Three A.M.

by Steven John

  As I crossed the threshold from rough, wild grass to the trimmed yard—just now beginning to grow out of control—I slowed again, peering carefully into every window I could see. The glass panes reflected starlight. I hurried across the open stretch of land between the last hedges and pressed my back up against the wicker siding of the deck. Maybe it was all paranoia, but if there was actually a visitor, I wasn’t going to be caught relaxing now.

  Bent low, I approached the front of the house and eased up the wooden steps onto the porch, ending up with one leg firmly on a step, the opposite knee on the deck. Once more I waited for a good, long time, gun at the ready. Then I rose and moved to the door. Gingerly, I tested the knob and it twisted in my hand. The door clicked open and swung inward with a quiet sigh.

  It was still within. Silent. I entered the house, sucking in a breath as the floorboards creaked beneath my feet, and began to sweep through the main floor. The living room was clear—exactly as we had left it. The dining room and halls showed no signs of disruption. I could hardly see a thing in the gloomy, windowless study, but sensed no intrusion. I padded up the stairs and stuck my head and gun barrel into every room and then every closet. Finally I was content. I turned on a few lamps—one at the top of the stairs and one in a downstairs hallway—that would cast little or no light through the windows, and then walked back to the front door, easing it closed.

  I stopped dead. I heard a noise. Something between a distant breeze and a muffled whimper. I took a few painfully slow steps toward the stairs. For a minute all was silent, and then I heard it again, more distinct. Gentle weeping. Rebecca. Foolishly, overjoyed and not thinking of the shock it would give her, I cried out her name.

  Then I was barreling up the stairs, calling out, “It’s me! Becca! It’s Tom!” I looked into her room and found it empty. No one in the guest bedroom or bathroom either. Then I heard her wavering voice.

  “Tom…”

  I leaned back into her doorway, and in the dark room I could just see her tearstained eyes peering above the bed. Then she raised her head and I could see her face. She looked exhausted, confused, and frightened but unharmed. I had fought back thoughts of them finding and hurting her all day. Emotion washed over me and I dropped my rifle roughly to the floor and went to her, and she rose and fell into my arms. For a long time, we held each other in silence.

  “What happened?”

  “They took me back. Back into the fog. Then they—” What could I say? Tell her about Heller? About her brother? “—then I got back out. So I came to you.”

  “Just like you said.”

  “Yeah.” I leaned away and looked down at her, studying her face and chest and arms. “Are you okay? What—how did you get away?”

  “They never even searched for me,” she answered, looking up into my eyes. “The big guy shot at you some and then just stood there watching until you flew away, then he walked off. A few minutes later, a truck drove out of the woods. That was it.” She shook her head, looking away, her face expressing her own disbelief. “I sat behind that bush for hours, then I just … I drove away. I didn’t know where else to go. What to do. When I got a couple miles from here, I pulled over and hiked back in. There were a few trucks out front, but they left, and eventually I got the pickup and just … drove home.” She looked up again.

  I smiled wearily down at her, fatigue replacing the tension I’d borne with me all day. “Well, here we are again.”

  “You look so tired. Are you hungry? Or thirsty?”

  “Yeah, I do need water. And sleep. But we don’t have much time.”

  “Just relax for now. Come on, I’ll get you a drink and see what food we have left.”

  I followed her downstairs. I was shocked that they hadn’t looked harder for her. There was nothing left to chance—I knew that. Surely they were watching or had followed and would soon return. Most likely they already knew where I was. There was no time left. At the foot of the stairs, she went into the kitchen, I into the living room. I sat down on the couch, the same place where Kirk had revealed the world to me. I was overcome with exhaustion. It seized me the second I leaned my head back on the cushions. I couldn’t remember the last time I had slept. Just a day? I hated to lose even a minute, especially while it was dark, but I had to rest. I slid one arm awkwardly behind my back to stave off sleep, but my thoughts began swimming.

