“That gun makes you feel pretty tough. Lucky you had it.”
“We’ve been over this,” Mark said as he started toward him through the gentle rain, and the part of him that did not want the fight was gone now, vanishing with the man’s smile as he’d said when she got popped, and the decision-making that came from above Mark’s shoulders had been subverted by the old memories that filled his blood and bones like a genetic code, a promise.
“It’s not luck,” he said. “My uncles taught me about guns. They had some hard-and-fast rules. One of them, well, it’s not particularly unique. Lots of people have the same rule. If you ever go so far as to draw the gun, you damn well better be ready to use it. You ever heard that one?”
The big man didn’t answer. His eyes were on Mark’s hand, and he was taking comfort in the fact that Mark’s index finger wasn’t near the trigger, and his thumb wasn’t near the hammer.
“It’s a good rule,” Mark said, and then he swung the barrel of the.38 into the center of the big man’s face.
Blood was flowing by the time he fell. He caught himself on the railing, went down on one knee, and the rebar dropped and rolled across the dock. He reached for it, but this time Mark did pull the hammer back.
“Technically, I just kept the rule,” he said. “We can let this count, or you can push for more.”
The big man sucked air in through his teeth as blood ran down his lips and splashed shining and red over the dock boards.
“You shouldn’t have smiled when you spoke of my wife,” Mark said. “That was a very bad decision. I’m going to give you the chance to make some better ones now. What’s your name?”
“Pate.” The word came from the back of his throat. He was fighting the pain hard, and fighting it well, and Mark knew it would be prudent to remember that.
“Full name.”
“Myron Pate.”
“Okay, Myron. How long have you lived in that gem up the road?”
He hawked blood into his mouth and spit it at Mark’s shoes. Mark pushed the muzzle of the gun hard against his forehead and drove his skull back until his chin was tilted up and Mark could see his eyes.
“How long?”
“Nine months.”
“If that’s a lie, I’m going to learn it fast.”
“Nine months.”
“Who was there before you?”
“Dunno.”
“Don’t believe you.”
He shrugged.
“Garland Webb,” Mark said.
“Don’t know him.”
“I’m going to find out if that’s the truth.”
He shrugged again. Mark couldn’t see a lie in his face, couldn’t see anything but hate, but there was a problem with a man like Myron occupying a house previously rented by Garland Webb and coming on so strong with Mark now, ready to swing a piece of rebar at him for wandering the property. Coincidences happen, yes, but causation happens more often.
Myron Pate spit more blood. There were tears in his eyes now, but it wasn’t because he was scared. He was hurting. Myron was going to need doctors, and depending on what he said to them, Mark could end the day in jail. His gut told him that Myron wasn’t the type who was real interested in calling the police.
Mark stepped farther from him and used his foot to roll the rebar off the dock and into the water. It landed with a gulping sound, as if the lake were eager for it. He walked down the pier and around to the red truck, used his phone to take a picture of the license plate, then opened the driver’s door and removed the keys from the ignition. He carried them back and stood by the water’s edge and watched Myron struggle to his feet. He needed to use both hands and the railing to make it.
“I thought about shooting those stupid tires out,” Mark said. “But they probably cost you three months’ pay, and I’m in a generous mood. You can take two key points from today, Myron. One is that it is very unwise to take pleasure in someone else’s pain. Show some respect for the dead if you don’t want to join them. The second is that if you know Garland Webb, you can tell him I’m coming.”
He holstered the.38, jingled Myron’s keys as if calling a dog for a car ride, and then tossed them out into the shallows of the lake.
“While you’re getting those,” he said, “pick up the chip bags, the beer can, and the used rubber. This is a beautiful place, Myron, but somebody’s letting it go to hell.”
8
Awareness flickered in Sabrina’s mind like matches in a deep, dark valley. Snapped to life, then snuffed out. She knew that she should have wanted more of them, that the light was the part of the world she needed, the part to which she belonged, but as the matches multiplied and their glows lingered, she was more afraid of them than the dark.
This is not my home. I do not know where I am. I was taken from my home. I am alone. Where am I, and why am I alone? What happened?
Snap and burn, snap and burn. Eventually the match glows began to blend together and flame came with it and then light and for the first time Sabrina felt the weight on her wrist and looked at it with uncomprehending eyes.
There was a metal bracelet on her wrist. No. Not a bracelet. There was a word for it, and the word was scary. The word was terrible, the word was-
Handcuff.
It was in that moment of recognition that she slipped fully out of the dark fog and into understanding, and her fear poured forth like blood filling an open wound.
She cried out then. Said the only word that came to mind: Help. She cried it again and again, and her mouth was dry and her tongue felt strange, hard to maneuver, but the effort of shouting and the intensity of her fear were scrubbing the haze from her brain and she saw more of her surroundings, or at least understood more of them.
She was on a cold wooden floor, and the chain of the handcuff on her right wrist ran to an anchor bolt in the log wall, where the other cuff was clipped, holding her fast. The room was dim and though she could make out shapes, it was hard to get a sense of the place beyond the floor, the wall, and the chain between them. She turned her attention to herself then and saw her bare legs and felt the light fabric over them and understood that she was wearing her nightgown. She’d gotten out of the shower and put on her nightgown and she’d been ready to go to bed early, expecting to fall asleep alone, knowing that Jay might be many hours at work yet because the power was out in a lot of places and there was no telling how quickly he’d get it back on.
And then?
The large man. An intruder. He’d spoken to her. Said something about air, though she couldn’t remember exactly what, just that it had been strange. She didn’t have any clear memory of him, just knew that he’d been there, that there had been an intruder and she had been afraid. The lack of clarity in the situation told her that this should be a dream.
But it wasn’t. The cold floor was real, and the prickling flesh of her bare legs under the nightgown was real, and, more than anything, the biting weight of that handcuff was real.
She pulled at the cuff, using her free hand to get a grip on the links of chain that led to the wall. She tugged with all her might, rotated so that she could use her feet to push against the wall, and all she achieved for her efforts was pain.
She was curled against the wall and crying softly when there was the sound of a lock working and then a door opened and light spilled into the room. It fell across the floor to Sabrina like an extended hand.
A figure stepped in and blocked the light.
“You may make all the noise you wish, but it won’t change your circumstances, and I would prefer not to hear it.” His voice was emotionless. She couldn’t see his face because the light was behind him.
She didn’t think he was the same man who had been in her home. He wasn’t large enough and his voice wasn’t deep enough. At first this seemed good, but then she realized what it meant-there were two of them. At least two.