Palindrome

by E. Z. Rinsky

  Courtney and I look at each other. I shake my head. Courtney’s body language says we have no choice.

  “Okay, thanks, Patrick,” I say. “We’ll take the car around now.”

  I hang up the phone. Courtney takes a thousand dollars cash out of his pocket and puts it in front of the woman on her desk.

  “Court, you got some twine in your backpack, right?” I ask.

  “My name is Leonard.” He sighs. “And yeah.”

  He tosses me some twine, which I use to bind the old woman’s hands to the arms of her chair.

  “You did everything we asked,” Courtney says gently. “My pal is just going to tie you up so that you don’t call anyone after we leave. Someone will find you and untie you once we’re gone. And that money is yours. Thank you.”

  She’s basically in shock. Doesn’t even resist as I tighten her restraints.

  “Thanks, ma’am,” I mumble. “Sorry about everything.”

  We’re back out of the door into the rain. Dash through parking lot puddles, across the street into the van. I fire up the ignition and rip off my balaclava.

  “They’ll be able to ID us,” Courtney protests. “Why did we wear them before if—­”

  “If we roll up in ski masks, they’re just gonna look at us like we’re crazy. We won’t even be able to get the van parked.”

  Courtney groans as he pulls off his own mask.

  “This is a terrible plan, Frank.”

  “Honestly, calling it a ‘plan’ is probably a misnomer.”

  I pull the van out of the strip mall parking lot. Seems like it takes an eternity for the traffic to provide an opportunity to shoot across the street. Breathing hard as I drive through Fortin’s parking lot, past the paint shop, pull through the narrow little driveway that winds around back. My heart feels like it’s going to burst out of my chest.

  There’s a hairy man in a dirty T-­shirt waiting for us just inside the shelter of an open hangar. It’s clear I’m supposed to back up into it so we don’t have to lift the machine, just roll it into the back.

  “Get out and talk to him,” I snap at Courtney. “Talk to him while I back up. Explain why we have a goddamn minivan.”

  Courtney pops out of the passenger door. I instinctively finger my knife as I watch Courtney wave to Patrick through the rain. They’re talking. Looks amicable-­ish.

  Takes me three minutes to back the van properly into the loading dock garage. Mostly because I’m nervous as fuck. Then I’m out the door, keeping the engine running. I pop the trunk and walk around to where Courtney and Patrick are standing on the elevated platform. Cold water drips from my chin onto the cement dock. Patrick is about my height, wearing a white polo shirt that reads Fortin in yellow letters. He’s standing beside the saw—­a bright orange machine that looks like a squat beer keg resting on a rolling car. The whole thing is at about waist level. I’d be shocked if it weighs less than two hundred pounds. Patrick wears a look of wary confusion on his grizzled face.

  Courtney is smiling at me as I approach, a smile I read as trouble. There are two other guys in the corner of the garage working on something else. An open doorway behind Patrick leads into a wide room filled with huge rolls of cloth and machines. I hear the clank of what I picture as man-­sized looms, auto-­weaving like mechanized spiders. Smells like fresh-­cut lumber. I try not to favor my good ankle; don’t want to give away any weakness.

  “Hey, Ben?” Courtney says. “Little mix-­up. Turns out they don’t have an AquaTech model. It’s a Ward.”

  I sidle up next to Courtney. Patrick smells a rat. The van, the fact that we’re dressed like bums . . . The only thing stopping him from raising the alarm is the disbelief that someone would not only want to steal a waterjet saw but would go about it in this idiotic fashion.

  “Oh, wow. Our mistake I guess,” I say. Pulse pumping.

  “Well, alright,” Patrick shrugs. “Sorry about the mix-­up, I guess. Though I don’t really see how that—­”

  Gotta do it for Sadie. We’re not leaving here without that saw. For Sadie.

  My hand is a flash, bringing down the butt of my knife against Patrick’s temple. He instantly goes limp and crumples to the oily floor. It takes the two other men in the garage a second to process what just happened. By then I already have the back of the van open, and Courtney is wheeling the saw around Patrick’s comatose form.