  Then came footfalls in the hall. As I sat half-asleep, an apparition swam before my eyes. Callahan. His ragged neck, his jacket dark with blood … he reached out, loomed just in front of me, and then suddenly with a spasm I was wide awake.

  Rebecca stood in the middle of the room, looking down at me. “You okay?”

  “Yeah … Jesus Christ…” I rubbed my eyes with both fists. “I started dreaming the second I sat down, I guess.…”

  “Here.” She handed me a glass of water and a few stale crackers. “That’s about all we’ve got.”

  I thanked her and drank thirstily. I had no hunger but forced the food down anyway. She sat beside me. “You shouldn’t have come back here, honey.”

  “I know. It was so stupid. I just wanted to take a few things with me. Then I was going to leave again. I didn’t know where I was going and I know it was stupid but I just wanted some pictures and my book.”

  I nodded, understanding. I longed to tell her everything.

  I told her only some. About going back into the fog. About Tom. About the room with the white walls and the window painted gray. But I said nothing about Fallon. On this, what could be our last night together, I just couldn’t see more sadness in those pale blue eyes.

  Then came the question I had most dreaded. After a long silence, her fingers tracing through the hair on the back of my head, Rebecca whispered: “What next?”

  I sighed and answered softly. “I’m going to destroy Kirk’s dam.”

  “What?” She turned sharply to face me, her hands pressed together in her lap.

  All I could think to do was nod. “Tomorrow morning. Tonight if I can. I just need to rest. Then I need to do this. For us. For everyone.”

  “It’s suicide. Insane.”

  “It’s the only way.”

  “Tom, we’ll tell people! We can tell the world!”

  “You think anyone would listen? And do you really think we could reach anyone, anyway? The few hundred miles between us and the outside may as well be a million.”

  She sighed in resignation and turned away. “How are you planning to do it?”

  “I still need to figure out the details, but it can be done. They trained me for this—something like it, at least. Everything has a weak spot. Anything that can be built can be destroyed.”

  “You’re not doing this for us, are you? Is it for the people back there, or is it revenge?”

  “For us, for them. All of it. And it’s the only way to keep you safe. Us safe. Permanently. They won’t be able to hide it anymore. It will all have to end.”

  “Okay,” she said, still not looking away from me. I leaned closer and rested my hands on her shoulders. She settled back into me, and I wrapped my arms around her chest. Her hands slid back around my head, lacing into my hair and drawing me forward until our lips met.

  “How are we going to do it?” She subtly emphasized the word we.

  “Where’s the pickup?”

  She pulled the keys from her pocket and dropped them on the table before us. “I parked it down the back hill a ways. Out of sight from the road, I figured.”

  “Good move. Your house is so remote—there’s no way you’re on a sewer or gas grid.… That tank in the backyard—is it propane? Gas for heating and the stove?”

  She nodded slowly.

  “Okay. Then we’ve got our bomb.”

  “What? How are you going to use that?”

  “I’ll figure that out. I’ll make it work. Necessity breeds a method.”

  “Or leads people to die trying,” she whispered, slipping from my arms and leaning away to study my face. She ha
d me there. I nodded almost imperceptibly, my thoughts drifting to the dam. The penstock, specifically. I had taken Kirk’s life, and now I would take his greatest accomplishment—I would tear down his memorial. I wouldn’t be some disgruntled, murderous soldier in some historical footnotes. I was going to write a whole new chapter.

  As much as I demurred in telling Rebecca the details—it did sound like madness out loud—she persisted in asking. So I told her. About Verlassen. About the penstock and the turbines and how I could stop it. Alone … What I didn’t tell her was that she was staying at home. I didn’t tell her I was fairly certain I would be caught up in the concussion blast that would rip through the structure.

  Once it was done, they would have no reason left to hunt her. Becca was a flickering candle of truth to be snuffed; if I could do this thing, live or die, Watley’s world, his lies, would be burned down by an all-consuming fire. She could sense I wasn’t being completely honest.

