“Eagle Rock, Virginia,” he says without looking over, his voice flatlined.
For a moment, I’m confused. “Is that where Nick is?”
He gives me a quick bob of his head and nothing more.
“Is that... Gabe, are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“Just take me there.”
Sighing, I punch the coordinates into my navigation system, which tells me Eagle Rock is nudged up against the West Virginia border, a good five-hour drive to the northwest.
I think of all the things I should do. Call my father and beg him to meet us there. Swing by the Naval Medical Center for a psychologist trained in dealing with PTSD. I don’t know what Gabe hopes to accomplish by confronting Nick with our discovery, but nothing about this feels like a good idea.
“Maybe he doesn’t remember. I’m not sure you should be the one to tell him if he’s repressed it.” I don’t know much about PTSD, but if ever there was cause for a licensed professional, I’d imagine this would be it. “This is way over both of our heads.”
“I have to know.” Now, finally, he looks over, and what I see there breaks my heart. “I have to know for sure. So either take me there, or take me to a Hertz counter.”
I put the car in gear, follow the little white line guiding me toward the highway and take him there.
As we roar up I-64 in haunting, suffocating silence, I use the time to turn every bit of information we learned over and over in my mind, but no matter how I twist or turn it, I can’t come up with any other explanation than the one I already have. Gabe and Jean were right. The army was lying about what happened to Zach, but with good reason. The best possible reason. The only reason that could make a lie like theirs okay.
My father’s words suddenly echo in my ears, the words lighting up across my mind in gleaming strobe letters. Just because something’s the truth, that doesn’t make it right. My father knew about Nick and Zach. He had to know. But in trying to steer me away from Ricky, was Dad covering his own ass, or attempting to spare Gabe and his family the devastation of ever discovering the truth? The last one clamps down on my heart, threatens to pinch it in two.
And then I remember his other words, the ones telling me not to open that box, and my vision swims and blurs. My father knew about Nick all along. When he confronted me in the bathroom hallway. When I confronted him with the memo. He told me I didn’t have all the facts, that I should not be so quick to judge, that I didn’t want to get involved in a matter I knew nothing about. He did everything to stop me from learning the truth, even—oh, God—asking me to trust him. To trust him.
Thinking about it makes me light-headed with guilt. After Eagle Rock, after whatever happens there, I am driving straight to my father to apologize.
Just past Richmond, I need a bathroom and gas break, and I pull over at an Exxon. I fill my tank, use the restroom, purchase two sodas and two packs of peanut butter crackers, and return to the car, only to find Gabe in the exact same position. The soda and crackers remain untouched in the console between us, and we drive the rest of the way in silence.
At some time past five, just as the sun is sinking behind the bald trees, I roll up the two-block stretch of homes and businesses that comprise the entire town of Eagle Rock. I pull onto the gravel on the side of the road and tap Gabe on the arm.
“We’re in Eagle Rock.”
Gabe looks up, and he speaks for the first time since Portsmouth. “Find the diner.”
Maw and Paw’s Diner is a little farther down on the right, and I pull to a stop in front of it. I’m parked in the middle of the two-lane street, but in a town like Eagle Rock, it doesn’t really matter. There’s not exactly a whole lot of traffic.
“Take the next right,” he instructs me, “and go two miles up the hill.”
I follow his directions, keeping a careful eye on my odometer as I climb higher and higher into the Jefferson National Forest. Just as I’m approaching the two-mile mark, Gabe points to a mailbox at the edge of a dirt road, and I turn into the shadowy tunnel. We’re swallowed up by the woods, thick trees that rise up all around us like giant headstones. We emerge in a clearing with, at its center, a lone wooden cabin. It sits dark and deserted, blending into the forest as if it’s been here forever.
I still my engine as the front door swings open, and a tall figure in jeans and a flannel shirt steps out onto the long front porch. The first thing that comes to mind is Bigfoot, even though I recognize him immediately. It’s Nick but hairier, long strands of it covering his face, draping over his eyes and brushing the tips of his shoulders.
