When Nate was old enough to keep up with him on snowshoes, Burl took him along. He showed him the old forty-gallon oil drum he kept in the bush off to the side of the trail out by the track. In the wintertime, it was turned upside down to keep the inside dry. And in it he kept a plastic trash bag filled with kindling, paper and dry firewood. Turn the drum upright, remove the plastic bag, and — voilà! — central heating. Then you just keep feeding it with whatever you can find.
They’d been prepared for a long wait last March: Dodge and Paul, Dad and Nate. It was a big part of the test. Surviving at camp was easy enough. Surviving the trip out was a whole other matter, since you were at the mercy of the weather and the Budd, with nowhere to hole up in. On that occasion, the Budd had come within an hour of when it was supposed to — almost a miracle. “We were lucky,” Burl had said as the four of them boarded the train.
“Because I was here, Mr. Crow,” said Dodge. “Mr. Lucky.”
Nate didn’t see the Samsung at first. Someone had left it in the fruit bowl that sat dead center on the table that took up the middle of the Crow cabin. There was no fruit in the bowl, only an assortment of flashlights and batteries, plastic bottles of Tylenol, twist tops, and such. There was an empty tub of Rolaids. Nate hoped it was Shaker who ’d been having indigestion problems.
He pressed the home key of his cell phone. Nothing. But it wasn’t physically broken, as far as he could see. He found his charger and plugged it in. The old AM/FM radio worked, so there was obviously enough juice stored up from the solar panels. Had Operation Drone worked? Was that why the hombres had jumped ship? He watched the phone’s face, waited, and then his stomach claimed his attention and he set to work peeling potatoes and slicing up onions. A feast was in order.
The news came on the radio and he listened for anything about escaped convicts being rounded up and taken off to some real, honest-to-God jail very far away. Nothing. The weather was big news, the last big storm of the year. They were expecting another night of it. He switched the radio off. Who knew how much power there was left; he’d better preserve it.
He boiled up the potatoes and mashed them, slathered with margarine. He fried up a can of mushrooms with onion, grilled one of the steaks, medium rare.
He hadn’t eaten that entire day, so as far as he was concerned the meal he sat down to at 5:00 p.m. was breakfast. Maybe he’d eat one of the other steaks for lunch. The third for dinner . . .
Outside, the snow was cascading down, an avalanche from the heavens. Behind the veil of white, the sun was lost. It was the middle of March — spring! — and the sun wouldn’t officially set until close to seven-thirty, but there wasn’t a lot of light to work with. Feeling revived but sleepy at the same time, he decided he’d better find himself some snowshoes while he could — if he could. The idea of getting out to the track in time for the train Sunday now seemed possible again on a full stomach, assuming he got a good night’s sleep. He suited up, put a headlamp on, and set out into the white. It was like making your way through an endless series of billowing curtains. Then when he rounded the corner of the camp, that analogy failed: it was more like a series of curtains with a heavyweight boxer behind each of them, punching invisibly at you.
He had gathered together the shutter boards and laid them out, one after the other, until he’d made it to the shed.
No snowshoes, but an old pair of his mother’s cross-country skis, lying across the rafters above his head along with rakes, shovels, oars, and paddles. Some ski poles, too. He looked at the bindings on the skis. They were the old three-pronged kind. Were there any boots in the cabin that would fit them? Then again, would he be able to fit into ski boots meant for his mother? Beggars can’t be choosers, he thought, and, locking up the shed, he headed back to the camp. It was dark before he closed the door — not nighttime dark, but a luminescent invisibility cloak. He closed the door on the silver-edged darkness and settled in for the night.
In a big cardboard box in the cupboard over his bed, he found an array of shoes and slippers, aqua socks, and boots of all kinds, including the ski boots meant for the three-pronged binding. Ta-da! He tried them on. Wearing winter socks, there was no way he could force his foot into the boot. With no socks on at all, he could just barely squeeze a foot in.
“Crap!”
That was not going to work. With the coming of the snow, the temperature had climbed a bit, but if he planned on trekking out to the train in these, he’d probably lose a toe or two.
