Envy the Night

by Michael Koryta

  Consciousness was difficult to hold, and the sky swam above him, but the trees kept his head out of the water and kept him breathing. There were moments when he’d start to slip, and the water would lap at his chin, but then—and this was the damnedest thing—the trees would grow. Grow. Right then in the moment he needed them most, they’d strain skyward and lift him an inch or two, whatever he needed. They were amazing trees.

  He’d tried to use the branches to pull himself farther away, toward the shore, but pulling set off wild bells of pain, so he stopped that and just hung on, floating and waiting. No sense in going anywhere. The trees would grow when he needed them.

  Vaughn was gone. Ezra had seen him take the boat, had managed to focus on that and actually lift his head a bit. Then the boat had moved away from him, down the shore and into deeper water, and there had been more gunfire, and though Ezra had no idea where it was coming from or who was causing it, he knew it was bad.

  For a while he was waiting to die and not afraid of it at all, patient as could be. This was where he wanted to end. He wanted to bleed his life out into this lake, this beautiful lake that had given that very life to him. It was fine to end out here. It was right. He’d broken the vow he’d made so many years ago when he’d first come to this place, had taken a man’s life once more, and the lake would not allow that. Had not allowed that, had sent Vaughn to punish him. All those years in the jungle with men who excelled at combat, and more years back in Detroit with some of the meanest sons of bitches ever walked the earth, and Ezra had gotten shot by someone like Vaughn? It was tough to get your head around a thing like that.

  So he’d killed again and the lake had punished him, but then it had sent the trees to hold him up, and that was confusing, because he’d been ready to die and the trees would not let him. He didn’t understand that. Perhaps the trees were a gesture of forgiveness. The lake had healed him once, and maybe it would heal him again.

  A low grinding sound filled his brain, and for a while he was sure it was a motor, but then it went away, fading until it sounded like a drill bit chewing through wood. Maybe there was no sound, and that was just the pain fooling with his head. A bullet could do things like that to you.

  A sprinkling rain started again, much lighter now, and it felt good on Ezra’s face, helped to push the fog back. He thought he’d been floating above the surface, but now, after a hard blink to focus, he realized that the water only rose up to his shoulders. The water really wasn’t that deep down here. Maybe if he reached with his foot . . .

  Son of a bitch, he could touch the bottom. Now how was that possible? The bottom should be way down there, at the base of the tree trunks, fifty feet away.

  He tilted his head to the left, studied the tree that held him. The branches weren’t so thick. In fact, they were little more than twigs. He wasn’t in a tree at all. It was a bush, really, one of the wild tangles that grew along the shore. He was very close to shore, had his feet on the ground.

  Ezra was not going to die out here. Not today.

  _______

  Grady had stayed on 51 too long, had missed a turn that he should have taken, though he wasn’t sure what it would have been. His state map was useless up here, he hadn’t seen a single sign for the Willow Flowage, and Atkins wouldn’t answer his phone.

  He finally gave up as a gas station came into view, the highway a two-lane now, and pulled off and into the parking lot, got out of his car and ran inside and shoved past an overweight woman who gasped in indignation.

  “Hey.” The shaggy-haired kid behind the counter was looking down at the register, and when Grady stepped up he just lifted a finger, asking for a minute.

  “Hey!” Grady said and slapped the countertop. When the kid looked up at him, a haughty expression on his face, Grady showed him the badge. “I need you to tell me how to get to Willow Flowage.”

  “Shit, man, FBI? For real?”

  “Just tell me how to get there.”

  The kid frowned, offended, and pointed out the window. “Straight across the highway, man. Swamp Lake Road. Take that all the way in to County Y, then take that to Willow Dam.”

  “Swamp Lake to County Y to Willow Dam?”

  “Yeah. What’s going on?”

  “Nothing. Look, I need to get to a cabin out there. I have no idea where it is. Could be anywhere on the lake.”

  The kid shook his head, and now the fat woman was standing close, listening with undisguised interest and clutching an armful of soda bottles to her large breasts.

