The Inner Circle (33 page)

“What the fuck?”
 

The driver saw my lack of attention as an opportunity. He used his undamaged hand to punch me in the face. I fell back, dropping the gun. He scrambled and picked it up, started to aim it at me.
 

The rider’s second shot didn’t spit up more dirt. Instead it struck the driver in the shoulder, sending him reeling to the side.
 

I sat back up. The driver was feet away, his hand still on the gun. I stood and took the few steps to where he lay and kicked him in the stomach. He let go of the gun, and I picked it up and again aimed it at his face.
 

A third shot echoed across the desert, and once again the ground near my feet spat dirt.
 

“
What the fuck is your problem?
”
 

The rider made no response. Coming down the highway was an SUV. Not the same SUV Jesse and Drew had driven into Hope Springs, but a Cadillac Escalade. As it approached the rider, it didn’t slow but swerved off the highway and bounced over the dirt until it came to a stop right in front of us.
 

The driver’s-side front and rear doors opened and two men stepped out. Both of them were Korean. They barely even acknowledged me as they grabbed the driver and dragged him to the SUV. By then the driver had stopped laughing; a flash of fear entered his eyes. He tried speaking but one of the men punched him in the face and he went silent. They had him loaded in seconds. One of the men ran around the back of the SUV to the other side, and the other one started to slide behind the wheel but paused. He stood still for a moment, then turned his head just slightly.
 

“I’m sorry about your friend,” he said, not looking at me. His English was plain, with a hint of an accent.
 

Then he climbed into the SUV—I could see a third man in the front passenger seat, staring ahead—and slammed the door shut. The Escalade spun out in the dirt. It sped back onto the highway and continued west, away from Hope Springs. The rider stayed where he was for another few seconds, straddling the Ducati, the gun still in his hand, before he holstered the weapon and revved the engine and tore off after the SUV.

48

It had started raining early that Saturday morning, and had continued into the late afternoon, thick, heavy drops falling from the dark and gray impressionist painting that was the sky.
 

I was on the back porch of the farmhouse, sitting on the swing, staring out at the trees and distant peaks. The moisture in the air felt good, especially in comparison with the stifling Arizona desert where I’d just been less than twenty-four hours ago, and the fresh smell of wet earth was surprisingly pleasant.
 

Three o’clock in the afternoon and I’d been sitting out here since noon, since we’d had our small memorial service for Jesse. Standing out by the ever-growing cemetery, rain pattering on the umbrellas, Jesse was lowered into the hole Drew and Mason had dug that morning. Not quite six feet, but it was still deep enough, and with heavy ropes the wooden casket Graham had made yesterday was lowered into the ground.
 

A pack of Marlboro Reds was beside me on the swing. The pack had been unopened when I first sat down. Now the pack was half empty, placed on top of the crinkled cellophane wrapper so it wouldn’t blow away.
 

I’d finished my last cigarette fifteen minutes ago, decided it was time for another. I was just lighting up when the door opened and Maya stepped out.
 

She walked to the edge of the porch, right on the threshold between wet and dry. She stood there for a long time, staring out at the trees, cupping her elbows. Eventually she turned and came to the swing and sat down beside me. Without a word she took the cigarette from my mouth, placed it between her lips, took a drag, then stared at the end of the cigarette and the wisp of smoke on the end crawling up toward the ceiling.
 

Like me and Carver, she had stopped smoking awhile back, but some vices are hard to quit.
 

She handed the cigarette back to me. I finished it, flicked it out over the porch railing.
 

We sat in silence for several minutes before I cleared my throat.
 

“Want to know what I’ve been thinking about?”
 

Maya did not answer.
 

“I’ve been thinking about my daughter. I was remembering that when she was two she asked me one time why it rained. She was picturing that there was actually water up in the sky, like one giant bathtub, and every once in a while God or whoever else was up there pulled the plug and drained the tub.”
 

Thunder rumbled out in the distance, almost lost behind the constant patter of rain.
 

“And when she asked me I told her the best I could, trying to remember everything I learned in school, about moisture and heat rising and all that. And she sat there on my lap while it rained outside and listened to me and didn’t say a word, even when I was done explaining. And I could see the disappointment in her face, a kind of betrayal, as if she was hoping there was a giant bathtub in the sky, and the whole explanation of why it rained was because God or whoever else just decided to pull the plug.”
 

Another rumble of thunder, this one less distinct, the storm finally starting to head away.
 

“Casey ... she was a great kid. She always just ... she was always asking questions about why things were the way they were. And it wasn’t one of those kid things where they ask just to ask, because it’s what’s expected of them. She really wanted to know. She wanted to learn. Like why does it get cold in the wintertime and hot during the summer. Why is the sky blue. How does the Internet work. I mean, she asked questions that I’d never asked when I was a kid, just ... you know, content with what was there. I’d never cared why it rained. I just knew that when it rained you closed the windows and tried not to get wet. But that wasn’t Casey. Casey ... well, she was just like Jen. Jen liked to question things too. She wanted to know how everything worked, why things happened the way they did.”
 

I fell silent, thinking about that myself, about why things happened the way they did, and applying that to my entire life. Applying that to Carver’s life, to Jesse’s life, to my wife’s and daughter’s lives, to the lives belonging to all the innocent people I’d encountered over the past two years, people caught in the crossfire. Asking the unanswerable question
Why do things happen like they do?
and understanding that even if there was an answer it probably wouldn’t be good to hear it, that it might make us even more frustrated about being alive.
 