So back to the drawing board.
He checked the phone again. Nothing. It had died out there, he guessed. But then why had the bad guys taken off so fast? Maybe Operation Drone had worked after all, at least in getting rid of the unwanted houseguests. They couldn’t assume he hadn’t gotten through. Whether his folks knew what was up . . . well, only time would tell. He wondered if his cell phone plan covered flying your phone in a drone and then leaving it buried in the snow overnight.
Problems for later. Meanwhile, he could breathe again. He told himself that this was all that mattered. Right now. Tried to convince himself. Tried to slough off Shaker’s threat.
He stoked up the old Ashley, felt the blast of heat radiate out into the cozy room as he opened the top of the stove to lower in another piece of birch. The Ashley wasn’t pretty like the shiny green Vermont Castings over at the Hoebeeks’. No windows to watch the dancing flames. But it worked gangbusters. Hah! he thought. Gangbusters.
The gang was gone. And it was going to be all right. Whether he could get out tomorrow or not, help would come eventually. He’d be down to spaghetti and rice, but he wouldn’t die. As soon as he failed to show on the Budd Sunday evening, his father would be on the case. Then again, once Nate was home and safe and the world could return to something like normal, his father would be on his case. He had lied to him about Paul coming. He wasn’t sure how much difference it would have made if Paul had been here. Couldn’t say. If Dodge had been here, it would have made a big difference. For one thing, the Remington would have definitely come into play. They’d have all probably ended up dead.
I’ll be angry with you for the rest of your death.
His father’s words made him shudder. Dying itself didn’t seem nearly so bad as having that curse hanging over your head.
He had to face the fact that he had seriously thought about using the shotgun as a last resort — thought enough to locate the two keys to unlock it as well as a box of shells. Thought enough to take it upstairs to Dodge’s room with him. Thought enough to load it. And that was as far as he got. If things had gone down differently: if Shaker had come at him and the trunk didn’t stop him and Cal didn’t come . . . Well, it was there, the Remington, lying on the lower bunk, ready to go. Nate imagined himself backed up against the wall in the cramped little bedroom, willing the big man not to come any closer. Shuddered at the thought that he wouldn’t be able to pull the trigger. Shuddered at the thought that he would.
But now, here, he was in familiar territory. No-gun territory. He stared at the books on the shelf: camp reading. He pulled down a Jack Reacher, Worth Dying For. Jack Reacher always found painful and satisfying ways to make the bad guys pay for their trespasses. And that’s how Dodge would have wanted to play it. But would it have been worth dying for? Nate had read a couple of the books — liked them, too. Reacher was huge, a force of nature. Should have been played by Dwayne Johnson in the movies, not Tom Cruise! But tonight, the thought of the violence in the novels put him off. There had been nothing satisfying about watching Shaker fall again and again; well, okay . . . a little. But it was the kind of satisfaction that left a bad taste in your mouth. He put the book back on the shelf. He imagined some other snowy night up here, with Dad and Mom when the world was put right and all of this was ancient history. Maybe then a hard-nosed good guy beating up on some sadistic killer and his twelve closest psychotic friends would appeal to him as a good evening’s entertainment. For now, it all seemed too close to home.
And
if he allowed himself the luxury of relaxing, he had to think that he, Nathaniel Crow, had done a pretty good job all by himself. Done it his way.
Then he thought again of Shaker’s little visit before takeoff.
I’m going to have to mess you up so bad that your dear mama won’t recognize her little boy. Maybe he hadn’t done as good a job as he could have.
Fern Hoebeek is in the kitchen, humming along to some middle-of-the-road tune on the radio. “Oh, hi, Nate,” she says, seeing him at the screen door even before he knocks.
“Is Dodge here?” he asks.
“Come on in,” she says. She slaps her hands together and a cloud of flour rises before her, as if she just made something disappear. “I thought he was with you.”
Nate enters the kitchen. “Nope. I slept in.”
