“This is your home?” Olena asks.
“It’s where I live,” is his odd answer.
He uses three different keys to open the front door. Standing on the porch, waiting for him to open his various locks, I notice that his windows all have bars. For a moment I hesitate to step inside because I think of the other house that we have just escaped. But these bars, I realize, are different; these are not to trap people in; they are meant to keep people out.
Inside I smell wood smoke and damp wool. He does not turn on any lights, but navigates across the dark room as though he knows every square inch of it blind. “It gets a little musty in here when I go away for a few days,” he says. He strikes a match, and I see that he is kneeling at a hearth. The bundle of kindling and logs are already waiting to be lit, and flames soon dance to life. The glow illuminates his face, which seems even more gaunt, more somber in this shadowy room. Once, I think, it might have been a handsome face, but the eyes are now too hollow, and his lean jaw has several days’ growth of dark stubble. As the fire brightens, I glance around at a small room made even smaller by tall piles of newspapers and magazines, by the dozens and dozens of news clippings he has tacked to the walls. They are everywhere, like yellowing scales, and I imagine him shut up in this lonely cabin, day after day, month after month, feverishly cutting out articles whose significance only he understands. I look around at the barred windows and remember the three locks on the front door. And I think: This is the home of a frightened man.
He goes to a cabinet and unlocks it. I am startled to see half a dozen rifles racked inside. He removes one and locks the cabinet again. At the sight of that gun in his hand, I retreat a step.
“It’s okay. Nothing to be scared of,” he says, seeing my alarmed face. “Tonight, I’d just like to keep a gun close at hand.”
We hear a bell-like chime.
The man’s head jerks up at the sound. Carrying his rifle, he moves to the window and peers out at the woods. “Something just tripped the sensor,” he says. “Could be just an animal. Then again…” He lingers at the window for a long time, his hand on his rifle. I remember the two men at the service station watching us drive away. Writing down our license number. By now, they must know who owns the car. They must know where he lives.
The man crosses to a stack of wood, picks up a fresh log, and drops it onto the fire. Then he settles into a rocking chair and sits looking at us, the rifle on his lap. Flames crackle, and sparks dance in the hearth.
“My name is Joe,” he says. “Tell me who you are.”
I look at Olena. Neither one of us says anything. Though this strange man has saved our lives tonight, we are still afraid of him.
“Look, you made the choice. You climbed in my car.” His chair creaks as it rocks on the wooden floor. “Now it’s too late to be coy, ladies,” he says. “The die has been cast.”
When I awaken, it is still not daylight, but the fire has burned down to mere embers. The last thing I recall, before falling asleep, were the voices of Olena and Joe, talking softly. Now, by the glow from the hearth, I can see Olena sleeping beside me on the braided rug. I am still angry at her, and have not forgiven her for the things she said. A few hours’ sleep has made the inevitable clear to me. We cannot stay together forever.
The creak of the rocking chair draws my gaze; I see the faint gleam of Joe’s rifle, and feel him watching me. He has probably been watching us sleep for some time.
“Wake her up,” he says to me. “We need to leave now.”
“Why?”
“They’re out there. They’ve been watching the house.”
“What?” I scramble to my feet, my heart suddenly thudding, and go to the window. All I see outside is the darkness of woods. Then I realize that the stars are fading, that the night will soon lift to gray.
“I think they’re still parked up the road. They haven’t tripped the next set of motion detectors yet,” he says. “But we need to move now, before it gets light.” He rises, goes to a closet, and takes out a backpack. Whatever the pack contains gives a metallic clank. “Olena,” he says, and nudges her with his boot. She stirs and looks at him. “Time to go,” he says. “If you want to live.”
He does not take us out the front door. Instead he pulls up floorboards, and the smell of damp earth rises from the shadows below. He backs down the ladder and calls up to us: “Let’s go, ladies.”
I hand him the Mother’s tote bag, then scramble down after him. He has turned on a flashlight, and in the gloom I catch glimpses of crates stacked up against stone walls.
“In Vietnam, the villagers had tunnels under their houses, just like this one,” he says as he leads the way down a low passage. “Mostly, it was just to store food. But sometimes, it saved their lives.” He comes to a stop, unlocks a padlock, then turns off his flashlight. He lifts up a wooden hatch above his head.
We climb out of the tunnel, into dark woods. The trees cloak us as he leads us away from the house. We do not say a word; we don’t dare to. Once again, I am blindly following, always the foot soldier, never the general. But this time I trust the person leading me. Joe walks quietly, moving with the confidence of someone who knows exactly where he’s going. I walk right behind him, and as dawn begins to lighten the sky, I see that he has a limp. He is dragging his left leg a little, and once, when he glances back, I see his grimace of pain. But he pushes on into the gray light of morning.
Finally, through the trees ahead, I see a tumbledown farm. As we draw closer, I can tell that no one lives here. The windows are broken, and one end of the roof has caved inward. But Joe does not go to the house; he heads instead to the barn, which appears to be at equal risk of collapse. He opens a padlock and slides the barn door open.
Inside is a car.
“Always wondered if I’d ever really need it,” he says as he slides into the driver’s seat.
I climb in back. There is a blanket and pillow on the seat, and at my feet are cans of food. Enough to eat for several days.
Joe turns the ignition; the engine coughs reluctantly to life. “Hate to leave that place behind,” he says. “But maybe it’s time to go away for a while.”
“You are doing this for us?” I ask him.
He glances at me over his shoulder. “I’m doing this to stay out of trouble. You two ladies seem to have brought me a heaping dose of it.”
He backs the car out of the barn, and we begin to bump along the dirt road, past the ramshackle farmhouse, past a stagnant pond. Suddenly we hear a heavy whump. At once Joe stops the car, rolls down his window, and stares toward the woods from which we have just emerged.
Black smoke is rising above the trees, billowing up in angry columns that swirl into the brightening sky. I hear Olena give a startled cry. My hands are sweating and shaking as I think of the cabin we have just left, now in flames. And I think of burning flesh. Joe says nothing; he only stares at the smoke in shocked silence, and I wonder if he is cursing his bad luck at ever having met us.
After a moment, he releases a deep breath. “Jesus,” he murmurs. “Whoever these people are, they play for keeps.” He turns his attention back to the road. I know he is afraid, because I can see his hands clenching the steering wheel. I can see the white of his knuckles. “Ladies,” he says softly, “I think it’s time to vanish.”
TWENTY
Jane closed her eyes and surfed the crest of pain like a wave rider. Please let this one be over soon. Make it stop, make it stop. She felt sweat bloom on her face as the contraction built, gripping her so tightly that she could not moan, could not even breathe. Beyond her closed eyelids, the lights seemed to dim, all sounds muffled by the rush of her own pulse. Only vaguely did she register the disturbance in the room. A banging on the door. Joe’s tense demands.