The man widened his eyes. “You some kind of nurse?” he said in a tone that told her he knew exactly what she was, and wasn’t.
“I work in a hospital,” Sandy replied curtly. “I’ll figure it out.”
“Eyes,” Ben said, the s drawn out into a leaf’s autumn rasp.
“Eyes?” Sandy echoed. “Honey, what do you mean?” She struggled to make sense of the word.
Not eyes. Ice. A bandage or splint wouldn’t do much for Ben’s fractured wrist, but the plum-sized swelling on his forehead, visible even through his hair? That had to be brought down fast, especially if Ben was to give these men what they needed, and make them go away.
“Ice,” she told the other man, walking toward the freezer. He followed her, but even if he hadn’t been standing right there, Sandy didn’t bother to consider the clump of cubes in a towel as a potential weapon. The time for fighting was over. They never should’ve fought at all.
She walked back, applying the ice light as a whisper to the rising hump on Ben’s brow.
Her husband didn’t wince.
“Honey,” Sandy said, “tell me what they need so I can go get it. I’ll pack everything up, and then they can be on their way.”
The man studying her gave a single nod.
Sandy switched her gaze to Ivy, still on the floor, Harlan a living, breathing mountain beside her. Just a few more minutes, honey, Sandy said, a silent message she hoped her daughter would pick up on. They used to communicate so seamlessly, the two of them, with smiles and raised eyebrows and head shakes. Words were all but superfluous. Then they’ll be gone and we can put all this behind us.
Ben held his head perfectly still beneath the bundle of ice. Every now and then his eyes would close, more slowly than the usual reflexive blink, and a wash of tears would spill out.
Sandy suppressed a swell of nausea. She may not have worked on the medical side of the hospital, but still she knew Ben needed an ambulance. Now.
Her husband rallied, though, replacing Sandy’s hand with his own on the ice-filled cloth, and gingerly readjusting it to a spot on the back of his head. “Is she right?”
Ben didn’t seem aware of how his words slurred—he’d dropped the last t in right—but the other man had no problem comprehending him.
“You give us the gear we need, map out a nice little route that will get us across the border,” he said, shrugging. “That’s all I want. Get us on our way and we’ll be out of your hair. Out of this pretty house.” He swung an arm around as if the place were his. “And you never hear from us again.”
The man went over to the steps that led to the basement, bits of grit and shards of wood popping beneath his shoes. He squatted to pick up a bulbous roll of duct tape he’d brought from downstairs. “Harlan,” the man said. “Tear this for me.”
Sandy didn’t even register the order Harlan had been given. As soon as he stood up, abandoning his post by Ivy, Sandy raced forward. She wrapped her daughter in her arms, Ivy’s slight form quivering, her shirt scant wisps around her. Sandy buried her face in her daughter’s hair, breathing in its elixir and letting the tangle of silky strands block out sight.
Harlan’s voice was a rumble across the room. “What next, Nick?”
Something began to break apart inside Sandy. Bricks crumbling red hot; she was choking on their dust. She let go of Ivy without feeling her daughter leave her grasp. The two men were occupied now, but Sandy felt drained, rid of all thought and action, as if a plug had been removed. Could she manage to drag Ivy out without attracting attention? Sandy’s thoughts seized then, and her mind could move no more. It was a screw finally wound too tight, a lid impossible to turn.
The man—Nick—kicked Ben’s ankles into place. Again, that passing wince, a certain constriction in his jaw. He dug the bottle of Advil out of his pocket, uncapping it and swallowing a few pills while Harlan tore piece after piece of duct tape, as steadily as a machine.
Nick pulled three strips off the bulb of Harlan’s thumb, then yanked Ben’s arms behind his back. He mummified Ben’s wrists before setting to work on his ankles, bonding them while keeping Ben upright on the floor like a mannequin.
Nick ducked to test the seal around all four limbs.
“All righty,” he said. “Let’s get to work.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Ivy didn’t look up at first because she didn’t want to see what they were doing to her father. When she finally did lift her head, it turned out to be even worse than she’d feared. Her big, strong dad, who mounted summits and raked whitewater with a paddle, taped up like some kind of package. He stood in one spot, completely helpless to walk, or even crawl.