  “What the fuck?” They’re charging toward us. It’s gonna take both of us to shove the saw into the back, and they’ll be on us in an instant. I brandish the knife. Courtney stays behind the saw, like it’s his pillow fort.

  “Stay back,” I intone. “We don’t want to hurt anyone.”

  The two men are both wiry. One is a little taller than Courtney, the other is about my height. Both wear identical white polo shirts.

  “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” the short one asks, staring at his fallen comrade. The taller one takes a step toward me.

  “We’re taking the water saw,” I state.

  The taller one looks down at Patrick, then back up at us, his eyes screwed in consternation. “What the fuck?” he says, looking at my knife as he takes another step toward us. “You can’t just—­”

  “If you try to stop us, I’ll slice open your stomach and feed your friend your entrails.”

  This gives them pause.

  “Here’s what’s going to happen,” I say. “My friend and I are going to roll the water saw into the trunk and take it. Then you can report it stolen, collect insurance money and get a brand-­new one.”

  Patrick groans at our feet. I kick him in the stomach, and he shuts up.

  I keep talking, starting to feel really fucking alive, not sure where these words are coming from but loving it. “If you try to stop us, you’ll still lose the saw, plus you’re going to be shitting into a plastic bag for years. I fucking mean it. Don’t make me prove it. You have no idea how desperate I am.”

  A three-­second standoff. Everyone paralyzed. And then I clamp the knife between my teeth and back up slowly, until I’m in a position to help Courtney with the saw. Slowly, we roll it toward the trunk, keeping our eyes trained on the two baffled textile workers, feet rooted to the oil-­slick floor.

  It’s heavy as fuck. We have to put our shoulders into it, basically body check it into the back. Then I close the trunk door. We stare at the two workers for a moment.

  “Thanks, fellas,” I say. Then the short one blinks, turns around and dashes away. I realize where he’s going at the same instant as the tall one, who smirks: Shorty’s gonna close the garage door.

  I grab Courtney’s sleeve, and we dash around to the front doors of the van. Glad I left it running. Before Courtney even has his door closed, I floor it. The guy just flipped the switch, and the metal grate starts creaking down. My tires squeak as we shoot out of the loading dock, under the closing door with a few feet to spare. I slam the wheel to the right, make a turn so sharp it feels like we might topple, and then we’re down the driveway and cruising down the street. Sheets of rain smash against the windshield.

  “I can’t believe that worked!” I shout. I look at Courtney and shriek, “It worked! It fucking worked!”

  Courtney is hyperventilating as he clicks in his seat belt. “Oh my god,” he groans.

  “We did it!” I scream. “I mean, mostly me. But you were good too.”

  “I can taste the beer from last night,” he says, hand over his mouth. “Is that normal?”

  “We got the saw!” I say. “Everything might be alright!”

  “You threatened an old woman. And might have given a man a brain hemorrhage.”

  “Well, yeah . . .”

  “Ugh.” Courtney lowers his head into his lap. “My body has never felt this bad. Frank, is this what you feel like all the time?”

  IT TAKES SIX hours to get to the
cabin from Fortin Fabrics. We make three stops: first is behind an empty office park in western Mass, where we peel off the fake license plates and I take a whiz in some bushes. As the adrenaline rush wears off, the pain in my ribs returns, a throbbing ache that’s become so familiar it’s almost comforting. A few hours later, I pull into a gas station to fill up the tank and two additional gasoline canisters.

  Maybe I should be nervous in the aftermath of the robbery, but I’m not. Theft of industrial equipment isn’t the kind of thing that makes the news. And if it doesn’t make news, there’s a good chance cops do a cursory search and call it a day. Seriously doubt they’ll devote the resources necessary to finding the van, linking it to Hertz, going through Hertz’s records to find the fake names and credit card info we gave them . . .

  Final stop is Sears for a gasoline-­powered generator to run the saw. Puts us out eight hundred bucks, but we can’t risk getting a shitty one that’s going to die on us in the woods. Also pick up two twenty-­liter water tanks and fill them up with a hose in the garden section.