  “Not many cabins on the lake out there. Not many at all. You sure it’s on the lake?”

  “Yes,” Grady said. “A guy named Frank Temple owns it.”

  That widened the kid’s eyes. “No shit? I heard all about him.”

  “Fantastic. You know where—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I can get you there.”

  “How long of a drive?”

  “Maybe twenty.”

  Twenty minutes. Okay, that wasn’t bad. Grady still had a chance. He would not be too late. He would not be too late.

  A gentle rain faded to nothing as Frank crossed the lake, the clouds still heavy and dark but quiet now, the wind settling, the surface of the lake smoothing again.

  Frank ran the boat at full throttle, knowing that the big engine would give him just enough time. He’d make it to the cabin maybe ten, fifteen minutes before Nora and Renee got to the dam, and that would be more than sufficient. It wasn’t going to take long at all, maybe thirty seconds, walk through the door, put the gun in Devin’s face, squeeze the trigger.

  Simple.

  And a long time coming.

  And right.

  Yes, damn it, it was the right thing to do. Ezra was dead, and so was Atkins, and Nora could easily have joined them. Forget Frank’s father, forget the betrayal, forget the past entirely—Devin had earned it today. Earned more than handcuffs and a cell. It was time to bring him to an end.

  The gun in Frank’s hand was the Ruger he’d taken from Renee, and he discarded it as he crossed the lake, took the Smith & Wesson back, loving the feel of it, that FT ii engraved on the stock. Here’s a bullet from the old man, Devin. Enjoy it. I know he will. Wherever he is, heaven or hell or somewhere in between, I know he will.

  He was utterly alone on the lake, even when he came through the Forks and out into the southern portion where the most boat traffic could usually be found. Nobody was going to venture out after a storm like that, with more rain threatening.

  He dropped the speed as he neared the cabin, came in close to the shore and with the engine as quiet as possible until he saw the cabin. The van waited alone beside it. Nobody had noticed Atkins’s absence yet, or if they had, they didn’t know where to start looking for him. The cabin had one main window that looked out on the water, so Devin could be watching the lake right now, waiting for a boat to come in, sizing up the situation. If he saw it was Frank alone, he’d be ready.

  Frank cut the engine and let the boat drift into the weeds. He was several hundred yards from the cabin and doubted Devin had seen or heard him. Possibly he’d heard the engine, but he couldn’t see this portion of the shore without coming outside, and the yard was empty except for that van.

  He got out of the boat in the shallows, wrapped the bow line around a downed tree, and then climbed up the bank and into the woods and headed toward the cabin. He walked quietly but quickly, with his head up and the gun held down against his leg, finger hooked in the trigger guard.

  Through the trees and into the yard without a shot fired or even a sound. Across the yard and to the door, still nothing. Hand on the knob, still nothing. He paused for one deep breath, slipped his finger completely around the trigger and tensed it, then twisted the knob and threw the door open and stepped into the cabin in a shooter’s stance, gun raised, ready to kill.

  Devin was on the floor. Stretched out on his side, one cheek on the linoleum, his body slightly curled, as if he’d been going for the fetal position but couldn’
t make it. His gun lay on a table beside the couch, out of reach, and Frank could see that he’d fallen from the couch onto the floor. There was a small puddle on the floor near his mouth, bile maybe mixed with traces of blood. For a second, Frank thought he was dead. Then he lifted his head.

  He twisted to see the door, his hazy eyes taking Frank in before flicking to the gun on the table, several feet away, no chance of reaching it. When he moved, it was away from the table, rolling into a sitting position with his back against the wall.

  “Where’s my wife?”

  Frank stepped farther into the cabin, then reached back and swung the door shut behind him, never taking his eyes off Devin.

  “She’s fine,” he said, “but you’re never going to see her again.”

  “No?” Devin brought his head off the wall, and for a moment the light in his eyes seemed to fade, as if that small motion had still been too much.

