The Terror of Living (20 page)

    "Help me," Hunt yelled.

    He had Thu under the arms and he could feel the stitches in his leg straining and the pain coming through him. He was dragging her now, away from the open car door and up the slight incline to the hospital entrance. The orderly was there and he was trying to help, but Hunt wouldn't let go, and the orderly was saying, "Give her here, sir. Give her to me." And when he saw that Hunt would not, he went in and grabbed a wheelchair from inside the door, and together they got Thu onto it.

    The feeling came over Hunt again, like it had the night before, loss of blood, the bandage on his leg dampening. He put his head down and held it between his legs. He closed his eyes. Thu was somewhere inside now, and when he raised his head his vision had gone blurry, but he could see Thu in there and the shape of a doctor standing over her. He was watching this all, and then they were coming for him, and he lurched back into his own reality, his own needs, and he was running around the front of the car. With the doors both still open he sat and pressed the gas pedal, nearly leaving his bad leg to drag outside the car. He bumped out onto the road with both doors open and the engine roaring. When he righted himself and hit the gas again, the jolt swung the doors back onto the body of the car. Things came back into focus. He looked behind him, looked back on the road. Pine trees all around, the small drive leading up toward the hospital, but that was it, no armed pursuit, no chase, just him in the car driving, trying to keep himself on the road.

CONFESSIONS

    GRADY PARKED THE ATTENDANT'S CAR IN ONE OF THE upper lots. Below him he could see the marina where he had left his car. No police cruisers. Nothing. He scanned the lot, looking for anyone who might have been waiting for him. He didn't see one thing out of place, just a few people fishing off the docks. In the mirror he checked the welt on his head. With his fingers he tried to pull the hair down, giving himself a sweep of bangs and covering the gash along his hairline. The purple was getting worse and it looked almost black on his pale skin.

    When he'd done all he could with his appearance, he drove the car down to the lower lot and let it idle in neutral. The boat ramp, where he had talked to Hunt the day before, was just in front of him. He tried to remember every bit of the car he had touched, and with his sleeve he went piece by piece through the car, wiping away his fingerprints. When he was satisfied, he left the car in neutral, grabbed the bag with the collapsed rifle, and opened the door.

    The rain had passed, and the lot was covered in puddles. There was little wind and he could see the sky in the water. He put the bag over the top of the car, then, looking around, bent and released the emergency brake. Taking his bag from the roof of the car, he stepped back.

    He walked on, making a straight line toward his car, careful not to rush. He could see his car across the lot, sitting there, seagulls on the fence posts, the masts of sailboats, white and bobbing with the movement of the water. Behind him, he heard a woman scream.

    He walked on. Grady wove through the cars, bumper to bumper. The sound of something hitting the water hard, the burst of air bubbles. When he turned to look back, the attendant's car was no longer where he'd left it.

    A crowd had gathered around the ramp, and there in the water, floating out to sea, was the attendant's car. He watched it only briefly, the car bobbing there on the water, air escaping, and the vehicle going under. If Hunt still had the boat, he'd need to find another ramp. He knew Hunt was still out there. All Grady could think about was time. Time to get east of the mountains, find the little motel the lawyer had told him about, and hope for an improvement in his day. He was pulling out of the lot when the car finally went under.

    THEIR MAN AT THE AIRPORT HAD TOLD THEM WHERE to go. They parked the Lexus four spots down and on the other side of the street from the house and looked up toward it. At the end of the block, they could see a city bus pull to a stop, then move off. The cross street above them was busy at all times of the day with cars and people passing. In the late afternoon, with the sunlight directly in front of them on the horizon, the oranges and reds painted the scene like a fire, the figures crossing the street nothing but shadows of coal. The driver lit a cigarette and sat watching the house. Every couple of breaths he released a stream of smoke from the window.

    The house sat close to the street, with the front stairs leading almost to the sidewalk. Cars were parked in nearly every space along the street, several with pieces of windblown trash resting against the tires. It was not a well-kept part of town, though perhaps at some time it had been. The plain white house was made of wood boards, the roof cracked and bandaged with tar patches, shingles the color of sandpaper. One central floor looked out over the street, with a window high up that was probably the attic. No one appeared to be home.

    Several people walked by on the street, but not the person they were looking for. After forty-five minutes passed, a man carrying a grocery bag stepped from the far curb and crossed the street toward the house. He climbed the stairs and, in the same moment, brought from his pocket a set of keys that the two men in the Lexus could see clearly.

    "I wish I had my gun," the driver said as he opened the door and emerged onto the street. He was careful to push the door of the car closed with his body, his weight shifting to the car, but the door making no sound. He flicked away the cigarette, then crossed the street toward the man, who had reached the top of the stairs and stood with his keys at the lock and his opposing arm wrapped around the grocery bag.

    By the time the man opened the door and leveled the bag with his knee, the driver had reached the porch and, without stopping, punched the man in the right kidney. The man buckled, and the grocery bag fell from his arms. The driver then hooked the man's throat with his forearm and rammed his knee straight and with force into the back leg of the man, who seemed to flop over and put his weight full onto the driver, his face caught just above the driver's forearm, a strange smile on his lips. The driver pulled him through the door and into the house.

    From the car, the man with the bag full of hardware supplies watched all of this. He waited a beat before he, too, rose from the car, carrying the bag of tools in his hand up the stairs toward the house. The door was open like a mouth, blackness beyond, and into this the man stepped and closed the door behind him.

