That kiss, so long ago.
The explosion within her was like nothing she'd ever felt, a million possibilities rushing forward, and she felt dizzy and scared, but happy and excited at the same time. For the first time, she smelled his cologne, mixed with the autumn air, felt his skin against hers, and as the sparks flew, she loved him. Their burgeoning friendship had evolved, and in that instance, she wondered how she'd ever not loved him.
But she couldn't tell him how she felt, at least not at that moment. Their brief kiss was interrupted, and their classmates joined them. Adam touched her hand a few times as they climbed the hiking trail, and they stole furtive glances, slight moments where they shared in the memory of what they'd just done.
She never told him how she felt, and in the end, there hadn't been enough time to tell. They came in the middle of school one day, those people who would hold her captive in the tank where she felt nothing, where her only escape was through a make believe piece of paper and pen. They had taken her and she had never told Adam how she felt, how she'd loved him in that instant, how she liked his smell and the feel of his lips on hers.
And now, she felt that if she didn't say something to Ryan, it may happen all over again. As they drove, she felt the panic and anxiety that rolled always beneath the surface, the gnawing sensation that they were right behind her, ready to take her into the night, always chasing.
They passed the New York state line, and Ryan turned onto a highway heading northwest. He was waiting patiently for her to speak, to finish what she started saying.
So, Mae Edwards spoke.
“I care about you a lot, and that is big for me, because I try, and have tried for my whole life, well, ever since I was a young teenager, to not care about people. I don't want to care about people, but there you have it, I care about you.”
She breathed a sigh of relief, happy to have at least that part of the conversation done with. Already the conversation had turned into a little checklist in her mind.
“You asked me what I'm afraid of,” she said, “you said that you could never really know someone unless you knew what they were afraid of. Well, this is me, right now, telling you that I guess I'm afraid of knowing people, because I don't want them to get hurt, and I don't want to get hurt. I don't want you to get hurt because of me, and that is more than I wanted to say, but there you have it.”
Okay, she thought, the mental checklist now blinking red warning lights. She was nervous to be talking about this, and when she was nervous, she rambled. She didn't want to say too much, but just enough.
“I've never really talked to anyone about this kind of stuff, except to my mom, but that's not the same, and even just opening up this much to you freaks me out. How crazy is that? Even just talking about my feelings with someone like you and I'm a wreck inside. I know it's crazy, I mean this whole thing is crazy. I don't even know who you are, but I want to know who you are. For the first time in a very long time, I want to know you because I do care.”
Oh man, she thought, get on track girl!
“Because I care about you, I care about what happened to your arm, and I'd really like you to tell me about it,” she said. What she didn't say was that she was worried that the same people chasing her had somehow, someway, found Ryan and had broken his arm to get information. He may even think he'd just been mugged, that it was no more than an unfortunate thing that sometimes happened, but Mae knew better. She would not have been surprised if they had made a connection between her and Ryan, and maybe an innocent nudge to the ground would give them enough time to lift information from his phone or wallet. They were professionals, and although she had no idea how they'd caught up to her so many times in the past, they had always found her. Sometimes, they found her much more quickly than she or her mother expected. They had ways of doing things that she didn't understand, and it scared her. It scared her because she cared about Ryan, and the people she cared about got hurt or killed.
“So you care about me?” he said, and grinned that loopy grin that made her insides flutter.
“Is that the only thing you got from that?”
“Mae,” he said, still grinning, “wasn't that the point of what you said?”
She paused before responding, nodding after a few seconds in hesitant agreement.
“So why are you afraid of getting hurt, or of me getting hurt?” he asked. “Are you planning to hurt me?”
Outside the car, the snow began to fall in heavier sheets. Not quite a blizzard, but getting there. She thought about it, and wondered if she was doing exactly that. If she was setting in motion events that would hurt or kill Ryan. If they caught up with her, and if she was with Ryan at the time, then there would be no question that he would be killed. She imagined him trying to protect her, and the thought filled her with as much tentative pleasure as dread. He would stand up for her, he would put himself between her and them. But they would kill him.
She thought of her mother in that cabin, her hands tied behind her back, the look in her eyes like that of an animal who'd been trapped, and knew that there was no escape. She had known that she would die, that she must die to allow her daughter to escape.
Mae wondered if Ryan would do the same thing, sacrifice himself so she could get away, and she hated herself for the idea, hated herself for putting him in that type of predicament, even if it was just in her mind.
Ryan might not be willing to die for her, or to be beaten within inches of his life, but then again, he might not have the choice.
“And where do you go,” he asked, “when you fade off into the distance like that? We're talking, and you zone off into la la land.”
He chuckled at that, but she looked past him at the trees and falling snow.
“I'm right here,” she said, “and I'm just thinking about you and what you said. I can’t talk about why I'm afraid right now, maybe never, but definitely not now. I ...”
“Is it a past boyfriend? Someone who stole you away and broke your heart?”
She smiled, but shook her head, wondering if he somehow knew about Adam. But how? That was impossible.
