The Fort (8 page)

Scott had a hard time believing it at first. Why would an adult be so shitty at being an adult? It just didn’t make any sense. His dad’s leaving made no sense, and now Luke’s mom, Emma, made no sense. It almost made him question adulthood in general.
What if they’re all just faking it? What if none of them has the slightest idea what they’re doing?

The sight of smoke billowing up from behind his house made Scott whoop with joy. Whatever else had gone wrong with the day, Carl was grilling, and even the worst of days can still finish well with a good dinner.

Carl was standing in front of the grill, drinking a can of Miller Lite, and Carl never drank during the week. For a very brief moment, Scott was terrified. Maybe everything was falling apart here too, and the goings-on at Luke’s house could be explained away easily: “The adults all went crazy.” Carl’s smile made everything OK, though, and, passing through the kitchen of the house, Scott opened the screen door and went back outside.

“Scott, my man,” said Carl, finishing the beer and grabbing a fresh one from the cooler at his feet. “How’s it hanging?”

Not sure how to respond, Scott finally settled on “I’m doing good. What are you making?”

“Steak,” said Carl, between swigs of beer. “You and I are celebrating. I got some New Yorks from the butcher, and he says they are going to melt in our mouths. I took him at his word and bought the biggest two that he had. Sounds good, right?”

“Yeah,” said Scott. “It sounds awesome. But what are we celebrating?” Carl finished the second beer in epic time, then cracked a third and took a deep swig. “Well,” said Carl, “between the two of us, I just got promoted at work. Which is pretty cool. Not quite beer-on-a-Tuesday cool or, hell, steak-on-a-night-that-your-mom-works cool, but still pretty cool.

“And there’s an even cooler part. This wasn’t just a little old raise, this was the spot I’ve been gunning for, and you know what? No more waiting tables for my wife, guaranteed. No more truck leaking oil, either, at least once we get used to the larger checks. I am officially going to be managing a team of guys, instead of just running a machine. Nice, eh?”

“Mom will really be able to stop working?”

“Yep. I even considered stopping by her work and making her quit tonight, but I know Beth would have said no, and would have
insisted on putting in her two weeks so she doesn’t screw anybody over. This is pretty good news for us, Scott. For all three of us.”

“It’s amazing.”

“Yep, but there’s something else amazing that I need too. Go run down to the basement and fetch up one of my jars of steak sauce. These are good cuts, so no A.1. tonight. We’ll use my morel sauce.”

“Sweet,” said Scott. He’d had the morel sauce twice, and it
was
amazing. His stepdad went mushrooming for weeks in the spring, searching under fallen elms for the delicious and difficult-to-find wild fungus. Carl made the sauce once a year, and Scott was pretty sure his stepdad could bottle it for sale if he were able to find enough mushrooms to make it happen. That, of course, was never going to happen: morels commanded a hefty price at market, and the unpredictability of finding the things meant even the family supply was quite finite.

The only thing more surprising than sharing steaks and the sauce with his stepfather, though, was access to the basement. “Do I need a key or something?” For as long as Scott could remember, the basement was do not enter, all Carl’s.

“Nope,” said Carl. “Truth told, Scott, I haven’t locked it in years. I trust you, buddy. Maybe you trust me a bit too. Maybe this new job, and your mom quitting hers, will make you trust me even more. We’re a family, kid, a modern family. We don’t need blood to be one.” Carl paused, then said, “So go get a bottle of sauce, give the armory a look, no touching, and bring it back up.”

“Yes, sir,” said Scott, and he meant it.

The basement was cold. The summer was not hot in June of 1987, but being in a cooler environment was still very inviting. Scott figured it was below seventy degrees downstairs, maybe even cooler. Even better than just being cooler was that he’d never been down there without Carl, except to do laundry, and that was in a totally
different room. At the bottom of the stairs, Scott walked past the washer and dryer to the door he had assumed was always locked, then turned the knob and walked inside.

On one wall was a long table, atop which was a table clamp, along with the tools necessary for the manufacture of ammunition. Also on the table were a few boxes of rifle ammunition that had been assembled, along with a few tins of powder and boxes of unloaded cartridges. Next to the table was a drop-front desk that was closed, and—Scott was sure without even checking—locked. Above the desk were three sets of whitetail deer antlers, all mounted in the European style, with just plates of skull and horns on display.

On the wall across from the desk and table were three gun racks, all of them festooned with various rifles and shotguns, including one rifle with an odd-looking stock that Scott had seen once before. It was an AR-7, manufactured by Charter Arms and chambered in .22 Long Rifle. The entire gun could be broken down and stored within the stock, and was easily assembled with no tools. Eugene Stoner, the man who had invented the M-16, had come up with the AR-7 earlier in his career as a compact weapon to be used by pilots who were shot down. Carl had purchased it to use as a sort of trail gun to shoot small game, or for highly unlikely self-defense scenarios, on a trip that had yet to be taken.
It would be perfect for shooting at the target. The fort would eat up most of the noise, and the bullets wouldn’t travel far enough to hurt someone by accident.
Scott ran his fingers over the black composite stock, then drew them away, as if it were hot.

Ashamed at his speedy betrayal of his stepdad’s trust, Scott walked to a rack at the back of the room covered in canned fruit, along with jars of homemade steak and barbecue sauce. He grabbed a bottle of the steak sauce, then walked back to the door, giving the racks of guns one final look before heading back upstairs. The AR-7 was dancing in his mind, and the conversation with the detective, along with the business card in his pocket, all but forgotten.

