Soon, I’d be able to hear the helicopter.
Lake said, “ Your truth,” as he continued to approach me. His attitude, his tone, the way he now carried himself, suddenly all seemed confrontational.
I said, “Lake? Why are you carrying that gun?”
I’d begun backing away, trying to maintain some space between us.
He seemed not to hear… or he chose to ignore me, because he said, “Praxcedes Lourdes was fighting for the Revolution, too. The man you have sealed in that can. He’s crazy. He’s a monster. But he was still part of the cause. That’s why you want me to check on the doctor. It’ll give you time to kill him. Because that’s what you do, isn’t it, Doc? Kill?”
Still backing, I said, “Do you have any idea how many people he’s murdered? Look at his face-you’ll see his trophies. He abducted you, for God’s sake. My son. How do you expect me to react?”
His voice growing louder, Lake said, “But he’s insane. His head was crushed in when he was a kid. He’s sick. There’s a medication out now that might change his entire behavior. Even if it doesn’t, who are you to judge?”
I replied, “Someone has to,” then watched, immobile, as my son began to lift the Glock toward my chest. He was letting me see it now, no longer hiding his intent.
“Nope. I’m not going to let you murder him, Doc. I can’t. Your days of interfering with our country’s politics are done. Same with the assassination bullshit. It’s not necessary. ”
My breath coming in shallow gulps, I held my hands up, palms out, wanting him to stop before I was forced to react-there was no way I could bring myself to hurt him.
But I had to act… had to do something. Still backing away, I asked him again: “Laken? What are you doing with that gun?”
I’d decided to dive toward him, to roll-block his legs from beneath him… when he suddenly flipped the pistol around in his hand.
The abrupt movement caused me to jump. I stiffened, expecting to hear a round explode.
Instead, he caught the handgun by the barrel, then held it out to me butt-first.
“I found this on the deck up there”-he glanced toward the ship’s house-“when I first saw you knock Prax unconscious. I took the bullets out because I don’t want you to use it. I don’t want you to do that. .. stuff anymore. He’s sick, Dad. People get sick and do crazy, terrible things. So let him out of the barrel, O.K.?”
Slowly, I reached and took the Glock from his hand, thinking that if it didn’t belong to someone else, I’d have thrown it into the sea. Lake was facing me, standing close enough to put his hand on my shoulder, and he gave me a little shake.
“Hey-are you O.K.? You look all pale. Are you hurt? Your head’s bleeding.”
I leaned my weight against him, feeling weak-kneed again. “I’m fine. Just tired.”
“Do you promise me that you’re not going to kill the guy?”
I remembered saying to Tomlinson something about pathology; that when illness is involved, a person’s behavior can’t be judged as either moral or immoral.
Did I really believe that?
Sometimes. Maybe.
“ Promise me, Dad?”
The pounding and howling from inside the drum were louder now, as I replied, “You know what, Lake? You’re right. I promise. But… do you mind if we leave him locked in there? I really don’t want to have to deal with the big bastard again.”
My son looked at me, and then he grinned. “Sure. The guy did the same thing to me last night, you know-stuck me in one of those cans.” He shook his head. “He really is an asshole.”
The noise of the helicopter began to vibrate through the hull of the ship.
EPILOGUE
On an afternoon of dazzling, corn-belt blue in early June, my commercial flight touched down at Quad City International Airport, and I drove my rental car over a bridge that spanned the Mississippi River and carried me into the green, green land of area code 563.
I didn’t realize how wide that ancient river is. I looked at it and thought of Mark Twain. I thought of paddle-wheelers and lazy summer afternoons, and of Huck Finn. The river did not, however, catalyze any association with the leggy, sailor-tongued, former international tennis star, Dewey Nye.
But she was here. She was living somewhere nearby.
I would have no trouble finding her, because the lady had kindly provided directions.
Even so, I missed a turn and ended up atop a city hill, parked outside a beautiful old brownstone behemoth, with a sign that said it was Central High School, home of the Blue Devils.
I wondered what experience the people here had with devils, blue or otherwise, in a city as pretty and peaceful as Davenport, Iowa.
As I thought about it, the face of Praxcedes Lourdes slipped into my mind and held me captive for a moment. The night that the Coast Guard boarded Repatriate and put the cuffs on him, Praxcedes and I had a brief visual exchange. Not a word was spoken, but the messages were unmistakable.
He glared at me with his wild, pale eyes, then looked to my son, who was standing nearby. He smiled-a leer-and nodded before looking into my eyes again.
The next time, I’ll kill him!
That’s what he was telling me.
My gaze unwavering, I stared back. As I did, I used a vague index finger to point to him, then at the 50-gallon drum that seemed to still echo with his screams. For emphasis, I patted at my heart.
Touch him, I’ll bury you alive. Promise.
THE road west followed the river toward Muscatine. It took me through Rockingham, Walnut Grove, and Montpelier, where I slowed and turned right onto Cemetery Road, which was little more than a shaded country lane. Then I took a left onto Wheelands, where corn grew on both sides of the road, so it was a little like driving through a tunnel. I had the windows down, and the car was flooded with the sweet, earthen smell of corn silk and clover.
I’d known that Dewey’s maternal family had Midwestern roots. I didn’t know that her great-grandmother had died recently and left her what remained of the family farm. It was to the farm that the lady had retreated to get perspective on her personal world; a world that seemed to be unraveling.
As one of the principal causes for the turmoil, I was eager to make amends.
After another mile or so, I found a road marked “Wagon Trail,” and then the red mailbox she’d described. Her property was at the end of a long lane, in a valley of hardwoods and clover. There was a white clapboard house that looked a hundred years old, a broken-down barn, and several unpainted outbuildings that looked older.
I’ve noticed before that when I see old friends in new or unexpected surroundings, it takes the brain a microsecond to convert then reassemble their facial features from those of a stranger back into the face of the person I know so well. It is in that brief space of time that we see our friends as they really appear, unfiltered by personality quirks or our fondness for them.
As I parked, the door to the back porch swung open, and I saw a lanky, prairie-plain woman come striding out, jeans loose on her hips, plaid shirt bust-heavy, with sleeves rolled to the elbows. Her blond hair was cut boyishly short. She moved as if she were in a hurry to get chores done.
Dewey?
Yes. The short hair had thrown me. Then… there she was walking toward me, my old friend, my workout partner and love-the woman jock with the California beach girl face, the smile, the satirical eyes.
“Long time no see, sailor. Welcome to fly-over country.”
By “fly-over,” I took her to mean that part of the U.S. that most only see from a plane.
I said, “They don’t know what they’re missing. Now that you’re here, anyway.”
I was nervous, had a case of dry-mouth, but felt instantly better when she allowed me to hug her close, and then to kiss her lightly on the lips.
I said, “You smell great. I missed you.”
“I missed you, too, Doc. And I’m so happy about your son.”
“He’s an amazing kid. You’ll meet him. Soon.”