by Jon Cohen
Stu peered into the green dark of the woods. Why hadn’t he left bread crumbs so he could find his way back to the car? Well, he had dropped a couple of cigarette butts. Yes, he would follow a trail of butts to safety! Brilliant! He walked, eyes to the ground, searching for the littered white of a cigarette.
An owl hooted, practically in his ear. Stu stifled a cry. Owls were night birds. It was dark as night in here. He looked up into the tangle of tree limbs. No visible sky, only a dense, horrible green. With owls in it. And what if snakes started dropping from the tree limbs? Get a grip, man, he told himself, that only happens in the jungle. You’re much more likely to get bitten by a rabid raccoon. Or stomped by a deer. Or clawed by a bear.
He had to get the hell out of this forest.
“Harry,” he called softly into the trees. Harry would save him. Yes, find Harry, say you’ve come to apologize for that punch you didn’t mean to throw. I’d been drinking, I’ll say. I was drunk.
“Harry? Harry Crane, where are you?”
The sudden throb and whoosh of wings, as a red-tailed hawk flew past his head, its tail the color of blood. Stu screamed and ran pell-mell through the forest.
“Harry! Harry!”
He bumped into tree trunks. Tripped over rocks. Fought his way through dense patches of goldenrod and thistle. He tore the sleeve of his suit coat, scuffed his shiny shoes, bloodied his forehead.
“Harry!”
Running, running, from owls, hawks, anacondas, tigers, elephants.
And then the ground beneath him vanished, and he was flying. His arms windmilled in the air.
No. Not flying. Falling.
“Aaaaahhhh!”
Obscured by a tangle of vines and dense undergrowth, Stu had not seen the lip of the quarry. He saw it now. A great giant rocky pit, sixty feet deep. All his life he had wondered how he was going to die. Now he knew.
“Oooph.”
He’d dropped about four feet onto a rocky ledge. He would’ve bounced off it and fallen to his death, but his leg had gotten entangled in a vine.
He lay, limbs akimbo, his bruised cheek resting on a flat rock. His eyes fixed on a small opening in the pile of stone about three feet in front of him. The sun shining a single beam into the interior of the little cave.
Stu narrowed his eyes and looked. What are those? Boxes? He wriggled his ankle free from the vine. Had he not been diverted by the strange sight of the hidden boxes, he might have noticed that the vine that had saved his life was poison ivy. He raised himself to all fours, balancing precariously on the wobbly mound of quarry stone, and inched on his hands and knees toward the opening. He squeezed himself inside the little cave and crawled over to the boxes.
“Ow!”
Something stung him. He swatted at his neck. A yellow jacket fell to the ground, squirming. Stu beat it to smithereens with a rock. He looked back at the entrance of the cave. There were lots of yellow jackets out there, zipping nastily in and out of the light.
He turned again to the boxes. Eight of them, about the size that hiking boots came in. He looked at his ruined dress shoes. He wished he’d worn hiking boots. How strange that someone would hide hiking boots in a cave. He shimmied closer and reached for the top box. Nothing printed on it, and the address label had been removed. Not much room to maneuver inside the tight cave.
He lifted the box—or tried to, the unexpected weight of it startling. It weighed at least thirty pounds. He dropped it. It jangled metallically.
“You’re not hiking boots,” he said. Then, “Ow!” as another yellow jacket stung him behind the ear.
The bees were starting to swarm around the entrance. He had to get out of here. It was the perfect place to die, stuffed in a tight cave, where nobody would ever find him. Who would even look?
But what were all these boxes? He tore at the packing tape of the one he’d picked up, pulled back the flaps, yanked at the bubble wrap. Tubes. Coin tubes. Filled with yellow coins.
No. Not yellow.
Stu’s mouth opened and closed.
Yellow was not the color. Gold was the color.
A third bee stung him. “Ow,” he said softly. “Ow, wow. Wow, wow, wow.”
He poured the coins into his hands. Some of them slid through his fingers and rolled into the corners of the cave. Plink, plink.
“Gold! It’s gold!”
