A Fool and His Honey

I glanced over at Karl, whose face was a waxy color I associated with Madame Tussaud’s. He was covered with sweat, and blood, and bits of stuff. He looked very bad. Martin had spots of blood on his shirt, mostly on the back where glass slivers had pierced the material as he lay covering me. There was one long cut over his right eye that looked particularly bad, hut I reminded myself that head cuts bleed worse than anything. I couldn’t give myself any comfort over his color, though, and I knew that something worse than a few cuts was wrong with Martin. I found myself too scared to ask him.

“Take the baby,” Martin said.

“What?” This was crazy. It had begun to snow again.

“Take the baby.”

“Are you serious?” I said savagely, because I was terrified. “Out in the cold, and I don’t know who’s out there? I’ll drive back here, we’ll load Karl in the pickup bed so he can keep his leg stretched out. I’ll get the baby then.”

“I’m thinking you should drive straight to town. Don’t stop.”

“Martin, I can’t leave you,” I began, unhappy all over again to hear how distraught I sounded.

“Go!” he said harshly. “For once, don’t think about it!”

He knew something I didn’t.

“Okay,” I said, trying to sound less tearful than I felt. I accepted the keys he handed me, the ones he’d taken from Karl’s pocket. I ran back up the stairs, bundled and wrapped up Hayden. Then I stood by the front door, terrified of stepping out. I looked into the kitchen at Martin sitting by his friend on the floor. From somewhere, Martin dredged up the strength to give me an encouraging nod.

In retrospect, my agreeing to leave him sounds crazy; but at the time I was so seriously upset that Martin’s request made some kind of sense to me. Though I was absolutely terrified, I stepped out into the snow holding the baby.

The cold hit me in the face. But no bullet. I was at the Jeep in four steps, looking through the windows. No phone. It had been taken. There were footprints, sure, but in the gray dim light and falling snow they were surprisingly hard to follow, and there were many other footprints in the parking area now.

So I began my trek through the falling snow clasping Hayden, who at least at this moment was quiet. I scanned the whiteness, looking for some sign of life out here in the bleak fields, but I saw nothing. A bone-scraping wind sprang up and scoured my face, and flakes clung to the knit cap I’d pulled over my hair. Hayden snuffled against my chest. I clutched him closer.

It was no great distance to the copse, perhaps not even a half mile, but the ground was uneven and the contours concealed by the snow. Halfway there I became aware that I was crying, and I nuzzled the baby’s cheek as if he could comfort me. I knew something was wrong with my husband, and yet he had told me to leave him. Did Martin think the shooter would come around the house to make sure of Rory, and therefore invent some reasoning to make sure I left?

And then I realized why Martin had told me to take Hayden.

Hayden was my insurance.

Martin knew the shooter wouldn’t try for me if I was holding the baby. Hayden was the whole point of this. I wasn’t even sure what “this” was, but Hayden was the center. Now I had the protection of Hayden’s presence: and Martin didn’t.

I nearly decided to turn back twice, even stopped and physically began to reverse, but I couldn’t seem to figure out anything. I was shocked and freezing and desperate, and the remembered urgency of Martin’s tone kept me on my course.

The snow and the baby and the rough ground made the walk seem twice as long as it actually was, but finally I was among the trees. There was Karl’s black pickup, carefully parked so it was unobtrusive. I got the keys from my pocket and climbed in awkwardly, the baby making an upset choky noise in protest at the continued cold.

I laid Hayden on the floor on the passenger side. That was the best I could do. Then I scooted the seat up so my feet could reach the pedals. The pickup started on the first turn of the key just like the Jeep had, which was a real blessing, and it had an automatic shift, which was another blessing. The heater roared into life, and after a few minutes I felt a sheer, pathetic gratitude for the onset of warmth. I began backing out of the trees. When I’d turned the truck to face the road, I saw a little track at least two vehicles had made. Under those tracks must be the dirt road Margaret had told me about.

I followed them up the gentle slope to the county road, figuring the smoothest ground would lie that way, and though the pickup lurched a couple of times, we reached the road in one piece.

I started to turn the wheel left, toward town. Then I thought longingly of the Granberrys to the right, so much closer.

But Martin had said to go to town, and Martin always had a reason for making a decision. So I prepared to turn left, and I peered both ways to see if anything was coming.

It surprised me that something was.

And to compound the surprise, the traveler was Margaret Granberry, in her Dodge pickup. She stopped when she saw me by the side of the road and lowered her window.

“What are you doing?” she called. “Isn’t that Karl’s truck?”

“Margaret, you should get home and lock the doors!” I yelled. “Someone came up to the house and shot him!”

“Shot Karl?” Margaret’s pale face looked even whiter, and she jumped out of her truck, which she left running in the middle of the road, and made her way swiftly over the packed snow to my window, her hands shoved in her pockets.

“He’s bad,” I told her. “I have to get to town to get help.”

“What about Martin? And Rory?” Margaret asked.

“Rory’s dead,” I said baldly.

“So you left the baby there?”

Just then Hayden began crying, and I looked down to the floorboard to make sure he was okay.

When I looked back to the window, Margaret had a gun in her hand.

“Oh shit,” I breathed. “Don’t shoot, Margaret.”

“I won’t if you’ll come without any trouble.”

“Sure,” I said instantly.

“Then you bend over and pick up my baby.”

I did, though it was difficult to maneuver both our bundled bodies in the cab of the pickup.

Margaret stepped back from the door. “Now, get out holding the baby. And don’t try anything like throwing him at me to get me to drop the gun.”

“I wouldn’t dream of that,” I said indignantly, and then told myself it would be a good thing to keep my mouth shut.

Margaret’s head was uncovered, and her red hair had caught a lot of snowflakes. She turned her head uneasily from side to side, like she was tracking movements invisible to me.

I slid down off the high seat, holding Hayden.

Margaret seemed to be thinking hard.

“Go get in my pickup,” she ordered. “You’re going to have to drive.”

So I struggled uphill to the road, praying for more traffic to come along. This wasn’t the day for my prayers to be answered the way I wanted them to be. The road was empty as far as I could see, north to south.

Following Margaret’s directions, I got in the driver’s seat, having slid Hayden over to the passenger side. The truck, still running, was older than Karl’s fancy pickup and it had seen harder usage. Before I could do more than formulate the thought that I could throw the truck in drive and take off, Margaret had grabbed Hayden and was getting in herself, the gun pointed at me.

“Go up to your driveway,” she instructed.

I drove slowly, still hoping someone else would come along and read something strange into the situation, call the police. I turned in when she told me to, only to reverse and back out into the road again, this time pointed south.

“We’ve already turned into your driveway twice, so that ought to account for our tracks,” Margaret said. “With more snow falling, it’ll be hard to read the tracks anyway.”