    DRAKE PASSED A HAND THROUGH THE ASH. HE WAS kneeling in the wreckage of Hunt's house. All around him the fire still smoldered, pieces of the frame rising out of the black shape. In front of him the bricks of the fireplace stood, painted black with carbon. A water heater that he guessed had been under the stairs was now visible. The house was a complete loss. He looked down at the ash. He put his hands together and clapped the grit from them. Little puddles were everywhere, from the fire trucks and the rain. He clapped his hands together again and stood.

    He had been here only a day before. He tried to remember the man's face, brown skin, slight acne scars near the chin, unshaven, his hand in Drake's, strong but well fleshed in the palms. No bodies had been found except for the horses. The fire had burned hot with the gas, and not much was left. But the fire inspectors guessed it wasn't hot enough to burn bones, and they hadn't found any yet.

    Nora had been generous with him. He thought of the man watching while Nora went back inside to get him the number, to offer him help. Had she known Drake had taken a shot at her husband just a couple of nights before, aimed to wound him, maybe kill him, would she have acted as she did then? Drake tried to think of taking that same shot now and he didn't think he could.

    He pictured Nora up there on that same horse. The crosshairs of the sight, the horse coming into view. He couldn't do it. Not now.

    He walked over to Driscoll, the grit and ash sticking to his boots, growing on him and caked to his soles, heavy and cumbersome. When he reached the horse fence, he hit them against the wood and watched the gunk fall. Driscoll was leaning over one of the horses. Several men in suits that looked almost like biohazard gear were milling about near another. "They've cleaned this one off," Driscoll said. "Come over here, give it a look."

    Drake stepped through an opening in the wood and ducked his head. He held his hat and walked over to where Driscoll knelt examining the body. "Quarter horse," Drake said.

    "How can you tell?"

    "Strong front legs, short, and a bit stocky."

    "You learn that on the farm?"

    "It was the type of horse my father used to ride."

    "Talked with the owner about ten minutes ago. Wasn't happy to hear about this. Says he's been boarding this one here for about three years now, never thought anything of it."

    "It's a shame."

    "Named him Hermes."

    "Good name, must have been a fast horse."

    "Says he was going to sell him this year, sixty thousand. You believe that?"

    "Can't say I do."

    "Probably just out for the insurance money."

    "It would be nice to think that was the only thing involved," Drake said. He knelt and ran a hand along the belly of the horse. He could feel the muscle, the well-cared-for coat. He tried to remember if he'd seen this horse the other day. But then he put it out of his mind.

    "This guy, Hunt, better know how to really ride. He's got one hell of a chase coming after him."

    "Wish I'd caught him that first day."

    "No, you don't. He'd be dead in that cell just like the kid."

    "No, I don't," Drake repeated. "You think he's got any chance?"

    "I think if we get to him first he does. Ask him to give up a few names. I can't say that he'll avoid doing any time, but it's surely better than what's out there looking for him now."

    Drake looked down at the horse, milky eyes, the flies already starting to land. "Trailer isn't here. Neither is that Lincoln. Honda I saw the other day is charred all to hell back there where the garage used to be."

    "You think any of those vehicles are registered to their right names?"

    "Probably not."

    "I can run it through the DMV and see what comes of it."

    "Lincoln definitely didn't pull that trailer out of here."

    "Something big?"

    "From what I saw, had to be."

    "How many horses you count yesterday?"

    Drake looked around. Far off in the middle of the pasture he could see the third. "More than this," he said.

    THE KNOCK CAME AGAIN ON EDDIE'S DOOR. HE CHECKED the slide on the small pistol and put it through the back of his belt. On the bed the case was laid out, foam interior with cutouts for four magazines and a removable silencer. He put it under the bed. He had never used the pistol.

    When he put his eye to the door, he could see Nora out there. He cleared his throat. The night was just beginning to come on, and he could see cars passing behind her on the road. She turned to look as one drove by, splashing a puddle, the sound of the wet tires running on the cement. He opened the door, and her attention was immediately on him.

    He let her into the room, and when she had gone to the small chair in the corner, where two chairs sat around a cheap wood- veneer table, she said, "I talked to Phil."

    Eddie went over to the bed and sat on the edge. "Did he tell you what happened to him?"

    Nora looked around the room. When she met Eddie's eyes, he was staring at her, waiting for an answer. "He said the boat sank."

    "Did he say where he was?"

    "Somewhere north, he didn't sound too sure. I think he barely made it down the coast after getting the drugs."

    "So he has the drugs?"

    In a way.

    "In what way?"

    "They're inside a girl."

    "Inside her?"

    "That's what he said."

    "This isn't at all what I talked to Hunt about."

    "No, I'd expect not. Didn't see yourself in this motel either?" Nora tried to laugh, but it came out strangled and fell away.

    "Did he tell you where to find him?"

    "No. I gave him the address here. He said he'd come to us."

    "Good," Eddie said. "I hope he has those drugs. It could be the only thing saving us."

    "What do you think happened up there?" Nora had her hands on her legs, and when she said this, Eddie could see the worry in her eyes. He looked away.

    "I don't know what happened up there."

    "Something went wrong, right?"

    "Something went wrong."

    "What is a girl with a stomach packed full of drugs doing in all this?"

    "I think she has very little say in it."

    "It's sick, you know."

    "It's how it is, Nora."