Stu was not a religious man, but suddenly he believed in all the gods that are and ever were, even the weird Roman ones dressed in togas. “Gold, gold!” he cried, his voice bouncing off the stone walls.
He poured the coins from one hand to the other, drunkenly.
This was who he was meant to be! This guy, the one holding gold coins in his hands!
Sick with excitement, he tried to think. Each coin weighs, what, an ounce? A thousand dollars an ounce. Boxes and boxes, ounces and ounces. When the figure flashed into his brain, it was a miracle he didn’t throw up or pass out. There had to be over two million dollars of gold in these boxes. Not a six-figure man—he was a seven-figure man!
“Stu Giptner’s rich,” he whispered.
He did not ask the question: Whose was it? Because the answer was so obvious. “It’s mine. It’s all mine!”
He stuffed loose coins into his pocket in a frenzy. Then, unexpectedly, he did something stunning. He paused. Thought rationally, with razor-sharp clarity.
There was a tale Olive Perkins had once read out loud to the class. An unscary one. Not Grimm, that other guy. Aesop. Aesop’s Fables. “The Goose That Laid the Golden Egg.” The old Stu would grab as much gold as he was able, right here, right now. But there was probably two hundred pounds of gold sitting here. Line his pockets—or get it all?
Get it all. That’s what the new Stu would do. New Stu. Yes. He had one shot to get this right. He turned around and looked at the entrance to the cave. All these bees: bug spray. To carry all the gold: a large backpack. And the road he’d parked on—it was the old quarry road. He could drive close to this quarry, but not in his Buick. He’d need an AWD, and he knew just where he could find one. Back at Endless Realty. Mr. Bromler’s company car. The black Dodge Durango SXT, the one Mr. Bromler used to haul around the vacation property buyers. The elite.
Yeah, well, who was Mr. Elite now? Stu’s mind was so clear, he felt like he was on drugs. No, not on drugs, he was a winner. That’s what he was feeling. He had the brain of a winner.
He crawled out of the cave, swatted the air, moving quickly past the bees. He hopped to the adjacent mound of rocks and pulled himself up on the ledge where’d he first fallen. He stood on the edge of the quarry. He didn’t even feel dizzy, looking down in that big hole. He breathed deeply of the forest. Maybe with his millions he’d buy this forest. Perhaps he’d buy the Endless Mountains.
He took out his pack of cigarettes, thinking oh so clearly and cleverly, and broke them into little pieces. He perched them on tree trunks and on top of boulders, leaving a trail for himself. He found the top of the old quarry road, and followed it for a half mile back to where he’d parked his car.
Everything was so easy now. That’s the way it went for winners. The world was Stu’s oyster.
32
Harry was sitting at the counter in Cappy’s Diner in Martensberg staring up at the TV when Amanda looked into the camera and said, “Thank you.”
He swallowed his grilled cheese very carefully, looking neither right nor left. Was it obvious to the patrons of the diner that she was speaking directly to him? It felt like a Susquehanna Santa neon sign was suddenly flashing above his head.
Harry’s waitress, looking at the TV, said, “Why is she going to work?” She called over to the owner, sitting behind the cash register. “Hey, Ray, advance notice. When I get my bag of gold, I’ll be taking the day off.”
“You do that, Betty Ann, and I’ll replace you with that nurse. She’s a
dedicated worker.”
Betty Ann laughed. “She wouldn’t take your crapola, Ray. Look at the way she pushed past those reporters.”
Betty Ann turned to Harry. “More Diet Coke?”
“I’m fine, thanks.”
“Boy, what I could do with a bag of gold.”
Harry leaned in a little. “What would you do with a bag of gold?” Because, you know, Betty Ann, I could make your dream happen. Why not, maybe this is the way the stars are aligning. I have to stay out of the forest today. I’m out among the good people of Susquehanna County, and now I get to make a dream happen, up close and personal. Betty Ann, the Santa spotlight is on you. What would you do with a million dollars? Yes, that’s right, Betty Ann, a million, because the Susquehanna grum is about to hurl the last of his gold in heaps.
“I’d fly first class to New York City,” Betty Ann said, “take a limo to Tiffany’s and buy the first necklace I saw. Then I’d buy out the entire theater that’s showing The Lion King and watch it by myself, because I don’t like to sit next to people coughing and crackling their candy wrappers.”
