She turned and looked down to the lake. Getting dark. Kids skipping stones, a small fire.
“Say nothing to the kids, okay?” he said. “For now.”
“Of course. Maybe we’ll feel differently in the morning.”
“Could be.”
They started back. She grabbed and held his hand.
Holding it, giving it a squeeze every now and then, letting him know that they were together in this.
THE LAST DAY
32. 12:55 A.M.
He might have dozed off.
But each time sleep came close, Jack would pull himself back to alertness. He listened to Christie’s breathing, always the gentlest of sleepers. While she complained that he, on the other hand, snored like a bear through the night.
She had been asleep for a while. But he wanted to wait.
Let that sleep deepen.
Let other people in Paterville go to sleep.
Let it get as quiet as it can.
He looked at the glowing face of the travel alarm clock. Nearly 1:00 A.M. He pulled off the sheet and thin blanket. He slowly swung his legs out and moved his feet to the floor.
The pain immediate. A Vicodin would be so good.
But not now. Not tonight.
He walked over to the dresser. He had thrown his pants there. He grabbed them, and then slowly opened the drawer to recover the flashlight and his small .44.
Now that he knew how well Paterville’s security worked, he wouldn’t go anywhere on this property without a gun.
He went out to the living room, taking care to quietly shut the bedroom door behind him. Not closed so tight that there would be a telltale click. Just enough so that any noises he made would be masked. He didn’t put on a light.
He put on his running shoes.
He was ready.
Jack looked out the front window.
He could see guards out there. Back on duty. Watching all the good sleeping vacationers.
He knew that going out the front door was out of the question. Before he had gone to bed with Christie, he had checked out another possibility.
First, though, he picked up the car keys he had found off the coffee table.
He walked to the small bathroom at the back of the cabin.
Straight to the window. Open now, assorted bugs mashed up against the screen. Might just be big enough.
The toilet right next to the window.
That would give him enough height. But could he fit?
The screen—an old-fashioned piece of mesh held in place by primitive metal clips—had to be removed. Jack would need to pop it out and let it fall to the ground.
Jack put down the toilet cover and stood on it. The bowl wobbled, bolts in need of tightening.
He steadied himself on the bowl.
Then he pushed two clips on the side of the screen, and then one at the bottom. The three released, sending the screen falling back and away from the window.
It made noise hitting the brush outside.
Jack hesitated.
Not much of a noise. Not a bad noise, he thought. Not anything that could attract attention.
Now the hard part.
He brought his arms up and wedged them on either side of the open window.
Pressure to either side. He’d need to pull himself up, then somehow through the window.
Then pressure. A curl from the biceps, lifting his dead weight up and off the toilet, into the air. Now with a combination of the lift from his arms and wriggling his chest, he was able to get his upper torso part of the way through the window.
He unlocked his arms and reached outside the frame to the walls on either side. Grabbing there, palms against the wood, while he squirmed more, pressing his feet against the inner wall of the bathroom.
No purchase there, but the rubbery toes of his running shoes got some traction.
Had to be done in one move, he knew. And no grunts. No sounds.
One smooth move to slide out.
His landing would make noise. Nothing he could do about that.
He started pressing with his hands as he pushed with his sneakers, attempting to use the wall. And all the time, he wriggled from side to side.
Like being born, he thought.
But it worked. He slid through the hole. The frame scraped his chest, then his stomach, maybe drawing blood. It would at least leave nasty bruises. His right knee banged the inner wall, kicking, squirming.
He kept on going. This was the only way out.
And I’m getting out.
One last push with his hands against the wall, and finally gravity did its work and he tumbled, headfirst, down into the brush, the sound of his landing seeming so loud.
For a few seconds, he just lay there.
Listening to see if his maneuver had aroused any attention.
Nothing.
He got to his knees and then, urged by pain, quickly stood up.
He double-checked his gun. Secure in its ankle holster. A pat to the pocket to guarantee that he still had the keys.
He headed into the woods behind the cabins, away from any paths, away from any light, away from any guards.
Deep into a stand of pines, Jack went off the path and navigated around the side of the camp, away from the lake and the lodge.
At one point, the strip of woods narrowed and he came close to the fence.
He moved slowly there.
A thought: What if they have motion detectors out here?
But how could they? Every small rodent would trigger it.
Once he heard voices—guards patrolling the nearby fence.
But then the woods opened up again, and Jack quickly moved away from the fence, curling well behind the Great Lodge, behind the field and the cabin where Shana had so effectively split wood.
The woods ran behind the lodge, close to the parking lot before merging with a sloping hill dotted with pine trees and the dead trunks of deciduous trees.
His eyes adjusted to the darkness. He reached a secluded spot near the lot.
Jack crouched down and left the safety of the trees for the maze of cars filling the lot.
So many cars.
He could have used the electronic key, but the flash of lights would advertise that someone was there.
Instead, he tried the car key in the one thing he thought would not produce a light.
The trunk.
Moving from car to car, crouching the way he imagined soldiers did in some godforsaken city filled with snipers.
How long before a guard on his rounds spotted him? Called for some help to see who the hell was down there.
Then what? Jack making up some bullshit story about how he got out of his cabin? And what the hell was he doing?
So many cars.
He came finally to one near the back of the lot, the car pointed at the hill leading up to the service camp.
Parked that way, Jack would be totally exposed as he went to the trunk.
He used his fingers to find the lock on the trunk. Then, keeping his fingers there, he slid the key in.
It fit.
He turned it.
A click, then the trunk attempting to fly open.
But Jack held it open a crack, the trunk light squelched by the lid being held low.
Got the keys—and now I got the car.
A fucking match.
He slid to the left of the car, finally out of sight of anyone who might look down at the lot.
He couldn’t enter the car. The inside would light up. And like most cars, the interior light would stay on for a good few minutes.
He brought his head up slowly to look inside. Just at the level of the door lock. Another inch, so he could look inside.