  I looked at the clock sitting across the room. Two fifty-five A.M. A few dozen miles and a world away, the city was just about to be blanketed in a fresh layer of fog. Little spurts of mist would keep it thick all day. For at least one more day.

  “What is it?” she asked quietly.

  “What?”

  “You were smiling.”

  “I didn’t realize. I was just thinking about … It’s two fifty-five right now. I always woke up right before three. Most every night. I always thought something was wrong with me—I took pills for years just so I could sleep. It’s just … It’s not funny—but I was just thinking about how isolated I felt. I bet there were thousands and thousands of people waking up each night, thinking the exact same thing as me. I want all those people to know what I know. It makes me happy thinking about it, I guess. But it shouldn’t. I wonder if maybe a lifetime of ignorance would be better.”

  “You would have chosen to stay?”

  “No. Christ—no way.”

  “Neither would I.” Rebecca rose and then bent double, kissing me on the forehead. “Let’s go upstairs.”

  In her bedroom, I collapsed onto the soft mattress. She began undressing beside me.

  “You’re beautiful,” I whispered, reaching out to touch the smooth skin of her thigh. Then I yawned.

  “You need to sleep.”

  “I know. I don’t want to, but I won’t make it long without passing out.”

  “Come on. Sit up,” Becca said, helping me out of my jacket. I unbuttoned my shirt, leaving it hanging open, as she undid my belt and zipper and slid my pants down.

  “I should probably take my shoes off first.”

  She laughed and I leaned off the side of the bed pulling off my boots and socks and then allowing her to ease off my pants. I rose and pulled her shirt up over her head and then took off my own. She finished stripping and stood before me naked.

  “Goddamn.” I whispered, “I want you, Rebecca. Like nothing I’ve ever felt.” I sat back down on the bed and stifled another yawn.

  “Get some sleep, and maybe then we can do something about it.” She smiled.

  I made no protest as she pulled back the covers and waited for me to climb under them. She slid in beside me and we kissed. I ran my hand down the length of her back. Her skin was smooth and warm. Her fingers ran through my hair, and already I was drifting off again. As my consciousness receded, it seemed she was softly humming.

  * * *

  It was a brilliant day. The sky was a rich azure shade of blue, the clouds perfectly defined in the cold air and the sun bright. I figured it to be somewhere around eight. I stood in the yard, looking out over the hills and fields. I was filled with bitter sadness thinking of what had been in the face of what would come. Wondering whether or not I would have another day to look out across the sunbathed world.

  Either way, I had much to do and was already on borrowed time. I walked to the side of the house to inspect the propane tank. It was about seven feet long and maybe five in diameter. It would fit into the pickup’s bed with the gate down, if I could get it there. There was a large shutoff valve and a hose on the end nearest to the house. The hose, a thick, wire-mesh encased tube that barely moved an inch when I tugged at it, looked to be screwed to the tank. That was good—it allowed for a clean, safe separation. A small wheel, like that used to seal a ship’s hatch, sat just above the hose. I needed to leave a tiny crack open and insert some sort of detonator. I had no clue yet what I would use. A gun barrel was my last resort.

  There was a gauge on the long axis of the tank indicating that it was over 70 percent full. The massive cylinder sat on four concrete posts that held it some three feet off the ground. I stepped back to think about how I could make this work, digging in the back pocket of my jeans for the open pack of smokes I took from the soldier who had crawled from the troop carrier. I shook my head while tamping the pack against one palm. More dead man’s cigarettes. It didn’t feel right, smoking what he had reached for as his final act. Then I got the idea about how to load the propane tank onto the truck, and the guilt cleared from my thinking, replaced by motivation. If it worked, maybe no more bodies would be added to the pile. Or maybe just one. I drew out a cigarette as I walked down the long hill behind the house and around a copse of trees to where the truck was parked. I jumped in and lit my smoke, taking a long drag before bringing the truck to life. I drove it slowly up the slope and around to the side of the house. In a four- or five-point maneuver, I got the tail of the pickup lined up a few feet from the tank.