  “No.” Frank came closer. “The rest of them are dead. Your boy, AJ? I took his gun and I shot him with it. One round right through the eye. I watched him die, and then I came back. For you.”

  Devin didn’t speak. He had his lips parted, was sucking air in through his mouth in slow, audible breaths.

  “He had a chance,” Frank said. “Hell, he had better than that. He was holding both of the guns. Wasn’t enough. But I’ll give you the same chance.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Go for the gun,” Frank said, nodding at the table. “I’ll let you get your hand on it. I’m going to give you that much.”

  Devin just stared at him. Frank’s hand, so damn steady when he’d fired that bullet into AJ’s face, was beginning to tremble. He ran his thumb up and down the stock, took another step into the room.

  Just shoot him. Quit the bullshit, quit talking, and just shoot him.

  “Going to kill me?” Devin said.

  “Yes. Unless you get that gun first. I told you, better move for it.”

  “You have to wait until I’ve got the gun, is that it?”

  “I’m giving you a chance.”

  “Your dad,” Devin said, “wouldn’t have needed to wait.”

  “I’m not my dad,” Frank said.

  Devin smiled. It was a dying man’s smile, a look not of hopelessness but of disinterest, and Frank hated him for it. Hated him for being in this condition, so weak. He wanted him at full strength, wanted the best the prick had to offer, and then Frank would still be better than him. He’d be better, and he’d kill him, and it would be done, finally, it would be done.

  “Get up!” Frank screamed. “Get up and go for the gun, you piece of shit!”

  Again the smile, and Devin just shook his head. “Can’t reach it.”

  Frank ran to the table and kicked its legs, upending it and spilling Devin’s gun to the floor. It hit a few feet away from him, slid to a stop almost within reach.

  “Pick it up!”

  Devin shook his head again, and this time Frank went for him. He hit him backhanded with the Smith & Wesson, caught the side of his skull, knocked him away from the wall and back to the floor. He let out a soft moan of pain but didn’t move, didn’t reach for the gun. Frank reached down with his free hand and caught Devin’s neck, dragged him upright, and then slammed his head into the wall, still screaming at him to pick up the gun. He banged his head off the wall again, and then a third time, and then he dropped to one knee and jammed the barrel of his father’s gun into Devin’s mouth.

  It was then, down on his knee with his finger on the trigger, that he saw Devin was unconscious.

  He let go of Devin’s neck and pulled the gun out of his mouth and Devin’s head fell onto his right shoulder and the torso went with it. He landed with his body bent awkwardly, one lip peeled back by the floor, a trace of blood showing in his mouth now.

  Frank laid his fingers against Devin’s neck, felt the pulse there. He was not dead.

  He got to his feet and stared down as Devin’s eyes fluttered but stayed closed. He took the gun and laid it against the back of Devin’s skull, held it there for a few seconds, feeling the trigger under his finger.

  I’d find him and I’d kill him.

  Damn right you would. Damn right. You’re a good boy. Check that—a good man.

  It’s justified, Frank had told Ezra. It is already justified. And Ezra’s response? Bullshit, son. Not in a way you can accept it’s not, and you know that.

  Devin made some sound, a muffled grunt, and stirred but did not wake. Frank moved the gun across the back of his head, traced a circle in Devin’s hair with the muzzle. He thought again of Nora, of the fear in her eyes as she’d looked at him, and then he pulled the gun back and walked away. He picked up the table and set it back where it belonged, beneath his grandfather’s posthumous Silver Star. He looked at the medal for a moment, and then he dropped his eyes to the gun in his hand, and he ejected the clip into his palm. He took Devin’s gun from the floor and emptied that clip as well, and then he walked into the kitchen and set both guns on the counter, put the clips into his pocket, and ran cold water onto a towel.

  When he turned off the water he could hear a boat motor, and he stood at the sink with his head cocked and listened. Something small, and headed this way. He went to the window, looked out at the lake, and saw the aluminum boat approaching, Nora up front and Renee at the tiller. Not surprising that Renee had refused to go to the dam.