Sorry, Betty Ann, Harry thought. No bag of gold on your doorstep tonight.
Three stools down, a burly customer in dusty overalls said, “Phantom of the Opera. That’s the one to go to.”
“Dave would know, right?” Betty Ann said to the rest of the patrons. Heads nodded.
“Oh yeah,” Dave said amiably to Harry. “Seen it five times.” He held up the five fingers of his right hand when he said it. He was missing part of his little finger.
“You mean four and half?” Betty Ann said, and everybody, including Dave, laughed. “Dave, show him your lottery ticket.” To Harry, apparently the only nonlocal in the diner, she said, “Dave won five thousand bucks last year.”
Dave took out his wallet and showed Harry. It was a well-worn photocopy of his winning ticket. “They keep the original,” Dave said.
“Nice,” Harry said. He looked without looking. He didn’t want to see the date on the ticket. Things at Cappy’s Diner were getting way too close to home. He paid up and went out to his car. His phone vibrated. Text message.
Amanda: having bizarre day. you?
Harry: lying lower than low.
Amanda: will you pick O up at school at 3? don’t want her to go home. I might be late.
Harry: Done. meet at Green Gables?
Amanda: pratt library better.
Harry: got it.
A couple of hours to kill. Driving aimlessly around the county was unnerving. What he really wanted to do was go to the quarry and start loading up his car for tonight’s delivery. But that wasn’t going to happen. He’d have to do it in twilight, maybe even in the dark. Harry looked at all the SUSQUEHANNA SANTA PLEASE STOP HERE! signs in the yards. In the beginning, all the signs had been handmade, but somebody had quickly made a little business out of it. There were signs for sale in convenience stores and gas stations. It was the way the world worked. Pretty soon there’d be plastic good-luck charms in the shape of gold coins and Susquehanna Santa bobblehead dolls.
And there were more people on the roads, too, definitely. Tourists coming in, out-of-state license plates. A car with Ohio plates passed him. Then one from Florida. Not good. What if they started moving up here, buying houses, hoping to get on the Susquehanna Santa game board? The writing was on the wall. He’d talk it over with Team Gold. Oriana, you said it yourself, the lottery ticket isn’t magic, let’s finish this thing tonight. One more bag. One and done.
Harry was deep in thought as he approached the light at an intersection. When Wolf drove past in his red Lexus, it registered in Harry’s brain in a dreamlike way, like a premonition that the world was closing in—the bag appearing on Amanda’s doorstep, Harry having to lie low, crowds and signs and bobblehead dolls—and now hallucinations of Wolf.
Except it wasn’t a hallucination. It really was Wolf, in his red Lexus, huge and hunched over the wheel, zooming through a green light.
“Wolf?”
Unmistakably, undeniably, unbelievably Wolf. Just as he’d vowed, Wolf had found him.
“Wolf!” Harry’s foot hit the gas pedal. What was he thinking as he floored it into the intersection on a red light? Pursuit? Escape? Pure shock. A pickup truck, coming at him from the left, honked, screeched its brakes. Harry saw it at the last second and swerved. His Camry jumped the curb and hit a telephone pole.
He heard the detonation pop of the airbag, then he heard the crash. Then he heard a crunch when the side of his head bounced off the driver’s window.
Pop, crash, crunch. Pop, crash, crunch. Around and around inside his head. It was almost musical, and it certainly had nothing to do with him. Where were these sounds coming from? And red seemed to be a suddenly important color. Wolf in his red Lexus. Was he inside Wolf’s car?
“Harry,” said a voice.
“Wolf?” Harry said dreamily.
“Harry,” said a voice.
“Wolf?”
“He’s barking,” said a voice. Then, “Harry, can you open your eyes?” Then, “Squeeze my fingers, Harry.” Then, “He’s still bleeding. Give me another HemCon.”
What an odd request. Why does Wolf want me to squeeze his fingers? Pop, crash, crunch. Harry opened his eyes. It was like being yanked out of a dream.