“Listen, Mae,” he said, “I wouldn't have started this, but you brought it up. Of course I care about you, and of course I have feelings for you. I mean, it's gotta be pretty obvious by now. This is just as crazy for me as it is for you, but you've got to give me something. I understand that you're worried about my arm, and yeah I haven't told you how I broke it or why, not that it matters.”
As his tone grew harsher, she felt like crawling into a hole and disappearing. Ryan kept looking at her, kept trying to catch her gaze, but she wouldn't give it to him. He continued, frustrated.
“But I also haven't asked why you were handing out fake names on the airplane when we first met, why you had someone else's passport, or why you are completely alone, with nowhere to go and no one to be with. You lied to me on the airplane, and I don't know anything about you, other than you're running from something, and that you're alone, or seem to be alone. It's a two-way street, you know, and as much as I want to ask about your secrets, I haven't.”
“You're right.” she said, and took a deep breath. “I shouldn't have brought it up. I'm sorry.”
“That's not what I meant,” Ryan said, and he softened. “I just meant that you can't go and tell me that you have feelings for me, and then use that to leverage secrets. Our whole lives are made up of secrets, and there are people you give the keys to the secrets to, and others that you don't. I want to know you, and to know why you're afraid and alone, and I want you to know me too.”
The snow was falling harder than before, and it made Mae think of that first drive they'd taken at night, to the deserted ski resort, where they'd sat and listened to music, holding hands. She felt warm inside, his words igniting something she'd never felt before. She liked him, and he liked her.
“There you go again,” he said, “off to your own little world, closed off from the rest of us.”
“I can't tell y
ou about me,” she said.
“Why? What is so secret that you can't even tell me your real name.”
“It's Mae, I told you.” She said.
“Great,” he said. “Mae, it's nice to meet you. My name is Ryan Coffee, like the drink, and that's a reason you should like me even more. I was born and raised in Hartford, but I travel a lot. I’ve got wealthy parents. Some would call me spoiled, but I think of myself as gourmet. Where are you from?”
“When I was a little girl, I lived in western Massachusetts. That's why I got on the plane that I did. I didn't have any place to go, but I wanted to go home.”
“See, that wasn't so hard,” he said, but he was trying hard not to wince. “What about your mom and dad? Are they still in the area?”
“My parents were killed in a car accident,” she lied, and the lie slipped off her tongue so easily. “I don't have any relatives, at least that I know of, and I am pretty much alone in the world.”
He didn't say anything for a few minutes, but turned off the freeway onto a road leading to a small town. Mae turned away from him, fighting the tears that threatened. She didn't know how much longer she could live like this, always skirting the outside of everything, and never belonging to anything or anyone.
except to the hunters
“I'm sorry to hear that about your parents, Mae.” Ryan slowed and turned into the driveway of a low brick house, nestled among trees. Smoke wafted from the fireplace, and the windows were misted from the warm air inside the house. Ryan parked the car behind the other car in the driveway, an old Honda that was blanketed in a thick layer of snow.
“Is this your friend's house?” she asked.
“Yeah, I think so.”
“You haven't ever been here?”
“Nope, this is the first time, and he doesn't know I'm coming.”
He turned off the car, but didn't make any move to open the door.
“I'm sorry I pressed you,” Ryan said. “I remember you saying something about your dad, but I didn't know about your mom. I'm sorry that I brought that up.”
Mae nodded and said, “It's okay. I don't like to talk about me much, or my life. For the most part, it's pretty sad.”
Ryan leaned forward until his forehead touched the steering wheel. He sighed, and then sat back, as if he'd just made a decision.
“Mae?”
“Yeah?”
“Have you ever destroyed something beautiful?”
She started, surprised at the question. She thought of the building in Miami, of the forest on the outskirts of Chicago, of her mom and dad.
Have you destroyed something beautiful?
“Yes,” she said softly. “Yes, I have.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Paul had two memories running side by side, like competing movie screens at a drive-in theater. In one memory, he was a little boy riding his bike through a dusty western town, up and down hills at the base of the Rocky Mountains. It was summer then, and the day was bright and beautiful except for the wall of purple and grey clouds at the far side of the valley. He remembered the downward smears of rain against the horizon and the rare and exotic smell of moisture in the air, mixed with the spices of sage and mountain lily. The colors seemed more vibrant and alive than Paul remembered them being in reality, many shades of greens and browns beneath the perfect azure.
Paul stopped his bike at the top of a hill that he and his friends had dubbed “KILLER HILL” and stared out over summer. His legs ached and burned from the bicycle climb up the hill, and the sweat on his face chilled his skin.
In a flash, the moment was done. Paul was riding his bike down the hill, faster and faster, the wheels spinning into a blur, and Paul wished he'd taken just a moment longer to enjoy the view. But, now he was dodging rocks, holes, gnarly sage brush. He flew, the wind in his face, the exhilaration flooding his body to the point where he thought he might explode. He remembered laughing, not a care in the world, never a thought about wrecking his bike and getting seriously hurt. He flew down the mountain, his laughter carried away in the wind.