“So now you want your gear?” her mom said. “I’ll go get it.”
“Not you,” said the man from the basement. Nick was his name. “Her.” He pointed in Ivy’s direction, then held up an admonishing finger. “Accompanied by Harlan.”
The aches and pains Nick had inflicted upon Ivy were basically gone, and his hailstorm of temper seemed to have receded, too. After he had taped Ivy’s mouth in the basement, Nick had gone to pick up the hammer he’d thrown, and used it to nail two-by-fours over the door that led outside. Ivy had sat there, fingering the lump of keys in her pocket, and watching this escape route disappear one board at a time. Now she looked at the scabbing-over cut she had managed to deliver to Nick’s face, and refused to feel afraid.
“I have to hear what you tell him before they go,” her mother said, words Ivy could make no sense of.
Nick walked over to Ivy’s mom. “When you lied to me about the safe, it was for two reasons, right? To delay me, and to supply a reason for your husband to live.”
Ivy had no clue what was going on, but her mother nodded.
“You can see now that deceit is unlikely to work,” Nick continued. “Neither will giving me orders. Luckily you don’t have to.” He turned in Ivy’s direction. “I have no desire to hurt any of you, or have Harlan do it either.” When he smiled, there was a trace of that familiarity again. Ivy actually felt herself smiling back. “So why don’t we just play this straight from now on?”
Ivy was trying to understand what Nick was saying when she saw her dad’s bound form start to waver.
“Please,” Ivy’s mother said. “Can I help my husband sit down?”
Nick blinked, a fake look of surprise. “Of course.”
Ivy’s mom led her dad over to the couch by the sliding glass doors. Ivy turned away, unable to tolerate the sight of her father looking like some handicapped person, or worse, really, really old.
“Nice,” Nick said once Ivy’s mom had gotten her dad settled. “You seem to have a pretty good hold over your husband. Which is why I want the pretty princess to go scavenger hunting while you stay here with us.”
Ivy’s mom looked at him.
“Don’t worry,” Nick went on, pointing to the floor. Dirt and woodchips from the stove were crumbled across it. “You’ll have plenty to do.” He gestured to a plastic dustpan and broom that had been in the pantry before their entire kitchen got thrown about. “Pick up the chairs when you finish.” A pause, then: “Princess?”
Ivy looked up, slowly, effortfully.
“Think you can get us what we need?”
Ivy was about to reply when someone else spoke up.
“Eye…vee?”
Ivy had no idea who it was for a second, even though she had just seen her father sit down. His voice sounded strange, like an engine that couldn’t get started. She ran for the couch and fell to her knees, placing her head on her father’s shoulder. Where was he hurt? She didn’t even know.
“Daddy?” Her own voice was also just shadings of its former self.
“Gore-Tex,” he said, and Ivy looked at him and nodded.
“You won’t have any outfits to fit him, though,” she said, indicating Harlan.
“Next best.”
After a moment, Ivy nodded rapidly. The next best thing would be wool and layers in as large a size
as she could find. Her father brought extra clothes on expeditions for emergency changes, or for clients who arrived less than prepared.
“Matches, camel packs, filtration system, iodine tabs, dried food,” she recited, sparing her father the effort. “Double socks, outerwear, poles.”
Her dad didn’t nod, but the look in his eyes was clearer than a yes. It said that Ivy was not only right in her listing, but also that she had replaced the terrible glisten of pain and something even worse—fear—in her dad’s eyes. They now shone with pride.
Ivy felt her own eyes fill.
“Topo,” her dad said.
“Maps,” Ivy filled in. “And a pen so you can mark them.”
That expression again. Ivy swiped at her face.
“Nav,” her dad said, and Ivy nodded, understanding. The GPS. Maps would only go so far when these men entered the wilderness. But her dad seemed to be struggling to add something. “Get both…kinds of…devices.”