  He slapped at Devin’s neck with the wet towel, then held it over his face and squeezed a trickle of cold water onto his forehead and cheeks. The eyes opened, swam, then focused on Frank.

  “Get up,” Frank said. “Your wife’s coming.”

  When they arrived, Devin was sitting up against the wall, Frank standing in the kitchen with his back against the counter, near the guns. Renee came through the door first, saw Frank and said, “If you—” but then her eyes found Devin and she stopped talking and turned from Frank and ran to her husband.

  “Baby,” he said, and he reached for her with one arm as she fell to her knees in front of him, almost in the exact position Frank had taken when he put his father’s suicide gun in Devin’s mouth.

  Nora stepped inside, stood in the doorway staring at Renee on the floor with Devin before she looked at Frank. Her eyes searched his, then flicked to the guns on the counter.

  “They’re empty,” he said, and he pushed off the counter and walked into the living room. Renee turned at the sound of his approach, a protective motion, covering Devin with her body.

  “Get him up,” Frank said, “and get out of here.”

  “All right.”

  “The keys to the van are inside it, I think. You’ve got to get him out there, though. I’m not helping. If I touch him again, I’m going to kill him.”

  She just nodded.

  Frank turned and walked outside, leaving the empty guns on the counter. Nora followed him, and a few minutes later Renee appeared, with Devin on his feet but leaning heavily against her. Frank and Nora stood together beside the cabin and watched as she got the van door open and got him inside.

  “You’re letting them go,” Nora said.

  He shook his head. “They aren’t going far. He’s got to get to a hospital. Anybody can see that.”

  She didn’t answer. Renee slammed the van door shut and walked toward the driver’s door. She paused for a moment in front of the van and looked back at them.

  “Thank you,” she said. “And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  There was a beat of silence, and then Frank said, “You know what he does. You know what he is. So how the hell do you love him so clean?”

  “Hon,” she said, “whoever said anything about it being clean?”

  Frank looked away from her, out at the lake. He didn’t turn when the doors opened, didn’t turn when the engine started, didn’t turn when they drove up the gravel drive.

  When the sound of the van had faded and they were alone, Nora said, “Is there a phone inside?”

  “No.”

  “M
ine’s ruined. The water.”

  “Yeah. Mine, too.”

  “Where can we go to call the police?”

  He waved toward the drive, and then they turned and started up it together, not speaking, stepping over puddles and through the mud. They were halfway to the main road when they heard the hum of an engine and the crunch of tires and Nora said, “Are they coming back?”

  They weren’t coming back. It was a car, not a van, and when it slid to a stop and the door opened and Grady Morgan stood up and stared at them, all Frank could say was “You’re too late, Grady. Too late.”

  Grady looked over his shoulder and then back at Frank. “Who was that? Who was in that van?”

  “Devin Matteson and his wife,” Frank said.

  “I can’t let them drive away from here.”

  “Sure you can,” Frank said. “You never saw them. Didn’t know who it was. Didn’t ask me about it just now.”

  Grady looked at Frank for a long time and said, “I’ve lied about him before. I guess I can do it again. Now what the hell happened out here?”

  38

  __________

  Six hours later, Frank and Nora long departed in police custody, Ezra Ballard evacuated to some hospital, first by boat and then by helicopter, Grady stood alone at the shore and stared out into the dark lake where several bodies waited to be found.

  Atkins was dead. Another agent, one who’d been trying to do the job right, was dead, and Grady would see that blood on his hands for the rest of his days, understood that it was the end of his career long before anyone back in Chicago would.

  Too late. That was the first thing Frank Temple’s son had said to him. Grady had been too late.

  Frank had no idea, either. He had no idea.

  Seven years of watching that kid, keeping tabs on him, and it had never been about protecting Frank from anything. It had always been about protecting Grady, about covering his own ass. He’d never had the courage to approach the kid and tell him the truth and apologize, and now they were bringing body after body out of this damn lake, one of them a dead agent, a colleague.