In the other memory, flickering by at the same moment, he was sitting on the couch with his then-wife, eating Indian take-out and watching an old Cary Grant flick. He couldn't remember the name of the movie, but he remembered the way the light from the television screen lit up her face. They would laugh together and share their food, and he would kiss the top of her head, feeling her hair against his lips and nose. He remembered the smell of her hair, and the feel of her body nuzzled next to his. She brought her leg up to the couch and swiveled so she was leaning on him. Their breathing was in sync, and when she finished her yellow curry and set the plastic container on the floor in front of the couch, she leaned her head against his chest and draped her arm across his lap.
Little pink blossoms bloomed on the big tree outside their apartment, a few branches crossing in front of the window and lit by the yellow street lamps. It was their first apartment together, and it was mostly empty of furniture. They'd been married only a few months, with no kids, and nothing mattered but being together. The moment was perfect in its simplicity. They were together. They were happy and in love.
Paul heard a constant squeaking that underlay these two memories. It took him several minutes before he even realized that he was hearing something that didn't belong in either memory. It was faint at first, but grew louder with each passing second. As the sound became clearer, his right ear began to throb, white flashes of pain that enveloped that side of his head. The skin on his face and neck felt sticky and hot, as if coated with drying paint.
The squeaking was not like the squeaking of a dry hinge or a dirty wheel. It was an animal, maybe several.
His memories faded. He wanted to scream to keep them close, to hang onto every last ounce of simple happiness they brought, but reality flooded his mind and the pain was so intense in his face that he gritted his teeth to keep from crying out.
Paul opened his eyes, and he was in a room where large sheets of plastic draped the walls. A floodlight stood on the floor in one corner, casting its brilliant white light throughout the room. In the center, several meters from where Paul sat in a metal folding chair, was a table, also draped in plastic. On the table, another sheet of plastic covered what looked like a large box. Morales sat at the table, hunched over something in deep concentration.
Paul tried to move, but his arms and legs wouldn't budge. He looked down and saw that his entire body was wrapped in duct tape. He felt panic stirring within him, not because of where he was, or with who, but because he couldn't move. He strained his muscles against the tape, flexing, pushing and pulling in every direction, any direction to feel any movement, but the tape wouldn't give.
Morales looked up from his project and smiled at Paul. The shadows around his eyes made him look sinister and psychotic.
He is psychotic, Paul thought, his ear and entire right side of his head throbbing. Paul wondered how much of his ear was gone, or if there was any left at all. He shuddered.
“Oh, good to see you awake,” Morales said, and continued working.
“What do you want with me?” Paul asked, his voice barely above a whisper. Morales turned his project over on the table--some kind of belt with leather straps and silver buckles.
“You were asleep for a long time,” Morales said, picking up a pair of needle nose pliers and carefully sticking them into whatever project he was working on, He carefully twisted the tool, and bending small pits of metal.
“What do you want with me?” Paul repeated. “You want revenge? Revenge for what? I saved your life.”
Morales continued working as if he hadn't heard Paul.
“That man …” Paul said, “… the man in the hospital, he was going to kill you, and I saved you.”
Paul stopped talking when it was evident that Morales was not going to respond. Instead, Morales kept working for a few seconds, then held his project up to the light. Paul studied it carefully, trying to make out the contr
aption. It looked a bit like a bridle for a horse, something Paul had seen many times during his young years in the western town. But maybe not. It was too small for a horse, but definitely a harness, Paul decided.
Morales tugged at the straps, and when he was satisfied with his work, he set it again on the table. He folded his hands beneath his chin and stared at Paul. Their eyes locked for several seconds before Paul looked away.
Morales chuckled and went back to work on the harness.
“Who are you, really?” Paul asked, and Morales smiled at the question. He finally spoke as he worked, not looking up.
“It seems we are entering a time in which Orwellian nightmares are no longer fantasy, or even a voice of warning for things to come, but our current reality.”
Morales spoke these words almost as if he were delivering lines in a play. Each word clearly enunciated with calculated deliberateness.
“The question is not so much 'how' the cover up of the attack in Miami was accomplished, but 'why.' And most important of all, the question of why we, citizens in a supposed free world, have stuck our heads in the sand, while power and strength grows to the point where we willingly swallow an unbelievable story just because they say so. We are, indeed, at the forefront of Orwell's nightmare.”
Morales looked up at him, a crooked grin on his lips. “You do recognize those words, Mr. Reporter-Man, don't you? You should, because you wrote them.”
“So, it's true then,” Paul muttered. “All of it has to be true.”
“You know that it is, or else why write such dramatic drivel and attach your byline?”
“You bombed a building in your own country, and covered it up,” Paul spat. “You killed your own people and then lied about it! And why? For what?”
“No bomb, no attack, but indeed a cover-up. Your article caused quite a stir in its time. Of course, nothing we couldn't handle, and nothing we weren't prepared for. You see, we are always prepared, and there is virtually nothing we cannot handle. The destruction of the building in Miami was an accident, but it gave us an idea of the full potential of our asset.”
The Snow Swept Trilogy Page 40