Sweat had broken out on his forehead; it slid down in slimy streaks. After a second, Ivy realized that her dad couldn’t wipe it.
“Hey,” Nick said from behind. “Enough of the daddy’s-little-girl crap.”
Fresh tears started in Ivy’s eyes as she dabbed at her father’s face. She wanted to see that look of pride again so badly that her hands shook. But she had no idea what he was asking her to do.
—
“Harlan,” Nick beckoned, and the big guy came to life. Ivy led him in the direction of her father’s workshop, which was part of the garage. Just as Ivy opened the kitchen door to allow access, Nick called out casually, “Don’t let her leave your side.”
Her mother’s voice rose in a completely un-mom-like shriek that made Ivy feel like a swimmer drifting out of sight of land. “Ivy! Don’t try to get away from him! Not for one single second, do you hear?”
Ivy gave a tremulous nod and stepped through the doorway.
The temperature in the enclosed space was freezing; the heat hadn’t been turned on for the season yet. Ivy wondered what it looked like outside, if ice had come to encase everything in marble. She maneuvered into her father’s workshop, walking away from Harlan on wobbly legs.
Packs, food, water, clothes, outer gear. Most of the list was simple. Only, what had her father meant about two navigation devices?
A hand settled around her arm, although this didn’t feel like a hand; it was altogether too big and strong for a body part. This was more like a piece of equipment, maybe something on a farm. It pulled her back, and Ivy’s feet left the floor; she was airborne until she returned to earth on the spot she’d started walking from.
“Ow,” Ivy said in a little squeak. She couldn’t help it.
Harlan spoke so low she almost couldn’t make it out. “Stay by my side, remember?”
Ivy imagined ways he would be able to keep her close. Harlan might break her arm or squeeze the life out of her simply by trying to restrain her.
“Okay,” Ivy said softly. “I get it. I’ll stay.” She pointed into the dim recesses of the garage, where her dad had installed racks of shelving. Harlan would be able to reach the top shelves just by standing on tiptoes.
The two of them walked, Ivy taking three quick steps for each one of Harlan’s.
Squatting and loading everything into two thick-skinned packs, compressing sleeping bags, balling up socks, Ivy felt as if she might’ve been preparing to go on a hike or a climb with her father, just like they’d always done.
Just like they’d do again so long as Ivy got her dad what he wanted.
She rolled one set of garments in a size XXXL and another from the stack of regular larges, also taking out a suit of Gore-Tex to be put on by Nick. Extra clothes were key. Ivy hadn’t done many winter expeditions, but she knew from listening to her dad. The greatest risk was getting wet. Whether from falling snow or a slip off a mossy rock into a creek, clothes that were so much as damp had to be removed and exchanged right away.
She wondered why she was trying to protect these two men. Why not let them freeze to death once they were a few miles from their house?
Ivy carelessly scattered a handful of iodine tablets over the pouches of food she’d provided. She attached two camel packs to the side straps of the sacks, then opened a filing cabinet, and began to thumb through a folder of maps. Nick had said they were going north, which meant she had to look for Franklin County, southern Quebec, might as well throw in western Vermont for good measure. Then a Sharpie for marking and a Ziploc bag for storing. Harlan watched her preparations without questioning, or even seeming to register them. At last, Ivy rose and unlatched the lockbox.
There were different navigation devices in here, from a top-of-the-line GPS to less expensive ones with fewer features. Was that what her father wanted—to figure out the cheapest one he could get away with losing?
That seemed crazy. They stood to lose a lot more than a GPS.
Ivy cast her gaze up at Harlan, looming like a mountain above her; then she squinted into the deeper shadows of the garage.
Her dad hadn’t said two nav devices, she realized. He’d said two kinds of devices. Ivy’s gaze flicked back to the assortment contained in the box.
And she saw what her father wanted, and why.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Sandy stared at the sheets of paper Ben had covered with scrawl. There was a lot of information to convey, and Sandy had convinced Nick to loosen the tape so that Ben could write it all down. Ben’s speech hadn’t improved, but he still had perfect command of language, and his fine motor skills seemed all right, so long as he used his left hand.
