Then Martin was aware of a second flicker of light, this one behind Cynthia. Ethan’s flashlight. He jerked his head around to examine their only means of escape. The tunnel that connected to the other side of this narrow cavern looked passable.
“There’s no time to talk about this right now,” he said, scooping up the backpack. “Ethan’s coming.” Then he grabbed Cynthia’s arm, and they ran.
THEN
WEEKS PASSED, AND Ethan and Martin soon found Gunshot Pop’s—the bar they would come to know as their escape, a place of solace where Ethan could share his philosophies about justice and revenge and Martin could muse about the “one that got away.”
“Well, of course we’re still friends,” he said. “But it could have been so much better.” The self-deception he had indulged in to disguise his flawed relationship with Diane had started to crumble, and now with Ethan—though no one else—he spoke honestly about his feelings.
“If she loved you,” Ethan said.
“If she loved me,” Martin echoed.
Ethan sipped his beer, much slower than he did the first night they went out. “That’s a lot of baggage.”
“You think?”
“Hell, yes. Between your father and Cynthia, you got a lot banging around in your brain. I think you should extinguish some of it.”
“What do you mean?” Martin said, now on his second beer and not thinking as clearly as he did sober.
“Sometimes you got to deal with people in whatever way it takes to solve your problems—that’s what I mean. Only not in no temporary way where they can come back again. You got to solve them permanently.”
Martin looked around, leaned in, lowered his voice. “Are you talking about murder? Jesus, is that how you took care of things with your mom? Did you kill her?”
“No!” Not yet. “But what I mean is that it’s like stepping on a bug. Sometimes, when it’s big enough, you’ll hear the slimy, sticky crunch under your shoe, but it’s still gotta be done because, if you don’t, the bug’s just going to end up layin’ eggs in your sugar bowl.”
NOW
MARTIN BELIEVED IT was important they work together to find an exit. At least, he and Cynthia needed to work together, and Ethan could not be allowed to interfere with that plan.
Once that decision was made, the next several were easy.
Martin stopped running and shouted for Cynthia to do the same.
“What are you talking about? I have no idea what he’ll do when he catches up to me! And what about you?”
“We can’t keep running. The tunnel is going to eventually narrow, and then what? Besides, it’s too dangerous. Another fall for either of us could mean death. As long as we’re running, we can’t make intelligent decisions about how to get out of here.”
Cynthia, taking deep breaths, said nothing, but Martin could tell by her expression that she knew he was right.
“We’ve got to stop him,” he continued.
“How?”
“I’ll show you,” Martin said, and turned around, heading back the way they’d come.
“Wait! What are you thinking about doing?”
He jerked off the backpack, dropped it on the ground. “Just keep up.”
Cynthia was unable to match Martin’s pace, and the light from her headlamp—the light which made everything before him visible—grew dim. Martin rounded a bend and saw Ethan, less than a hundred feet away.
“Martin!” Ethan said, surprised, as he came to a stop. “What are you doing here?”
Martin, picking up speed, didn’t answer. Later he could explain what he was doing—when they were out of the tunnel, when they had rescued Gina and her boyfriend—but that would be later.
“Don’t lose sight of why we’re here!” Ethan shouted.
All that matters is finding a way out, Martin thought. Then he jumped on top of Ethan, and they both grunted when they hit the ground. Each struggled to pin the other down.
“Help me, Cynthia!” Martin shouted after Ethan got his knees onto Martin’s shoulders.
Cynthia kicked Ethan in the lower back. It was the opportunity Martin needed. He rolled his friend over, pushed his hands to the ground.
“You’ve got to be kidding me! After all I’ve done for you, this is how you thank me?”
“Hit him!” Martin said.
“This was for the both of us,” Ethan continued. “After all, we have to eat something.”
“What were you thinking? That we would eat her?”
Ethan struggled to get free. “I know that’s not the way we talked about doing it—”
“We never talked about anything like that, at all.” Martin glanced over his shoulder at Cynthia, who was still just standing there. “Cynthia, get a goddamn rock and hit him in the head now!”
THEN
ETHAN RENTED A car and parked a block away from his parents’ home in Triton, Alabama. He had spoken with his father half a dozen times by now, and each time had assured him everything was going well. The apartment was perfect, the job was fulfilling, he’d even made a few friends.
“I’m glad to hear you’re happy,” Byron had said. Ethan could almost hear his father smile on the other end of the phone.
Everything Ethan had said was a lie, though. In truth, the apartment never got warm enough, the job was tedious, and Martin was his only friend.
But he knew the lies would set his father’s mind at ease and help allay suspicions when Norma was killed. And to further ensure that he would not be a suspect, he asked about his mother’s well-being with as much sincerity as he could summon.
Byron said she was getting along well. “She’s still working at the frame shop. It’s still making her happy. Not too much changes around here.”
“That sounds about right,” Ethan said, jokingly. But they both knew it was true. Progress came slowly in Triton, regardless of the changes Byron had mentioned in his letters.
When Ethan arrived several hours after dark, this truth was reaffirmed when he glanced at the sign to the old Rutts’ Furniture Store—still hanging, crooked, from a single rusty hook.
He got out of the car and checked his coat pocket for the