He was moving. A siren was screaming. And Bill the EMT guy was staring into his face. Harry was unable to move. He was on a stretcher, strapped onto a stabilizer board and wearing a neck brace.
Bill was running his fingers through Harry’s scalp. It felt kind of soothing and nice. “No blood, no contusion.”
Harry couldn’t see who Bill was talking to.
“Harry, did you black out?” Bill said.
His left cheek hurt. “Cheek hurts.”
“You have a pretty good laceration. You’ll have a nice pirate scar to remember this day.”
“Wolf,” Harry said.
“He keeps saying woof,” said the EMT Harry couldn’t see.
Bill was suddenly prying his eyelids open and shining a very bright light. “Harry, don’t go neuro on us.” Bill said to the other EMT: “Pupils equal and reactive, no dilation.”
Harry was trying to piece it together. He was at the intersection, he remembered that, and he saw his brother. Absolutely: Wolf in his red Lexus.
“Wolf’s here,” Harry said.
“I’m not following you, Harry.”
“In the intersection, I saw him.”
Harry saw Bill give the other EMT guy a look. Bill said, “German shepherd, maybe? No wolves around here. Coyotes sometimes.”
“Once in a while, a mountain lion,” the other EMT said. “But that’s like, totally rare.”
“Wolf.” And he wasn’t speaking to Bill or the other guy. He was speaking to himself. Or maybe he wasn’t speaking out loud at all. He was feeling pretty loopy, his brain flooded with post-shock adrenaline and endorphins. But the real shock was that his brother was here, in the Endless Mountains, in Susquehanna County. Even closer than that—he’d come within thirty feet of Harry. So intent on finding him, whizzing through that intersection he didn’t even see Harry. Which meant that Wolf had a destination in mind, and it wasn’t Martensberg, where both brothers happened to be only by chance. Of course, he had a destination. On the scent, Wolf never failed.
You’re in your forest, Harry, up your tree. And I’m coming.
* * *
Bill the EMT had called Amanda.
“I’m with Harry,” he said. “We’re bringing him in, car accident.”
Amanda’s heart had lurched. She heard Bill, but in her panicked mind, she heard Ronnie’s voice, Ronnie on the phone, a year ago, calling about Dean. Amanda, this is Ronnie. The EMTs are with Dean. And she thought, This is the way the world works. Because it happened to me once, doesn’t mean it can’t happen
twice.
Outside in the parking lot, there were a few lingering reporters and gawkers, hospital security keeping them away from the ER doors. Who has this kind of day? Filled with gold and TV reporters, and the wail of an approaching siren?
Amanda was so scared she was calm, floating. It was the concussion that would kill Harry. She saw it all so clearly, because she’d observed it a half-dozen times in the ER. The farmers falling off their tractors, or the quarry guys with their stone saws, taking a chunk of flying quarry stone to the head, and waltzing into the ER with abashed grins and only a small cut—walkie talkies, the ER staff called them—while the hidden hematoma blossomed in their skulls.
Harry would come in here, and he would bleed out and the day would end with him laid on the morgue table. Now she was thinking just like Oriana and Harry, connecting dots that in reality were not connected, telling herself the story of the arrival and departure of Harry Crane. His end foretold by his beginning. The day they’d first met in the forest he’d had a head wound. As he’d come into her life, so was he doomed to leave it. He would not survive the same injury twice.
And what would she tell Oriana? The angels have come again. The wingèd ones. Why did I allow Harry into our lives? Amanda thought. How could I have been so thoughtless?
“So, what’s coming into room 1?” said Dr. Kroner, the ER resident.
“Car accident. Facial laceration. Possible concussion. Vitals stable.”
Dr. Kroner hearing: easy case. “Good. I’m going to wolf down some lunch, then we’ll sew him up.”
She was not comforted by Dr. Kroner, and she was not comforted when the ambulance arrived and the doors swung open and Harry was alive, the left side of his pale face covered with a big pressure bandage. He was babbling to Bill, not even turning her way when she said his name, his eyes not fixing on her until he was secure in room 1 with half a dozen staff moving around him like drone bees. Then he fixed on her, blinking in the light.
“Wolf,” he said to her.
