Buddy blinked at Joe and worked his mouth like a camel. He needed water, or thought he needed water. But it wouldn’t help.
“I’m sorry,” Joe said, reaching back for his weapon. “I’m sorry for being selfish.”
Two rounds left. Buddy deserved to go quickly. Joe pressed the muzzle against Buddy’s head, said a prayer, and started to squeeze the trigger.
He thought better of it and holstered the Glock. The shot could be heard and give away his location. Plus, he might need both bullets. So he unsheathed his Buck knife.
He said another prayer. Asked both God and Marybeth to forgive him for what he was about to do.
USING A STIFF BROKEN BRANCH with a Y in the top of it as a crutch, Joe continued down the mountain in the dark. A spring burbled out from a pile of flat rocks, and the water flowed freely and seemed to pick up volume. He kept the little creek to his right. The stream tinkled at times like wind chimes, he thought. It was a nice sound, and reassuring to know there was fresh water to drink, but he had to keep reminding himself not to get too close because the rush of water could drown out the sound of anyone coming up behind him. He followed the spring creek until it joined a larger stream, which he guessed was No Name Creek.
The moon was up and full, as were the bold white paintbrush strokes of the stars, and there was enough light on the forest floor to see because the pine needles soaked up the light and held it like powder-blue carpet. The stillness of the night, the constant pain of his legs, the awkward rhythm of his descent, and the soft backbeat percussion of his own breath was an all-encompassing world of its own and nearly made him forget about the danger he was in. It lulled him. He was jolted back into the present when a covey of blue grouse flushed from tall brush, and the heavy beating of their wings lifting off through the boughs nearly made his heart stop.
For the next hour, his life became as simple as it had ever been because it was reduced to absolute essentials: Place one foot before the other, keep weight off that right leg, keep going, keep senses dialed to high.
He thought about home, and his vision was vivid. It was as if his brain and soul had left the damaged container and floated up through the trees, raced three hundred and eighteen miles to Saddlestring, and entered his house by slipping under the front door, where he floated to the ceiling and hovered there.
SHERIDAN WAS AT the kitchen table filling out application forms for college. Lucy was in the living room watching television, painting her nails, and glancing down periodically to check for text messages on the new cell phone on her lap. Their dog Tube, a Lab-and-corgi cross, slept curled at her feet. Marybeth put dirty dinner dishes into the dishwasher and scraped what remained of the spaghetti into a plastic container for the refrigerator.
Sheridan was speaking to Marybeth, but Joe couldn’t actually hear the words, even though he knew what they were. He felt privileged to eavesdrop.
But what if they accept me? It could happen, you know.
It’s not that, honey. I know it’s possible because of your grades. But unless financial aid comes with it, there’s no way we can send you there. It’s completely on the other side of the country!
I could handle it. I’m tougher than you think.
It’s not that. You’re the toughest kid I know. I’m not sure I’m tough enough to have you gone that far away. What’s wrong with a community college at first? The first two years are the same no matter where you go.
Didn’t you go East?
That was different. Your grandmother insisted and I needed to get away. I came back for grad school, though. That’s where I met your dad.
So it was okay for you, but it isn’t for me? Thanks for the ego boost, Mom. I really appreciate it.
It’s not that. It’s the money. We’ve had this discussion before. Your dad and I . . .
I might get a scholarship, you know.
And if you do, we can discuss it. But a scholarship doesn’t cover travel, and housing, and all the other things.
I’ll work. I can work. I work now. I’m a great waitress, you know.
I know.
LUCY IN THE FRONT ROOM called out.
I just hope you go somewhere cool so I can visit. Are there colleges in New York City?
Of course. Are you an idiot?
Mom, can I have her room when she leaves?
Please, girls. Not now.
AND JOE WISHED he was there but he didn’t know what he could add to the conversation.
Where was April? he wondered. Why wasn’t she in the room?
The woodstove was lit, the smell comforting. There was no better smell than wood smoke on a cold fall night. He’d still need to get wood for the winter once he got home. The two cords he’d cut the year before had to be just about gone by now. He needed to keep his family warm.
Joe was abruptly jerked back to the present. The smoke he’d smelled wasn’t in his imagination.
IN THE DAYLIGHT, he might not have found it. If it weren’t for the smoke which hung like a nighttime shadow in the trees, he would have limped right past. But he stopped and turned slowly to the right and slightly in back of him. There was a cut in the hillside on the other side of the little stream where another tiny spring creek fed into the flow. The cut went fifty yards back into the slope and doglegged to the right. The smoke came from where the dogleg ended.
Joe winced and nearly blacked out as he crossed the stream from rock to rock, unable to use his crutch to keep his weight off his injured legs. He paused on the other side and heard moaning and realized it was his own. He closed his eyes tightly and was entertained by fireworks on the inside of his eyelids. When he opened them, there was a cabin ahead. A faint yellow square of light seeped through a small curtained window from an inside lantern.
The cabin, he knew, shouldn’t exist. There was no private land within this part of the Medicine Bow National Forest, just like there were no roads. He thought, Hunters? Poachers? Forest rangers? Loggers? Then: Outlaws?
The curtain on the single small window quivered as he made a fist to knock on the rough pine door. Whoever was inside knew he was there. And if they were armed?
Then a wild thought: What if the Grims lived here?
He collapsed as the door opened and fell inside. A woman said, “Oh my God, no . . .”
Then: “Who are you? Why did you come here? Oh no, you’ll be the death of me.”
FRIDAY, AUGUST 28
7
WHEN JOE AWOKE, HE WAS ON HIS BACK ON THE FLOOR OF the cabin in a nest of thick quilts. He reached up and rubbed the right side of his face, which was warm from the heat of an iron woodstove. A curl of steam rose from the snout of a kettle on the surface of the stove, and inside a small fire crackled.
He could remember things: vivid nightmares reliving the attack, throwing off the quilts as he fought off demons, awaking with a fever and drinking water and broth, rolling to his side to urinate into a plastic jar, the touch of her fingers on his bare thigh as she bandaged it, her frequent prognostications of doom.
The cabin was small, old, and close. He guessed it had been built in the 1950s or 1960s, to judge from the gray color of the logs and the age cracks in the pine plank ceiling. Although it was only one room inside and was packed with possessions in the corners and on the shelves, it seemed clean and organized. Red curtains were drawn over small framed windows on each wall.