  Getting out, I nodded to myself. There were only eight or nine inches’ difference in the levels of the truck bed and the propane cylinder. I had seen various shovels and picks strewn about under the porch by the jerry cans. Next to where Sam Ayers had hidden his proof. Whatever it was. Wherever it ended up. I wondered if he added anything personal—a letter or something, perhaps addressed to the rest of the world. To posterity.

  I crawled under the porch and selected a few tools, wiping cobwebs from my face. I backed out from under the deck, inch by inch so as not to hit my head or make too much clatter with the shovels, sledgehammer, and pick I was dragging. Back in the yard, I straightened up on my knees and leaned over to stretch my back. My eyes came parallel with Rebecca’s shins.

  She was standing on the steps to the porch wearing a bathrobe.

  “Good morning.” I smiled up at her.

  “Morning, Tom.” She sat down, her face now level with mine. I could see the smooth inside of her left thigh almost all the way up where her robe draped open. “When did you get up?”

  “Maybe an hour ago.”

  “I heard the truck.”

  “Sorry. I should have thought of that—I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  She looked away, her eyes panning across the fields. “No, it’s okay. When I heard it I thought … you know.”

  I shook my head. “I’m right here.”

  She smiled sadly at me and started to speak, but closed her mouth again, instead reaching out with one hand and squeezing my shoulder.

  “It’s beautiful out today,” I said, rising to sit beside her on the steps.

  “It’s perfect. If it had to be one temperature, to have the sun in one place and just so many clouds and the breeze—if it had to be one way forever, I’d pick this.”

  Her words rang in my ears. She was right—it was perfect. The day, the silent peace, her beside me: I would have stopped time forever.

  She glanced over at me and let out a soft sigh. “What were you moving the truck for?”

  “The propane tank.”

  “I figured. When are we leaving?”

  “I don’t know how long it will take for me to get it loaded … but soon, I hope.”

  “Do you need help?”

  “No.” After a pause I added, “I may—not now, though. Just relax. Enjoy the morning.”

  “I’ll make coffee and see if there’s anything worth eating.” Rebecca rose and turned to walk back into the house. I stayed seated. After a pause, she walk
ed down the steps and turned to face me, leaning down until her eyes were inches from mine. She said nothing, just looked at me. I held her gaze, but her look made me uncomfortable. My heartbeat quickened. Finally she leaned in and we kissed; then she walked up into the house, her fingers trailing through my hair as she went.

  I stood and gathered my tools and walked back to where the truck was parked. My plan was simple enough: Dig two narrow ditches for the pickup’s wheels to roll down and ease the bed under the cylinder. Once I had a portion of it on the truck, I’d use brute force to knock out the first set of concrete pillars and then repeat the process.

  I selected the heavier of the two shovels and set to work. The ground was cold and my progress was slow at first, but I kept at it and soon had one track running down to the first pillar. I pulled off my sweater and tossed it into the truck cab, sweat trickling down my brow. I felt like taking a break but immediately put the thought out of mind and set in digging the second ditch, the unmistakable sound of blade striking earth echoing off the house.

  * * *

  I don’t know how long she stood there watching me. I had stripped to the waist and was swinging the sledgehammer wildly, bashing away at the propane tank’s last remaining support column. I was exhausted, delirious—shouting and swearing as my aching arms hefted the nine-pound hammer again and again. Finally, with one more chunk of cement knocked free, the post began to crumble. The massive cylinder dropped down into the pickup’s bed, the truck groaning from its full weight.

  “That’s right … motherfucker…,” I wheezed out, hands on my knees. Eventually I straightened up and turned and there she was, holding a sandwich and glass of water. Her face was knit with concern—fear, almost. She looked at me like I had done something wrong. My shoulders rose and fell as I got my breath back, and I wiped at my sweat-soaked face and neck.