  By the time we pass the Maine, The Way Life Should Be sign, it’s already dusk.I miss our exit twice; not exactly a lot of distinguishing landmarks in rural Maine. And then we spend an hour and a half driving up and down the same three-­mile stretch of road trying to spot the tell-­tale mailbox, again unable to rely on GPS in these backwoods. It all looks the same during the day. At night, forget about it: narrow, single-­lane back roads bordered by the thick shadows of ghostly pines. To make it worse, there’s a bit of a fog from today’s rain, limiting our visibility to the stretch of road directly in front of us.

  But we recognize the driveway around ten thirty and pull in. The headlights catch the faint white writing on the mailbox—­33 Rutgers Lane—­and evoke the near-­tangible dread hanging over this place.

  “That dog that was cut up, probably sacrificially,” I say as I ease the minivan up the muddy, uneven driveway. Roots snap under our seats, wet mud makes a sound like a squid squeezed in a vice. I hear the saw in the back rolling around on its cart and clanging into stuff with each bump. “We should have made the connection earlier.”

  “No sense kicking ourselves,” Courtney says, his voice soft, as if he’s scared of disturbing spirits floating just outside the foggy windows.

  Waiting until morning is not an option, even though the thought of doing this in the dark is making my blood curdle and we’re both several shades beyond exhausted. Morning is Monday. Can’t cut it that close.

  I follow the dirt driveway that curves around the side of the cabin. My chest is fluttering with something between terror and excitement, maybe a little touch of hunger in there too.

  “You ever been so tired you hallucinated?” I ask Courtney, mostly to break the silence.

  “Not that I’m aware of,” Courtney responds distantly. “Of course, maybe you wouldn’t be sure if you’re hallucinating or not. Sorta like asking if you’ve ever been crazy.”

  “Ask me that in a month,” I say. “If I’m still sentient, the answer is going to be a resounding ‘Yes, about a month ago.’ ”

  I try to ignore the brooding outline of the crumbling cabin outside Courtney’s window. Sip on my cold coffee—­fourth of the day—­as the minivan creaks over bumpy ground. Alignment on this thing is gonna be a mess, but I don’t really care as long as an axle doesn’t snap and leave us calling AAA out here. That thought is enough to make me shudder.

  “Alright, stop the car,” Courtney says when we’re beside the cabin. I hesitate for a moment before turning off the transmission, not wanting to be sucked into the cold silence of this place.

  When Courtney opens his door, a mist flutters into the car. I bite my tongue and try not to think about all the places I’d rather be at this moment.

  I step out of the van, crunch of wet pine needles under my feet. A heavy, wet cold. My breath forms a cloud of steam that lingers for a moment, hovers in front of my face like a wispy ghost before disappearing into nothingness. I have a flashlight in my hand but don’t turn it on yet, not really wanting to see my surroundings. The sky is nearly starless because of the fog, and the moon is visible only as a faint muddled streetlight.

  “C’mon.” Courtney beckons me toward the back of the house. All I can see of him is the dancing dot of his penlight.

  I plod over to him, and we walk in silence to the rear of the cabin. In the darkness, the wet logs that comprise the back wall of the cabin kind of look like giant, warted lips.

  Court stops and kneels, shines his flashlight on the cement-­encased trapdoor to the cellar. Just like we left it. Courtney inspects the cement, rubs his fingers tenderly over it like it’s an old family photo album, like he can discern what lies beneath it just by touch.

  “We’re gonna be able to blast it, right?” he asks.

  “Think so.” I know it’s stupid to whisper, but I can’t help it. I’m imagining slumbering creatures surrounding us in the dark woods, and any sound could stir them from their sleep.

  I think I hear something. My ears prick up, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I swivel away from the cabin, shine my flashlight into the black abyss of forest. Something’s out there, humming in the darkness.

  “That’s just the solar generator, Frank,” Courtney says. I feel my shoulders relax slightly. I walk over to the shed, carefully stepping over rusty appliances, shredded tires, coils of wire. Shine my light on the side of the shed, then put my bare hand on the wet, cool wood of its siding. I point the flashlight on the battery, red light still on, humming. How long has this thing been running for? Courtney appears at my side.