When the door to the garage opened, Sandy felt relief rush over her. She ran to gather Ivy up in her arms, and Ivy clung to her so tightly it seemed they both might be swept away.
“Okay?” Sandy whispered.
“Okay,” said Ivy.
Ivy wriggled free, dashing over to hand a stack of maps to her dad. Ben bent down and set to work, marking prospective routes. After a few minutes, with Sandy content to simply stand beside Ivy, Ben offered up the maps to Nick. They were folded imprecisely, lumpy and creased, either due to rage or to his injured right arm. But Sandy could make out the dark slashes of lines that would take these men out of their lives forever, and her need for them to go felt so urgent that the notes she’d been reading trembled in her grip like leaves in a strong wind.
Nick bound Ben’s wrists tightly behind his back again, then turned around and said, “So. You have some things for us, princess?”
Ivy’s slim back was trussed with one of Ben’s backcountry packs, and Harlan wore one too, so small upon him that it looked more like a schoolchild’s knapsack.
“Good,” said Nick. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”
Both Ivy and Harlan shouldered off their packs, Harlan’s making the long drop down from his shoulders to the floor and landing with a clang of equipment. The zipper whined as Ivy drew hers along its track, while Sandy held up the sheaf of papers and shook them straight.
—
Ivy got down on her knees to pull items out. Harlan sat on the floor beside her, awkwardly positioned like an overgrown lion, as Ivy exhibited things and Sandy read aloud, a duo in some gruesome game show.
Ben’s notes covered a range of requirements: calorie minimums given energy expended, ounces of water per day for different conditions, the necessity of layers. Ivy continued to take pieces of gear out one by one, displaying each with a flourish.
“The biggest danger is getting wet,” Sandy read from Ben’s jerky, left-handed jottings. “Even from sweat. You can run out of food or even water, but if you get wet, hypothermia will set in and you’ll die within hours.” She saw Ben’s fury in the words he had scrawled, dark slabs against the paper, and it shaded her intonation.
Nick made a hand-waving gesture. “Dry not wet. Got it.”
Sandy looked down again. Ben had started to write another long bullet point, with the heading Naismith’s rule. But he’d stopped in the mi
ddle to scribble a series of numbers. Sandy squinted to discern what was meant.
Nick took a step closer, and it was all the prompting Sandy needed.
“Figure a pace of four miles per hour because you’ll be descending,” she said, making sense of Ben’s sums. “Five hours to the border, which will not be marked. Another forty miles to Montreal. Two-and-a-half-day hike approximately…”
It occurred to Sandy, as she continued to read, that this compliant, information-providing incarnation didn’t sound like her fighter-by-nature husband. Sandy’s voice began to trail off, the sound of a record slowing down
He’s a guide, she argued with herself. And he’s slipped into that mode to get us all out of this. But the words sounded weak inside her own head, and her body felt as if it were filling with icy cold water.
Sandy looked down. Harlan was helping Ivy wrest items into place, his maneuvers clumsy and awkward beside Ivy’s careful stacking.
Nick let the top of his jumpsuit fall to his waist, tugging a thin skin of Gore-Tex over his head. His chest was a graffiti wall of blue and black tattoos, delineating the muscles that reinforced his frame. Nick donned a second shirt, then bent and touched a spot on his leg before adding a third. Sandy pressed her eyes shut, hard enough to be headache-inducing. When she opened them again, Ivy was also averting her eyes, while Nick pulled on bottom layers. Clad, he used one foot to nudge a pile of clothing in Harlan’s direction, issuing a command to get dressed.
“Wait,” Ivy said. “Don’t forget this.” She took a black unit from a pocket on the pack, and held it up. “Mom? Did Dad write anything about this?”
Ben shifted forward on the couch, sitting on its edge.
Sandy looked down, frowning. She read a few lines at the bottom of the page. “You’ll want a GPS. Topo maps are for emergency losses of charge, but this device will give you your location and get you where you need to go.”
As Night Falls Page 13