Gabe reaches for the handle, and for the first time since we left Portsmouth, his gaze finds mine. “Wait here.”
24
Alone in my car, I check my cell phone for the first time in I don’t remember how long and wince. Seven voice mails from my mother, two from the real David, three from a number I don’t recognize, five from Floyd and a whopping thirteen from Mike. I listen to Mike’s first message, but when I discover he only called to lay into me, yet again, for Victoria’s article, I don’t bother listening to the rest, and I don’t call anyone back. I don’t have the first idea what I would say to any of them.
I compose a quick text to my mother, who must be sick with worry, apologizing for missing our lunch date and promising to call her as soon as I’m back, and then I text roughly the same to David. I ignore the rest, saving them for later. After the texts are swept away into the network, I power down my phone and store it in my bag.
The cabin shows no signs of life, its windows dark and still. The silence inside could just as well be a good thing as a bad, and I try to put myself in Gabe’s position. What would I say to Nick? Confront him with the facts? Beg him for an explanation? Wait for him to confess? I have no idea, and quite frankly, I’m too dizzy with exhaustion to consider it for very long. I recline my seat and close my eyes, and I fall asleep almost instantly.
“Abigail.”
At the sound of my name, I jerk awake. By now it’s pitch-black out, so dark I can barely see Gabe’s figure hovering in my open car door, bent over and watching me. The forest overhead has blocked out whatever light the stars or moon may be making in the nighttime sky, and the only illumination at all is a lone bulb by the porch and my car’s dim interior light.
“I’m staying the night,” he says.
I consider my options, but it doesn’t take me long. A Quarter Pounder, a bath and a bed, in that order. I reach for the start button. “Call me when you’re done.”
“No.” He blows out a loud sigh, and I hesitate. “What I mean to say is, it’s late. Let’s stay here tonight.”
“Are you sure?” I rest my hand on the wheel and blink up at him, but darkness blankets his face. “I think I saw a hotel near the last exit.”
He holds out a hand for mine. “Come on.”
I reach for my bag, putting my hand in his palm and lacing my fingers through his. I know this is neither the time nor the place, but I’m aching to suction cup myself to him and never let go. There is an empty crater in my chest, and though I’m certain it’s nowhere near the size of his own, I don’t want to spend the night alone. As selfish as it sounds, I’m craving the feel of Gabe’s body next to mine, tonight more than ever.
Together we go toward the door, but before we reach the first wooden step, I pull him to a stop. “I know this is a ridiculously stupid question, but how are you doing?”
He rubs his free hand through his hair. “I have no fucking clue.”
“And Nick?”
“Who knows? I can’t get anything out of him about that day. I’m not even sure he remembers it.”
“Is he getting any help?”
Gabe nods, avoiding my eye. “But now that I know what I know, clearly not enough.”
I have nothing to say to that.
&
nbsp; Gabe lowers his voice to a whisper. “A couple of things before we go in. He’s calm most of the time, but if he gets belligerent, don’t freak out. Let me handle it. It usually blows over pretty quickly. He’s not going to trust you, and he probably won’t even be nice to you, so don’t take it personally. Don’t tell him you’re a journalist, and whatever you do, do not tell him who your father is. That’ll only set him off. Okay?”
I nod, strangely nervous about what I’m walking into. “Are you sure you don’t want me to find a hotel? Because I’d be fine with that.”
Gabe shakes his head. “Let’s just stay the night here, and we’ll figure things out in the morning.”
We climb the two steps to the door, and then at the last second, Gabe pulls me aside as if he’s forgotten to tell me something. “Oh, and he paints. You’ll see.”
He releases my hand, and together, we go in. I blink, my eyes adjusting to what is not a whole lot more light than outside the tiny cabin, and follow Gabe to the most basic of kitchens. I drop my bag on the floor by a square, wooden table. Nick is standing by the counter, peeling open a can of black olives.
“Nick,” Gabe says to his older brother. “This is Abigail.”
