Kaye looked at him. “The others and I respect you immensely,” the assistant professor said. “We asked you to join us because we trust you and want you here. We, I, want you with us.” Kaye put his arm around him. “We’re all together in this. All right?”
“Yes,” he said, but could not meet Kaye’s eyes.
37
HE CARRIED THE BAG FROM KAYE WITH HIM BACK to the center of the unfamiliar northern city, the weight of its contents as familiar as that of a lover sleeping on his arm. He considered not opening the bag, not looking at the object inside, not cleaning it, not testing it, since he didn’t wish to use it. But then he thought of how, if he refused to familiarize himself with the gift, it might be him missing and the other person aiming true instead, and something in him was too proud to let that happen because of something as stupid as misguided reluctance.
Back in the city center he withdrew money from a cash machine, bought a case of self-heating field rations and packets of liquid energy gel, hired a car with a hybrid engine under an assumed name, and drove in the direction he had first arrived in. He had spotted the place from the train and taken note of it, knowing what Kaye wanted. After a brief search in the forest-filled darkness he pulled into the parking lot and stopped the car, checked that all the windows were up and the doors locked, before he lowered the driver’s seat as far as it would go and went to sleep.
During the night, he woke several times, turning in the cold, pulling the coat tighter around himself. The last time was at dawn, when a gray mist rolled in between the trunks of the slim, ancient-looking firs that stood in front of the car. The fog pulled his gaze in, capturing his attention completely, and then it was like he could see the entire forest, row upon row of firs all the way back to the first tree. His pulse beat slowly in his ears, but behind it hummed a silence that engulfed him. He fell into a deep sleep and didn’t wake till it was nearly midday.
Only a few other vehicles occupied the parking lot, a gravel-covered rectangle overlooking the narrow but fast-flowing river that wound through the valley. It was known as a great place for trout fishing, and he half expected to see fly fishers casting their lines on the banks, but there were none. He got out, locked the car, yawned and stretched, and walked to the edge of the gravel. The day was windless, but a fine rain hung like a curtain in the air. In the middle of the river was a small shrub-covered islet and a few boulders downstream. On both banks the remains of small birches and bird cherry trees leaned over the water, whose surface was smooth and glassy, even from where he stood. The vegetation on the bottom of the river looked like green hair that streamed and fluttered with the current. On the bank below the parking lot stood the red and yellow posters he had spotted from the train.
He took the bag carefully out of the trunk and crunched across the gravel to the steel-paneled building on the other side of the rural road. Inside the entrance a teen in thick coveralls and boots sat behind a fold-out plastic table with a red steel box and a school textbook open in front of him.
“Member or non-member?” the boy said.
“Non-member,” he said.
“We’re offering a discount on yearly memberships,” the boy started, barely looking up from the book. “It gives better hourly rates...”
“That won’t be necessary,” he said. “I only need access for today.”
The boy nodded. “Want to buy ammunition?”
“No, but I’d like to borrow ear protection and sandbags, if you have them.”
“We have good muffs and bags,” the boy said. “They’re right inside.”
“Thank you,” he said.
The boy mentioned a small sum of money. He handed the boy a note, told him to keep the remainder, then strode past him and into the building.
A wooden deck shielded by a strip of moss-thatched roof looked out on a wide field of short grass and circular targets. He walked to the end of the gallery, past the few people who were already there, hunched down, and opened the bag. The smell of oil and metal rose from it and mixed with those of his surroundings: gunpowder, wood varnish, moist grass, and rain. He took out the cleaning kit and inspected its brushes, rod, screwdrivers, and cleaning solution for the first time.
Fortunately, whoever had made the purchase had wrapped and packed the gun properly. The weapon itself had been disassembled and was rolled up in a soft, dust-free cloth. The finely measured and manufactured parts glistened of oil, the barrel and chamber shiny and unused. He went through every item, cleaned and oiled them, then put them together into the whole they were meant to form, hesitating a little with the trigger mechanism for not having previous experience with the manufacturer. The scope and mount, however, was a brand he was familiar with, although the make was new to him, and they immediately clicked into place.
Beyond the shelter of the moss-covered roof, the rain fell unceasingly, creating a low hiss in the grass. He had no time to lose. The midday light was gray and even, but would soon give way to dusk. He put the ear protection muffs on, took out his phone, removed and folded his coat, and placed both next to the bag. Then he lay down prone with the rifle on the sand sock and aimed at the nearest target. There were no flags or markers up, but judging from the curtain of precipitation, the wind speed must be close to zero. He looked through the scope, its aiming reticle and dots black and clear, leaned into the stock, and relaxed. The focus and breathing technique he had been taught returned immediately. When he was comfortable he took the first shot.