The back door opened. Ronny stepped out this time. He went to stand in the same spot where Maya had stood earlier, his arms folded, his shoulders back, watching the rain and the tops of the trees swaying in the wind.
 

Maya looked at me, asked me with her eyes if she should leave. When I nodded and watched her get up, start toward the door, I realized that she hadn’t said a word to me the entire time she was out here. She hadn’t said one word, yet she’d communicated with me just the same, from the look in her eyes, the posture of her body, the way she clasped her hands in her lap.
 

Then she had entered the farmhouse and my already withering soul felt a little lighter, less substantial, and I understood I truly did love Maya. That I was in love with her, this woman who somehow carried around a piece of my soul so that every time she was with me I felt more whole, more complete, more like the man I had once been in a previous life, content with the world and the things that happened in it.
 

I took the pack and lit up another cigarette. I sat there puffing away and waited for Ronny to get to it.
 

I didn’t have to wait long.
 

“How’s the new guy?” he asked. “What’s his name ... Clark?”
 

Wasn’t quite what I had been expecting, but oh well.
 

“So far so good,” I said. “He’s still freaked out. Especially about what happened back in Arizona. He made me promise I wouldn’t bring my gun with me next time I go see him. I never had it with me before, but like I said, he’s spooked.”
 

His full name was Clark William Gorman, Jr. He’d given me his social security number, his home address, even the password to his and his wife’s joint AOL email account, all of which I’d passed on to the Kid and which he’d looked up confirming it all checked out.
 

I’d gone to see him before the memorial service, and he had changed into the clothes we’d provided, and when I left him he started to read the story of the Man of Wax.
 

Unlike Mason, Clark actually needed glasses. He hadn’t known his prescription off the top of his head, otherwise we would have tried to have a pair of glasses ready for him when he arrived. Instead we had a number of glasses in a box, enough that after trying on about ten of them Clark found a pair that worked okay and which he was wearing now.
 

“And what are we going to do about him?” Ronny asked.
 

“I don’t know. What are we going to do about Mason?”
 

There was no answer to either question and we both knew it. Surprisingly, Mason had adjusted very well, that anger inside him never once showing itself. It had only been two days but he helped out around the farmhouse when needed, doing any type of task like helping Beverly in the kitchen or helping Graham when Graham needed to build the casket for Jesse.
 

Another silence fell between us. The rain continued to fall from the gray clouds, still thick and heavy. More thunder sounded out in the distance. For some reason I thought about the bees down at the apiary, all of them tucked away in their individual hives.
 

Eventually I said, “Go ahead, Ronny. Say it.”
 

“Say what?”
 

I took one last drag of the cigarette, flicked it over the railing. Waited.
 

Ronny sighed, slowly shook his head. “It’s not worth it.”
 

“Say it anyway.”
 

“I won’t.”
 

“It’s my fault. Go ahead and say it. It’ll make you feel better.”
 

“Ben, I’m not going to do that. Your mistakes ... it’s not my job to keep you accountable. I’ve learned all about forgiveness through God, and—”
 

“Don’t fucking talk to me about God.”
 

He stared at me, his eyes slightly narrowed, his bearded jaw set.
 

“God has never done one good thing for me.”
 

The rain was letting up, the tapping on the top of the porch overhang less persistent now.
 

Ronny said, “I’m sorry you feel that way.”
 

“Yeah, well. What are you really out here for?”
 

“Beverly and I are leaving.”
 

“When?”
 

“In a couple days. Maybe a week. We’ve already discussed it with Graham and the Kid. Both are fine with it.”
 

“Of course they are.”
 

“Why are you so dead set against this? Why can’t you accept change?”
 

“I can accept change. My whole life is one big fucking change.”
 

“I will miss you, Ben. And I will be praying for you.”
 

“Thanks, Ronny. I don’t know how my soul has gotten this far without you.”
 

He didn’t say anything else. He just sat there beside me for a little while longer before he stood and went back inside, leaving me alone with the rain tapping the overhang and the dwindling pack of cigarettes beside me on the swing.

49

Clark looked even more dejected when I brought him his dinner.
 

By that time the rain had stopped, God or whoever else reinserting the plug in the gigantic bathtub in the sky. Still the trees were wet, dripping drops on the holding cell’s roof, a soft and arrhythmic beat.
 

Drew had come with me, nodded hello to Clark, but then after a minute decided the holding cell was a bit too cramped and went to wait outside.
 

Clark whispered, “What happened to his face?”
 

He was on the cot, the plate of Salisbury steaks on his lap. He had a knife in his left hand, a fork in his right. The way he was cutting the steaks into small bites, chewing quietly, all that was needed to complete the picture of perfect etiquette was a napkin tucked in the front of his shirt collar.
 

“That’s a story for another time. How are you feeling?”
 

He took another small bite. Glanced up at me with wariness in his dejected eyes.
 

“Not well,” he said, and placed his knife and fork on the plate. “I’m feeling ... sick.”
 

“Your stomach?”
 

“My stomach, yes, but also my heart. My head. My entire
being
. My whole body feels sick. I read about half of that”—he gestured at the manuscript on the floor—“and I just ... I keep thinking about Susan and Brett and Matthew. About what’s happening to them right now. I just—I can’t stop thinking it’s somehow my fault.”
 

“None of it’s your fault. You did the best you could. In the end, you wouldn’t have been able to save them.”
 

“But how do you know?”
 

“I used to be exactly where you were. I used to think there was still a chance, that there was hope. But ... do you know what hope is? Hope is hopeless.”