Nick doesn’t look up or acknowledge me in any way. He reaches two fingers in the can and pulls out a handful of olives, popping them one by one into his mouth.
“Abigail is going to sleep here tonight,” Gabe tells him.
At that he looks up, pausing in his chewing to scowl.
“She’s cool,” Gabe adds.
Nick narrows his eyes. “We don’t know that.”
“I know that.”
Nick slams a fist on the countertop hard enough to rattle the can. “Nobody is accountable. Criminals are in charge. Blundering, egotistical, incompetent, malevolent, virtueless, vacuous criminals. We can’t trust any of them.”
Good grief. Nick might want to lay off the internet chat rooms for a while.
Gabe steps around the counter to him, puts a hand on his shoulder. “That’s true, but Abigail’s not one of them. I’m going to let her crash in my room, and we’ll be out of here tomorrow morning, okay?”
Nick shrugs and returns to his olives. “Whatever.”
Gabe ushers me to the other end of the cabin. On the way, I take my first quick glance around, and it’s overwhelming. To say Nick paints is the understatement of the century. Every surface—the walls, cabinets, tables, even the floors and ceilings—is covered with angry swaths of dark color, mostly blacks and army greens and deep bloodreds, and scrawled text. I can’t decipher most of it, but I do pick out a few words. Words like illegal, apathy and torture, like violent cave drawings scribbled across the walls and furniture.
We go down a hallway, stopping at a tiny room barely bigger than the single bed that fills it at the end. Gabe flips a switch that lights a lone bulb on the ceiling, avoiding my eye. “I’ll take the couch.”
“Gabe.” I reach for his arm and pull him to me. There is so much I want to say to him—that no family deserves this to have happened to them, that I want to be here for him if he will let me, that I love every inch of him, body and soul—where on earth do I start? I decide with the most pressing. “I’m so sorry this is happening.”
He gives me a tight smile. “You and me both.”
He goes to take a step backward, but I press my forehead to his chest and hold on to his sweater, clutching it into a ball with both fists. “Will you come back later? I don’t want you to be alone.” I don’t want to be alone.
“I’ll try. We’ll see.” He untangles us and slips out the door, pulling it gently closed behind him.
I collapse onto the bed.
Behind me, the window rattles with a sudden gust that blows clear through the pane, and I shiver and wrap the quilt over my shoulders. A ball of worry balloons in my belly, crawling through my limbs, growing teeth and claws, strangling the calm, reasonable voice that keeps telling me that I can fix this, that all will be well, that Gabe and I are still an us. Even though I can already feel him pulling away, creating a distance between us, digging an emotional grave for the feelings we’ve just begun to share. I shiver again, but this time, not from the cold.
Before long, the noises from the other room fall away into silence. My doorknob, dull and dusty from disuse, doesn’t turn. I sit in the quiet, pitch-black room, waiting, hoping, pleading, until the seconds blur into minutes, until time coils into itself, until all there is left to do is pray. Pray that I can heal the gash I helped carve in my father’s reputation. Pray that Gabe and his family come out of this in one piece. Pray that the chill I just felt creep up my spine was another gust through the glass, and not a terrible foreboding.
* * *
I wake up and know something’s wrong, very, very wrong. Holy-motherfucking-hell wrong. Only, I can’t figure out what.
I blink into the quiet dark, try to get my bearings. For several disorienting seconds, I don’t know where I am, whose scratchy, musty sheets are pressed against my skin. I know only this unmistakable sense of doom.
And then I hear a whump followed by a male voice I only vaguely recognize, and I remember.
Nick’s cabin.
I jerk upright, and the squeak of the bedsprings slices the silence.
There’s more noise from deeper in the cabin. More voices, the crash of something breaking, a hard thump that rattles the walls, like someone fighting off an intruder.
I throw off the covers and feel my way along the wall to the door in my T-shirt and bare feet. Carefully, I pull on the knob and peer down the empty hallway. At the far end, on the table by the front door, a lone lamp glows, its crooked shade casting pale yellow shadows on the wooden floorboards.