A few more rounds told him that the parts were working well and made him familiar with the trigger pressure needed. He then shot to calibrate the optics at one hundred meter range, tapped the results into the phone between each shot to characterize the weapon, like a naturalist describing the individuals of a new species. After each shot he checked the lip of the barrel for the golden mark of copper traces, cleaned and oiled it, and set it to cool. When the sights were giving consistent results, he repeated the calibration and cleaning procedure at three hundred meters and then at a range of five hundred meters. The weapon and optics seemed stable and sufficient. The barrel coppered slightly, but not so much that he couldn’t get rid of it with the equipment and cleaning solution that was in the bag. He shot five series of five more rounds, letting the weapon cool after each shot, cleaning the barrel and lubricating the bolt after each series. He wondered if the rain might cease or the wind pick up as evening approached, but the droplets remained a vertical drapery and the grass stood straight and unmoving as the afternoon progressed. He cleaned the rifle again, then shot five series of five rounds each, to see how the weapon behaved when it was warm. When those results became predictable and repeatable, he made a few final shots, cleaned and oiled the rifle one last time, before he rolled it into the cloth and returned it to the bag, together with the rest of the equipment. Night had fallen and the fluorescent lamps in the roof blinked on. When he passed the table in the entryway it was empty, and he hurried to leave before anyone else appeared.
At the car he put the bag in the trunk, vomited into the grass at the edge of the gravel and spat into the vegetation. Then he started the vehicle, drove it back to the rental agency in the center of the northern city, and fetched his backpack at the train station. From there the trip on the night train south to the mountains was long and silent, and ended with him walking back from the platform to the cabin in the faint beam from the headlamp, not feeling his legs nor hands nor feet, not even the weight of the bag held close to his body.
He put the backpack and the bag in the corner of the cabin that had the least amount of water on the floor, went back outside and walked to the grove of birches that separated Eloise and Mark’s land from his. In the scattered light from the headlamp the trunks were speckled black on silver, the bark rough and grainy. The trees were slim and only a little taller than himself, kept low and humble by the altitude and wind, not like in the lowland where deciduous trees grew to three times that size. The birches even bent in the same direction as the most pre
valent motion of air. The ground was covered by the leaf-fall from the birches, heart-shaped yellow, orange, and brown foliage that had survived the mild winter. He lay down, the beam from the lamp bobbing with his motions, and breathed in the fragrance of decomposition and soil, letting the earth’s moisture seep into his clothes, while earthworms, beetles, and slugs crawled over his face and hands.
38
INCLUDING KAYE THEY WERE SIX, STANDING ON the beach inside the night. The early spring wind was sour and chilling, but had already lost its winter teeth. He regretted not having said goodbye to Michael properly after Christmas, one last moment of tenderness between them to pretend he wasn’t the kind of person who would do what he was about to.
Kaye had texted him on the phone he’d given him in the basement of the empty house, telling him to take the train back to the city in the north where they had met, walk to a particular beach, and crush the phone on the way. It was just a few weeks since he met Kaye in the unfinished neighborhood, but it felt like years. During the time waiting in the cabin for the message he knew would come, and on the journey to that beach, he had been torn between what he thought was necessary and what he knew was right, the future and the past. As when he had first arrived at the cabin, he yearned to call Michael and flee back to the city.
He glanced at the others, thought he recognized Narayan and the blond woman from the second lecture, but wasn’t certain. He took in what he could see of their faces, the eyes and forehead and hair, trying to imagine what they looked like beneath the thin fabric of their masks. In the low illumination he couldn’t even see the shade of their eyes, whether they were light or dark, much less the color. If their features had been fully visible, he could have guessed what they looked like as children or would when they grew old, perhaps even when they were dead.
“It’s time,” Kaye said and waded into the inflatable vessel that was bobbing in the surf. The others followed. Despite the coveralls, masks, and gloves Kaye had given them, he felt naked, exposed. The engine roared to life, spewed exhaust fumes, jolted the small craft to motion. One of the four strangers startled visibly, the others remained calm and passive.
The craft kicked up sprays of seawater as it sped across the surface. The vessel had been following the beach for less than ten minutes and they were no farther than a kilometer from land, but the gleaming shore, with its weekend vacationers, surf and turf dinners, and off-season specials, seemed a million light years away.
Yet, even now the impulse to resist was strong, like pulling his hand away from a hot plate, or closing his eyes before a punch. Scenario after scenario that suggested a way, no matter how unrealistic or risky, out of the current situation, surged through his mind. The solutions offered were so tempting that his body swayed with the desired motion. For a while he defused the impulses before they could turn into action, but suddenly, he could no longer stop the urge that rose in his spine, could no longer stand the choking feeling in his throat, despite how things were and how he felt about them. In the past he had had similar doubts and not acted on them because the cost seemed too high, but now he no longer had a choice.
“I can’t do this!” he shouted over the din of the engine and the noise of the wind. “I’m sorry.”
The others turned toward him as if they were taking him in from a far distance, but the vessel didn’t slow down. He wasn’t even certain they had heard him over the motor noise and the emptiness of the water. Quickly, he leaned over the rubber side of the craft, as he had been taught to in case of emergency evacuation, but never had to do before now, curled up into a ball to protect his head and chest, and launched himself into the roaring blackness.
He hit the water hard, bounced once along it like a skipping stone, and for a frightening moment he thought he would keep going, but then his motion slowed enough for the ocean’s surface to soften and take him in.