They both have the same instinct. They head into the living room to look down at the shore. Trick is making a sand castle for baby Hilton, who kicks it over as soon as Trick turns out another perfect turret. This is followed by Hilly laughing himself silly as Trick rolls around in a fit of pretend tears. Nate smiles, glad that Trick has a brother who finds him irresistible.
The motorboat is gone.
“Probably just tooling around,” says Mrs. H., heading back to her dough. Nate stares at the lake. He wonders how much Mrs. H. knows about what her eldest son gets up to. He has a feeling he knows where Dodge is today. He notices out of the side of his eye the binoculars on the windowsill. He picks them up, adjusts the setting. And there’s the boat, just taking off from Picnic Island. Nate puts down the binoculars. Interesting.
Dodge greets him with a head nod from twenty yards out. He’s waited too long to tilt the motor to keep the prop off the bottom. Nate’s stomach churns; the water gets shallow fast. He’s about to yell a warning when Dodge heads to the back and leisurely tilts the motor, not a moment too soon. Nate wades out to grab the towrope and guide the boat to shore.
When they’re clear of the beach and the ears of younger brothers, Nate finally speaks.
“So?”
“So what?”
“Did you do it?”
“Do what?”
“You know.”
Dodge has on his what, me? smile, but it’s a weak variant of it and it fades pretty quickly. “Yeah,” he says. “I did it.”
“And?”
Dodge stops and looks at him, his eyebrows pinched together as if he has detected some hint of doubt in his friend’s one-word question. “I’m alive, right?” He holds his hands out to his sides, as if to say, “Look at me, I’m perfect, aren’t I?”
“No prob,” he says, but his eyes say different. Then he walks away, up toward the camp.
“Hey,” says Nate. “Wait up.”
He’d jumped. He’d jumped off the jumping cliff from the very top for the first time, or so he said. And he’d done it alone, without Nate.
“Why?” Nate asks.
“Because I didn’t want your negative vibes ruining my chances,” says Dodge. He stares right into Nate’s eyes, daring him to challenge what he’s said. There is cruelty in him, thinks Nate. He shakes away this alien thought.
Nate smiles. “You totally chickened out,” he says.
Dodge’s frown deepens. “Take that back,” he says, quiet and deadly serious.
“You did, too,” says Nate, doing a little dance. “The great D. H. chickened out.”
Then Dodge is on him, his shirtfront in Dodge’s fist and his face right up against Nate’s. “If I said I did it, I did it. Got that?”
The smile flies from Nate’s face, as if it had landed there by mistake and had business far, far away. He grabs his friend’s fist and forcefully releases it from his shirt, throwing it down. Then he smooths out the front of his shirt with his palms. “Got it,” he says. “And if you’d killed yourself out there without me spotting for you? What about that?”
A slow grin sneaks across Dodge’s face. “If I killed myself out there, then you wouldn’t have been any use anyway,” he says.
Nate doesn’t nod. Go find a corner and read a book, he thinks. Put some new line on your fishing rod, chop some firewood. He starts off toward his camp.
“Nate.”
He turns. The smirk has gone from Dodge’s face, replaced by something Nate hasn’t seen much of before: fear.
“I almost hit,” he says, his voice cracking a bit.
Nate walks back to him. “At the bottom?”
Dodge swallows, hard. Nods. Then glances down toward his aqua socks. The heel of his right foot is bleeding. That close.
Nate nods solemnly, aware of what Dodge just gave up — entrusted to him. The moment extends between them, full of half a lifetime of knowing each other. There is no need to say more. Nate nods again, then turns for home.
“Five at the swim raft,” Dodge shouts after him, his voice cheery, as if what just happened between them was already washed clear of his memory. “Bring your Doominator,” he says. “Some zombies are going to wish they’d never died!”
Nate smiles.
He woke up with the memory still turning over in his head. There was something wrong with it. Not something wrong with the memory, which was crystal clear, but with the whole thing. What? he wonders. His arms are buried under two comforters and a sleeping bag. Outside, the wind is still buffeting the camp. He’s left the door open to the front room, but there’s not much warmth from the woodstove. He should get up and deal with that, but for a moment he waits and thinks. He pulls his arms out from under and rests his head in the cradle of his hands on the pillow.
