— Pete? Can I see you maybe this afternoon or tomorrow?
— I’d like that.
— Me too.
He made his way back up through the house and slipped out noiselessly. The sky had cleared and the stars were profuse. The branches creaked on the maples above and the snow underfoot hadn’t been disturbed. He stole down the street to his car and let it heat up as he brushed off his windshield. He got into the driver’s seat. He could still smell Emily on his fingers. He drew in the scent deeply.
He took the long way through downtown. The heater pumped out heat and the radio was on. It was well before dawn yet. He felt better. He passed the dark front of the National Trust and passed the Shamrock Hotel. He laughed a little. The few days he’d spent in the hotel seemed a long time ago.
He drove up Harris Avenue. He was coming to the intersection where the Union Street bridge crossed over the river and carried on to the highway bypass. The light turned red. He slowed down and stopped. He yawned. The radio told him to have a happy holiday and Pete drummed on the steering wheel.
Then he saw the van pass in front of his car, the van with the mended side-view mirror and the crack on the windshield. The van had the right-of-way at the intersection and it turned onto the bridge up ahead. Pete watched a cigarette butt come sparking out from the passenger-side window, over the guardrail, and down onto the frozen river.
They passed a handful of other vehicles on their way back to Indian Lake. Headlights appeared, bore down on them, and passed. When they arrived at the property, the lights were on in the Airstream. Speedy brought the van to a stop next to the shed. Arlene’s hatchback was parked a few feet ahead.
They opened the van and got out. The door of the Airstream was open now and in the warm light they could see Arlene in silhouette, holding a robe around herself. She raised a hand.
— Do you think I’m glad to see you or what?
— Get your ass back in the bedroom, said Gilmore. I got something to give you.
— Oh, big talk.
Gilmore feigned a charge at the Airstream and Arlene scampered back inside, pulling the door shut behind her. Gilmore came back to the van.
— How about a cigarette, Lee.
In the dark, any man was just a shape bearing faint edges of ambient light. It was a moment before Lee said anything. His voice was pitched low: One of mine?
— Well, who else is the chain-smoker here? Tell you what, I’ll buy you a deck or two in Montreal.
Lee offered his pack and Gilmore took one of the last three.
— I could go with one, said Speedy.
Lee gave Speedy his second-last and then took the last for himself. The cigarettes were lit and the smoke smelled good in the cold air.
There was work to do yet. Lee smoked half of his cigarette and then butted it on the side of the van. He put the remaining half back in his pack. He could not put any trust in words so he submitted to what he was told to do. They moved the tool bag and the burning-bar rig back into the locker in the corner of the shed. The five duffle bags they’d hauled out of the vault were moved through the doorway of the Airstream into a small galley. Arlene was leaning on the wall. Her robe was silk with Chinese dragons patterned on it, frayed about the hem. She smiled as she watched them carry in the take. Lee had no idea what it amounted to.
They went out and stood by the van. The airplane was to arrive before eight o’clock. Gilmore had spoken to his friend the day before and all was well, but if the plane did not arrive by nine, they would go north in the van. In the meantime that meant waiting.
Gilmore disappeared into the Airstream.
— You two can wait here, said Maurice. The van or the shed. There’s no reason to go wandering around the property nowhere.
Speedy laughed: I don’t know where the fuck we’d go.
Lee took out the remnants of his last cigarette and lit it.
— Lee? said Maurice. Lee exhaled smoke.
— Lee, did you go deaf or something?
— I heard you, said Lee.
He opened the passenger door of the van and sat down. He looked at what was revealed by the starlight, looked at Maurice and Speedy moving into the shed. His last cigarette did not last long. He rolled down the window and pitched out the butt. If he closed his eyes he could see the van moving away in front of him.
He wondered if in times to come he might question whether things could have followed another direction. A short while later he shut his eyes.
The old dream: the concrete dark of the basement, the sight and sound of the coal furnace. The cripple with the spadeshovel. Only this time the cripple had a newer old face. Joe Holmes. The blood poured out of his side where he’d been stabbed with the screwdriver. He had the caretaker’s limp.
Lee was cold and stiff. The passenger door was open. The sun had not risen but the sky had lightened. Speedy was shaking him awake. He was stepping foot to foot, agitated, prodding the air with his 9mm.
Lee shot his hand forward and grabbed Speedy’s wrist: What the fuck is wrong with you?
— Lee.
— Is the airplane here?
— Lee.
He let go of Speedy’s wrist and pushed the man away. He said: Quit waving that fucking gun in my face.
— They got somebody here.
— They got what?
— Somebody here. Oh, man.
— A cop?
— Not a cop. They got a kid.
— A kid, said Lee.
He hopped down from the van.
— Just come and see, said Speedy. Oh, man. Arlene doesn’t know nothing about it. She’s still in the camper and Gilmore says-
Lee pushed past him. The equation was falling just short of a complete picture.
— Where is this kid?
— In the locker. Maurice was looking around, like keeping an eye open, and he finds this kid over by the trees …
They went into the shed, Lee leading. He crossed to the locker and pulled the door open. Gilmore was there. Maurice was a little deeper in, crouched down.
In the back corner of the locker they had him laid out on the floor, bound with duct tape around the ankles and wrists. Maurice reached out with the shotgun to prod the kid’s ribs. The kid had a strip of duct tape over his mouth. His nose had been badly broken and was leaning sideways and both eyes were blackened and the top of his forehead had been split open, wide enough to show a pink slip of bone beneath. His face was curtained with blood.
When Maurice prodded him he shuddered. Maurice stood up. He said: Yeah, still ticking.
— What is this? said Lee.
Gilmore and Maurice turned back to look at him and Speedy. The expression on Gilmore’s face was hard to interpret. Maybe vague distaste.
How could this be? How could
— What does it look like? said Maurice. While you thought you’d get yourself some goddamn sleep I went to watch our backs. And look what I found. Look what the fuck I found.
Lee worked moisture into his mouth: He doesn’t look like nobody I know. Who is he?
