The turquoise craft moved swiftly across the calm bay. In silence Hank came up about thirty yards behind Lee and shipped his paddle, just drifting along. He could hear Lee’s heavy breathing; the distance Lee had covered would be almost two miles. Then Lee rolled over to move into a backstroke, saw the kayak, and his motion stopped. He began slowly treading water.
Hank eased the kayak a little closer.
Hank said, “Had breakfast?”
“Thought you were bringing me some.”
“Got some MREs in my kit.”
“You call that breakfast? Why should we eat that shit now that we’re out?”
“Because it’s all I got,” Hank said.
“You been gone a while,” Lee said. “I thought you were finished with this place.”
“I don’t think that’s possible, Lee. Not for me. Not for you.”
“Frenchie called you, huh?”
“Frenchie and Red.” Hank wanted Lee to know they were both involved and nearby.
Hank studied the man in the water. Didn’t look threatening. Looked calm. Didn’t look like a throat-slashing kid killer. But he knew Frenchie had contacted him; must have had a reason to think that. Still, Frenchie might be wrong. After all, no witnesses.
It shouldn’t have been a languid moment, but it turned into one. They were just floating there on the glassy, sparkling bay, Hank rocking gently in the kayak, Lee on his back, moving his arms and legs like a willow in a breeze. The sunlight spread over them like a fine warm oil. A lazy warmth, the kind that tempts turtles and snakes out onto the rocks and puts them right to sleep. A slight offshore breeze wafted over them, carrying the scent of white pine, red cedar, and other essences of the north. Swept away were the alien experiences that had shattered their friendship.
“I remember we were out here two days after you hit that walk-off against Bay City,” Hank said. “Just floatin’ on inner tubes, mindin’ our own business. Red grillin’ hot dogs on the beach.”
They began to chat about old things, about pre-9/11, prewar things. It went on for a while, just a reunion of two old friends gabbing away and laughing at events recalled.
“Doesn’t seem possible that it was just fifteen years ago,” Hank said.
“It wasn’t fifteen years ago,” Lee said. “It was a million years ago.”
“Amen, brother, amen.” A million years ago. A million years ago and a war ago and maybe a murder ago, Hank thought. But there was no point in pressing Lee. Hank thought of it as similar to a hostage negotiation. If they’re talking, you’re winning. And he had the drop.
“So you were hanging out at Scarecrow, huh?” Hank asked.
“Yeah. Had a camp at the mouth of the Euphrates on the south side of Squaw Bay but it got overrun.”
Hank almost laughed and said that the Euphrates was six thousand miles away, then saw it for what it was: the first signal of delusion. He became cautious with his words.
“Overrun by who?”
“Can’t be sure, there’s so many splinter groups around here.” Lee’s face darkened. His movements in the water became jerky, agitated. “They get inside the perimeter. Them and the ash borer. Killing everything. You seen the ash?”
“Yeah, damn shame. They’re a huge chunk of the park.”
“Not just the park. Of the whole country,” Lee said, his voice rising. “Fifty million trees so far.”
It looked to Hank like a paranoid episode was on the way. They were hard to deal with under the best of circumstances. How you deal with one from a kayak he had no clue. He tried to take control.
“Lee, why don’t we talk this over on the beach. Why don’t you start swimming for the beach.”
“And if I don’t, you gonna blow me in half right here in the bay?”
“Now why would you say that?”
“Because I figure you’ve got a nine-millimeter or a forty-five handy in the cockpit there.”
“Believe me, Lee, I’m here to help you... Come on, why don’t you keep going like you were — straight to the beach.”
“Hell, Hank, you’re not taking me to the beach. You’re taking me somewhere a hell of a lot farther away than that.”
Hank straightened up in the boat. “Lee, stop jawing and start swimming.”
Lee kept treading water. He turned his face into the water and turned back spitting out a narrow stream. “You can taste the Euphrates,” he said. “Everything’s changing.” He slipped out of the loose dragline attached to the stowfloat bag. “Hey, Hank?”
“Yeah?”
“Is it a nine or a forty-five?”
“Does it matter?”
“Not really, ’cause holdin’ a gun on somebody only works if they give a shit.”
Lee exploded straight up out of the water almost to his thighs. He came down with a tremendous splash and from the white spray launched a thrashing, powerful butterfly straight toward the kayak, closing the distance like a killer whale speeding toward its prey. Hank froze for just an instant. He grabbed for his Smith but hesitated, saw Lee dead, saw Red crying, and in those few short seconds Lee reached the kayak, latching onto the stern and easily flipping the slim arrow of a boat.
Hank saw the sky spin and found himself hanging upside down, choking in cold water, his lower body jammed into the boat. As he tried to slide out, he saw Lee swimming toward him like a ghost, a combat Bowie in his hand. His face was flat and unemotional, a death mask. Then a strong arm had Hank in a steel-like hammerlock, pulling him down where it was deeper and darker. His life didn’t flash before his eyes. What flashed was the simple understanding that he’d never used a kayak to land a man before and had done the whole thing all wrong. His lungs gave out in a white bubbly cloud.
Hank rose through a cylinder of blackness until all was light, coming to in a coughing, gagging cloud of confusion. Completely disoriented, he turned on his side and kept coughing up water. His throat was raw. He was freezing. The August sun was a godsend. He was on the beach, barely out of the water.
Red was leaning over him. Her shirt was off and Hank realized it was draped over him. He remembered Lee coming for him, felt his arm around his neck.
“Lee?” he rasped.
Red straightened up, tugging at a strap of her black sports bra. She nodded toward the lake. Close to shore in shallow water the kayak was floating unevenly, its bow forced skyward by the weight of the body draped over the stern. Bronzed shoulders gleamed in the sun.
“I came out of the woods,” Red said. “Lee had you laid over the boat. I called to him to move away from you but he pulled a knife. I had no choice.”
Hank nodded. He was hazy but he knew the water where Lee had attacked him was much farther out, well over their heads. For the boat and Lee to be this close to shore Lee would have had to be bringing him in. But Red wouldn’t have known that.
Hank looked at the boat and the body. It wasn’t really suicide by cop. It was something a hell of a lot more personal than that.
His throat was burning. He looked at Red. Her face was distraught but she was dry-eyed. Her father had been walking home from Vietnam until the day he died. Would she be walking away from this until the day she died? He didn’t think so. Red was tough, knew how to stay within herself. Frenchie had taught her that.
Red fumbled in her pocket for her phone. “I haven’t called Frenchie,” she said, her hands shaking. “There wasn’t time. We have to get you to the ER. Bad things can happen the first few hours after near drowning.”
Hank looked out at Lee, the gentle waves washing away the dust from someone else’s desert. That’s where Lee would want to stay, as far away from the desert as he could get. Not a part of Negwegon exactly, but close enough. Hank put his hand on Red’s and squeezed gently, stopping the call.
“Let’s not call Frenchie just yet,” he said.