The boat. The Hoebeeks’ boat had been pulled ashore at the picnic side of the island. That’s where he’d seen Dodge leave from. So if he jumped, like he said, then how did he get back to the west side? He would have had to swim clear around the island, and that was one hell of a long swim.
Nate shook his head. He’d lied. Dodge had lied to him. He hadn’t jumped. And when Nate called him on it, he had made up a story to make it seem real — so real there was even a bloody heel. He’d even dared to show signs of weakness — fear. What was most important was that Nate took him at his word. What must it be like to live like that, having to always be this person you made up?
Nate climbed out of bed and made his way into the front room, where the only light came from the cracks around the door edges of the Ashley. They’d need to buy new gaskets. He’d have to start a list. You had to keep up with the camp or it would run away on you.
It was warmer here than in his bedroom, but not much. He would feed the fire in a minute, but all he wanted to do right now was stand perfectly still and listen to the storm howling outside. He had almost given in to it. Back at the Hoebeeks’ he’d almost quit on himself. Quit on everything. Allowed himself to be sucked down into the white nightmare. Now he was here in his rightful place and the wind and snow had no hold on him. He felt, for the first time since he’d arrived, a feeling of peacefulness. He sat and let it be — Nathaniel Crow alone in the eye of the storm.
He added wood to the fire, watched it catch, then closed the lid.
Awkward in the dark, he found his tattered old bathrobe, slipped it on, shoved his stocking feet into a pair of gum boots, and opened the door to the sunroom. The cabin was warm enough; the sunroom was pretty well as cold as the night. He opened the outside door — had to push hard to do it and then feel it leap from his hand when the wind caught it. Snap! He stepped out onto the stoop, carpeted with a smooth fleece of newly fallen snow that squeaked under his boots. He’d cleared the stoop down to the wooden deck before he went to bed, and here it was thick enough with snow that it blocked the door.
From over the eastern rim of the hill the moon glowed. He hadn’t seen the moon in days. He stood in the cold, taking a pee off the stoop into fresh snow that had obliterated the yellow stains left by the men who had taken over the camp. He craned his head toward the heavens. So many stars. With his eyes half closed he carried the shine of them back to his bed.
; “That one’s George,” says Dodge. “George Star.”
“Yeah? So where’s Ringo.”
Dodge cuffs him. “Be serious. George is part of the constellation Ram.”
“You mean like Aries?”
“No, you goof, as in the Ram truck. You see those two stars there? Those are the headlights. And that one there is the gun rack, and those two little ones are the taillights.”
“Uh-huh. So who’s George?”
“He’s the brightest star of all, there in the cab: the driver.”
Nate woke again, startled. He’d heard something. He held his breath, listened. Listened a long time before he realized that he was wrong; he’d heard the opposite of something.
The snow had stopped. It lay deep and crisp and even. The wind had stopped, too.
“Dodge?” he said. “Can you see this?”
He stood in the chilly sunroom again, squinting, looking out at the twinkling white snow on the lake. It really did twinkle. He hated that word; it sounded too cute, like a word that should only be used to describe the eyes of a pony in the worst kind of Saturday morning cartoon. But he didn’t know another word for what was happening out there on the lake right now, half blinding him with reflected light from the sun just rising over the hills, where only a scant few hours earlier he had watched the moon sinking. The two islands stood out, dark green, as if freshly varnished, Picnic on the left, little Garbage Island on the right, the trees all decked out like a Christmas card. Twinkle, twinkle.
He raised his mug of coffee to his lips and took a slug, felt the warmth slide down into his belly. Below him, not too far beyond the invisible shoreline, the rotor wash left by the helicopter that had brought Shaker and Beck there after their escape was gone. He looked out the side window and saw the yard as pristine as the lake, with no sign that three men had made a hasty exit, roared out of here midway through yesterday afternoon. The snow had wiped away every trace of the invasion.
The Starlight Claim Page 12
