squat by the desk.’

He turns away from her and walks to Beatrice. He pulls the pistol from his waistband and puts it into her hand.

‘What’s this for?’

‘Just in case.’

‘Just in case what?’

‘It’s a semiautomatic and the safety’s off, so be careful. All you have to do is aim and pull the trigger, Bee. You got that?’

‘Aim and pull the trigger at what?’

‘Anybody walks through that door other than me or Ron.’

‘I don’t wanna shoot nobody, Henry.’

‘What do we do, Bee?’

‘What do we do?’

‘We do what we have to to keep the family together.’

She is silent a long time, and then she nods.

‘Good girl. Now keep an eye on Maggie, give her some chips or something, and if anybody walks through the door other than me or Ron . . .’

Bee just stares at him.

‘Bee?’

‘What?’

‘If anybody comes through the door other than me or Ron what are you gonna do?’

‘Aim and pull the trigger?’

‘That’s right.’

 

 

 

As soon as Henry is gone Maggie begins trying to squeeze her hand out through the cuff. It hurts, but if she squeezes her hand tight, and folds her thumb into her palm, she thinks she might be able to get free. If she has enough time.

Henry walks out of the classroom and into the corridor.

‘All taken care of?’ Ron says, pulling himself up from his leaning position against a wall of lockers.

‘Yeah.’

‘Good.’

He hands Henry back one of the two rifles, what was once their dad’s .30-06, an old army job that takes an eight-round
en bloc
clip. When their dad got drunk he would shoot bottles off fence posts with it and tell them, ‘Patton used to say this was the finest piece of military machinery ever made, and you know what? That crazy motherfucker was right.’ Henry checks to make sure it’s loaded, and then nods to himself.

‘To the roof?’ he says.

‘To the roof.’

 

 

 

They climb an access ladder in the janitor’s closet, push open a hatch, and make their way out onto the asphalt roof. It is early evening now and the sun is low and red in the sky. For some reason it makes Henry think of cracking a fertilized egg into a frying pan. That yellow yolk, that seed of red upon it cooking and dead. The evening sun. He turns in a circle and looks at the deserted town around them. He stops and looks down the long gray strip of asphalt leading to town. He can see for miles. If he had better eyes he could see all the way to the interstate.

‘Good place,’ Henry says.

‘I know it,’ Ron says. ‘Only the Jackrabbit Inn’s taller, three storeys instead of two, but you can’t see the road leading to town as good.’ Ron nods to his right and says, ‘Let’s take a load off while we wait.’

There are two lawn chairs sitting out in the red evening light and between them a styrofoam ice chest. Ron walks over and eases into one of the chairs. The thing protests under his weight. He pulls the lid off the ice chest, reaches inside, and pulls out a Coors. He breaks it open. It foams and he sips at it.

‘It’s warm,’ he says, ‘but it’s beer.’

‘Who’s the other chair for?’ Henry asks.

‘For you.’

 

 

 

Henry sits beside his brother and looks west toward the falling sun. A warm beer rests between his legs. He felt panicky before when he was unarmed and simply waiting to be killed, but now he feels oddly calm. He’s here and ready. Beatrice is safe. Sarah is locked up and incapable of doing any harm. And soon Hunt will be dead.

He glances over at Ron. ‘It’s been a long time,’ he says.

‘Too bad it’s under these circumstances.’

‘I think he got Donald. I didn’t tell you that part at the house. It’s the only way he could’ve found out where I was heading.’