15

Hooper whistled as he walked through the hardware section at Meijer Wednesday morning. He was back, buying supplies to make a pair of different restraints, and was wearing sunglasses and a Detroit Tigers cap, just in case. His cart already held chains, heavy-gauge rope, ratcheting straps, a pair of locks, and a few short two-by-fours. He had also gone shopping on Division Avenue, near the stretch where he had happened upon Amy in the first place. There he bought a pair of leg cuffs, a pair of handcuffs, a metal collar that locked and had a steel ring hanging from it, a rubber ball gag, and an enormous purple silicone cock. The sales clerk had made no mention of what Hooper was buying, just took his cash and said, “Have fun.” Hooper couldn’t help smiling as he left the store. What a world, where a man could buy such things in a store.

After perusing all of the wonderful things the hardware section had to offer, Hooper walked his nearly full cart to the opposite side of the store. There he threw a couple bottles of mascara, some nail polish, and tubes of lipstick into his cart. He wasn’t exactly sure what he was looking for, but figured he’d just have to start somewhere, keep experimenting with different colors or brands
until he had her looking just right. It was going to be a learning process, and he couldn’t wait for it to begin.

Hooper also bought some groceries. He was used to subsisting mostly on rice and dehydrated foods, all stuff he’d grown accustomed to in the military, but he decided Amy’s palate was probably different from his. At least until she could tell him what she liked to eat, he bought a few cans of soup, another loaf of bread, and a bottle of orange juice. He also threw a large bottle of NyQuil into the cart, along with a fifth of 190-proof Everclear. Ready to leave, he checked out at the front of the store, paying cash for his odd assortment of goods.

Once everything was loaded into the car, he fired up the engine on the old Dodge and turned on the radio. Bon Jovi was playing “Livin’ on a Prayer,” and Hooper drummed his thumbs on the steering wheel along with the music. He couldn’t wait to get home, show her all the things he’d bought for her, and then put the ball in her mouth and lead her to the basement in chains. He didn’t want to keep her there, but she was the furthest thing from housebroken, and it would be easiest to keep her chained up down there with the gag in her mouth, especially while he built the rack. He could picture her fastened to it in his mind, and the mental images were wonderful. She was his little bird, and he couldn’t wait to admire her plumage.

As he drove down suburban streets, he couldn’t help but feel a little proud of himself. How many of the men who occupied these homes could say that they had accomplished what he had in life? He was a man’s man, a veteran injured in war, a man who took what he wanted, the rules of society be damned. Sure, he didn’t have much money, or a job, but he had what few else did: a real sense of freedom, freedom he had earned in a trial by fire. The world might not have planned much for Matt Hooper, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t tear off a big old hunk of living when God wasn’t looking.

He parked in the driveway, beaming, the plain brown paper bag from the fuck store in one hand, a bag of food from Meijer in the other. He opened the door awkwardly and slipped through it, looking to his left for Amy. She was gone.

Hooper dropped the bag and slammed the door behind him.
Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck
, the thoughts a cadence, his headache immediate.

He ran to the kitchen and found her struggling with the sliding door, dressed in a pair of his shorts and a T-shirt. He crossed the house to her, moving fast as hell, but she slipped through the slider, already starting to scream. He grabbed a black and very loaded Colt 1911 from the drawer by the door, thanked God silently that she hadn’t looked there, and then was out the door after her. She was working open the gate in his wood fence, and then was through it and into the woods. If she had looked or run right or left, he would have been fucked, but she didn’t, she went straight into the trees, and he ran after her.

16

Tim woke a few hours after the sun came up that morning and, after brushing his teeth, taking a quick shower, and dressing, headed to the kitchen. He could see his dad out back working, but also saw storm clouds overhead.
Dad will be so happy if it rains for a little while
, Tim thought, a grin passing over his face. He dropped two pieces of white bread into the toaster, then grabbed a butter knife and a plate. He could hear his mom and Becca talking down the hallway, but couldn’t hear and didn’t care what they were saying. His toast popped, he buttered it, and he sat down at the table.

The
Grand Rapids Press
from the day before lay open on the table. As he flipped past the first few sections to find the sports and comics, a picture of Molly stopped Tim cold.
She’s still missing.
Seeing her there in print made it real somehow. She was missing, and maybe she really wasn’t coming back.

The picture also gave Tim pause. If no one was searching the woods yet, maybe that task did fall to him and his friends. After all, they knew the area better than anyone. Adults rarely went back there, and most teenagers preferred to party in Provin Trails, or at
the drive-in. Tim finished his toast, forgetting all about the funnies, the sports section, and finding the fifth dungeon in Zelda. He wanted to go to the fort.

After dropping his plate in the sink, Tim walked outside. His dad was transferring rocks from the wheelbarrow. “You see that, buddy?” Stan asked. “Those look like storm clouds. Can you say ‘day off’?”

Tim shielded his eyes with his right hand. “I don’t know, Dad. Those just look like regular clouds.”

Stan sighed and threw another shovel full of pea gravel into the hole. “You could throw a guy a bone once in a while.”

“You know, Dad,” said Tim, “now that you mention it, maybe those are storm clouds. I’m going to the woods. Do you think I should bring an umbrella?”

Stan grinned back at him as he worked the shovel. “That’s more like it. Are you going to be back for lunch?”

“I think so,” said Tim. “If I go to Scott’s, I’ll call.”

“Sounds good,” said Stan. “How are those guys doing? I haven’t seen Scott or Luke since the deck teardown.”

“They’re good,” said Tim, wondering whether or not he should tell his dad about Luke. It wouldn’t be like telling his mom. If he told his dad, it probably would stay between them, unless things were worse with Luke than he thought. That was the problem, though. Luke had a flair for drama, he always had, and maybe this was just more of that. Or, worse, maybe he was sugarcoating an even worse situation so that he could still vent about it a little without having one of them get help. There wasn’t any right thing for Tim to do, that he could see.

“Tim?”

“Yeah?”