He let himself sink into the dark, still curled up, struggling not to gasp from the cold water that rushed into his nose and ears and clothes. He wondered if the rubber vessel would turn to search for him, but he thought not. Their window of opportunity was limited, and he had shown himself a traitor before they had even started. Still curled up, he blinked against the cold water, tugged at his boots with slow, deliberate motions to make the oxygen he had last longer. He expected resistance, but the boots came off even though his fingers were growing stiff from the chill. The water must have softened the lining. The rifle was gone, it no longer hugged his body. He imagined it falling through the water, sailing back and forth like a black feather, before being swallowed up by the deep. He kicked to get to the surface while he pulled the top of the coveralls off.
He had just enough air to stop for a few seconds to listen for the sound of nearby engines before he broke the surface. There was none, only a low, distant hum that vanished quickly in the wind and the waves. He scanned the darkness for the telltale motion of the lightless vessel, but saw nothing. Staying low in the water, he discarded the coveralls, then began to swim toward land.
At first the water was warmer than he had mentally prepared for when he left the craft. He had expected muscle cramps from the chill, but that didn’t happen. It was cold, but not as cold as it would have been that early in the spring a few years back. The wind had picked up and lashed the surface white, but it hadn’t been blowing for long, so the waves were still manageable. The water was still cool enough to chill him and the piercing wind made his ears ache.
He hoped they assumed he had drowned, but he nevertheless glanced back several times. After about forty-five minutes of swimming at medium speed to pace himself, the cold began to bother him. It had been a long time since he had swam in the sea in early spring, and when he did he had worn a wetsuit. The salt burned his eyes, blurred his vision and forced itself into his nose and mouth. His right hand, whose bones still bore plates and screws after his visit to the abandoned asylum last spring, turned stiff and aching. The shore was still far away.
He used to think that when people drowned they behaved like sinking characters in films or on TV, splashing and yelling and waving their arms. But during his training he learned that people who were about to drown were quiet and exhibited little motion. He had assumed that was due to embarrassment and an erroneous belief that they would manage to get out of the trouble on their own, but according to the instructor, this was caused by the nature of drowning itself. Drowning victims were running out of air even if they managed to keep their mouth above the surface. In medical terms, drowning was slowly suffocating from lack of oxygen; it wasn’t just getting water in the lungs.
Were the wind and the current taking him away from land? He gulped and snorted, trying to get rid of the water in his mouth and nose, but his breathing, which had started controlled and regular, had become more and more imbalanced. Every time he thought he was on the up stroke and had his chin above water, a wave arrived and splashed him in the face, forcing him to swallow mouthfuls of sickening seawater. He gagged and coughed and spat, but soon a coppery flavor told him his nose was bleeding from the salt and the force of the waves, while all the muscles in his body hurt from straining against the sea.
He started to wonder whether drowning was the end that had been chosen for him, that he would be devoured by the deep as easily as the rifle, by an element he had always felt comfortable, even intimate, with. But as he swallowed the last mouthful of seawater he thought he could take, completely out of breath, and knew he had reached the limit of his endurance, he saw that the lights on the beach were substantially closer. He continued to reach for them, with one more stroke, and another, and another. His hands and feet were stiff from cold, blood running down his face, while he was dog-paddling more than swimming. He put all his focus on keeping air in his lungs for buoyancy. Then the ocean roared and roiled and he felt it swell behind him, like the maw of a Kraken about to rise up from the deep. The motion surged his body forward, and there was no resisting or refusing being engulfed. Realizing his complete and utte
r helplessness, he gave in to the sea the same way he did with the inner brightness and let it carry him where it wanted to.
The long wave didn’t crash or slam him back into the water, but crested gently without foam, then threw him up on land like a distasteful meal. It even pushed him a little into the cold sand, so that when the surf finally receded back into the ocean, he was left lying in a depression shaped like his own body, too exhausted to even cough.
39
THE OCEAN NIPPED AT HIS TOES AND SPLASHED his feet and ankles, each new wave renewing the intensity of his shivering. An icy wave rolled as far as his crotch, causing him to gasp and open his eyes. He pushed his hands and knees beneath him and stumbled up. The beach tilted back and forth and his ears were ringing with pain. His arms and legs were stiff and ached from freezing. He was so cold it felt like he’d never stop shaking.
The beach and the slope up to the road were still a wall of darkness ahead, but behind him the sky had started to pale. At the horizon the dawn had broken through the clouds and silhouetted them against the blue of the pre-dawn sky. The knowledge that he must not be seen took over and pushed him onward.
Above the beach the hill had been sectioned into small communal gardens, separated by low hedges of boxwood and spirea. Each garden held a modest building, sheds or greenhouses he thought at first, but as he drew closer they turned out to be small wooden cabins painted in warm primary colors. The walls of the miniscule structures were covered in trellises and vines of climbing plants. Most plots had rows of vegetable or flower beds, but he also spotted a faux marble fountain and a sleeping brass fawn. The patchwork of gardens was protected by a chain-link fence, but a shed leaned against it in the corner by the gate. He followed the fence to the shed, climbed the chain-link, and landed on the roof. From there he jumped into the damp grass.
Not Dark Yet Page 17