“They’re taking fire,” Nick says, too loudly, his words anxious and thick. “Shit.”
“Nick.” Gabe’s voice, calm but insistent. “Wake up, bro.”
Relief rushes through me, at the same time something more ominous twists in my gut. Their voices are too strained, too urgent for this to be just a nightmare.
I creep into the hall, on tiptoe and breathless, worried I’m intruding on a private moment between brothers, terrified of what I’ll find around the corner.
“Too much smoke... I can’t see!” Nick’s voice is louder now, and he’s panting as if he’s just run a marathon in July, as if he’s hyperventilating. “Where’s Zach? Where the hell is Zach?”
I chance a peek around the corner. In the dim light of the room I get a side view of Gabe, in jeans and a rumpled T-shirt, both hands high in the air as if he’s being held at gunpoint. “Nick, man, it’s okay. You’re safe.”
Nick’s answer doesn’t make any sense. “Roger that, four o’clock. Enemy at six.”
I lean farther into the room.
A naked Nick, huge and hairy, crouches behind the counter by the kitchen, his eyes empty, his face straining with tension. The overhead light shining down on his skin makes him look slick, as if he’s covered with sweat even though the air in the cabin is downright chilly. Veins bulge, as fat and raised as a bodybuilder’s, on the shiny skin of his arms, but it’s his hands—oh, God, his hands—that stop my heart.
They’re holding a gun, a Beretta M9 exactly like the general’s, and it’s pointed at the center of Gabe’s chest.
“Nick, it’s me. Gabe.” Gabe takes a step forward, and a scream lodges in my throat. That weapon holds fifteen rounds, and no telling how many are in there. But if Gabe senses the danger, he doesn’t let on. He holds his hands higher and takes another step. “You’re in Virginia, man. There’s no enemy.”
It’s as if Nick is deaf. He jerks his head back and gapes at the ceiling above my head, his mouth moving in a silent scream. Swinging the gun up, he fires once, twice, three times, into the wooden beams, prompting a shower of wood and dust and dirt. The air, permea
ted before with tension and sweat, grows even thicker with the smell of smoke and gunpowder.
“Nick, there’s nobody there. It’s only you and me. Your brother Gabe.”
Something registers. Not Gabe’s words, necessarily, but at the very least his presence. Nick responds by waving his gun back and forth, from Gabe to the ceiling and back. When he pinches off another shot that lodges in the wall to my right, I can’t hold back my scream.
Gabe freezes, but Nick’s gaze swings to me.
So does his gun.
I dive behind the wall, skidding on rough planks and bare knees and elbows down the hallway floor to safety.
But what about Gabe?
“Hold your fire, soldier!” he shouts, his voice deep and unyielding and loud enough to penetrate, I pray, Nick’s fog. “That’s a goddamn order.”
Gabe’s plan works. Nick holds his fire.
I hold my breath, straining with everything I have to hear what’s happening behind the wall. For the longest moment, all I hear is silence, and then deep gulping gasps of air that build up to what sounds like a sob.
“Zach?”
My heart breaks at Nick’s voice—just heaves and snaps into two—calling for his dead brother. And then again for Gabe, whose voice cracks when he says, “Zach’s gone.”
Now Nick is definitely sobbing. “Oh, God. Oh, God. I thought... I didn’t know... Fuck!”
“Nick, I need you to drop the gun...”
A new and different note of panic in Gabe’s voice has me scrambling on hands and knees back to the doorway. I don’t want to see where Nick’s gun is pointing, and yet I have to know. Gabe’s heart? Nick’s temple? Because judging from the sounds coming from both brothers, it’s somewhere lethal.
Nick’s wailing escalates into a chant. “OhGodohGodohGodohGod—”
I duck my head around the wall, and my heart stutters to a stop, then takes off like a fighter jet.
His chin. Nick is aiming the gun straight up his chin.
The Ones We Trust Page 19