  I scratch my cheek. Don’t recognize the feel of my stubbly skin under my tingling fingers.

  “So maybe Silas didn’t put this generator in,” I say. “They put this in, then sealed themselves down there under the cement.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Why?” I whisper. “And how is it still running?”

  I listen to Courtney’s breathing.

  I continue: “It’s like, impossible, Courtney. Nobody has been here for years. This thing shouldn’t keep running at night, should it?”

  “No,” he says.

  A shiver runs down my back, down the backs of my legs. I’m suddenly aware of a third presence floating silently around the two of us, observing. A presence that I can’t quite describe, that keeps eluding me, hovering just at the edge of my vision.

  I inhale the pungent dirt, minty pine. I know this smell will forever remind me of death.

  “This is the place, Court,” I whisper. “They’re down there. I know it.”

  “Yeah.” Courtney nods slowly, his voice cracking. “Me too.”

  We trudge back to the minivan. I turn it on, relieved that it starts; some part of me was sure that it wouldn’t. Courtney stands in front like a traffic cop, guiding me with his flashlight. I pull past the cellar door until the rear door is more or less even with it, then stop the car and climb out, this time leaving the key in the ignition so the interior lights stay on.

  Courtney has the back of the van open, muttering to himself as he itemizes everything in his head. I pull my coat tighter around my chest.

  Courtney pops the end of his penlight in his mouth and drags our own generator—­still in a heavy cardboard box with a plywood base—­out onto the soft ground.

  “Kneef,” he says.

  “Huh?”

  He pulls out the light and looks at me with impatient disbelief. “Knife.”

  “Oh. Sure.”

  I dig it out of my boot and hand it to him. As he cuts away the box he says, “Get one of the tanks of gas out.”

  I root around the trunk until my light catches red plastic. Haul it out and lay it beside Courtney, who has the generator out of the box, is reading the instruction manual. The generator kinda looks like a push lawn mower. Basically just a silver chrome
engine suspended inside a metal cage, with wheels on the bottom. The side of the box advertises the generator’s “splash lubrication” and “automatic low oil-­level shutdown.”

  “Wow,” I whistle. “I’ve always wanted those features on a generator.”

  “It actually appears to be a pretty simple machine,” Courtney says, too in the zone to note my sarcasm.

  He unscrews a red cap on the side of the generator—­the fuel tank—­and carefully fills it with the red gas canister. Then he grabs the pull cord, steps up on top of the generator’s cage for leverage, and tries to jerk it into life. I watch him try and fail a few times before stepping in.

  “My dad took me out on a motorboat a few times,” I say, gripping the cord handle, gritting my teeth, and pulling so hard my shoulder nearly snaps out of place. But the engine catches, humming, and eventually settling on a soothing growl.

  “Thanks,” Courtney says, not nearly as emasculated as most men would be. Hops in the back of the van and returns with a floodlight he must have stuck in the Sears shopping cart. I didn’t even think of that. He plugs it in, and instantly we have a twenty-­foot radius of ghostly light that pierces the mist, everything now cast in either harsh yellow or dark shadow.

  I reassess our surroundings. Lit up, the back of the cabin looks blue and steamy. Behind us a few yards is the generator shack, a pole shooting up from its center, solar panels not visible, but I know they’re resting on top, level with the treetops. The familiar piles of junk. I look out past the shack into the wall of pine trees, now all the darker for the contrast.

  I wonder why Silas chose this place.

  And then how—­assuming the Beulah Twelve are down there—­they found this place, where the tape was made.

  “Help me with the saw,” Courtney says. It’s in the back of the trunk—­a girthy neon-­orange barrel resting in a metal rolling cart. He’s standing on the ground with his thin arms wrapped around its circumference like it’s a giant teddy bear. I duck into the van through the backseat and get around the back of the thing.

  “Careful,” Courtney says. “We’ll try to roll it and lower it down smoothly.”