“I’m afraid so.”
“Hell of a deal.”
He continues his steady gaze. “Only one you’ve got.”
Chapter 42
When I get to the steps of my lakeside house, the door is open. I slowly walk in, my hand reaching for the phantom weapon at my side, everything about me extending and tingling as I enter the strange place that used to be my home. I step through the small kitchen, my boots crunching the broken glassware and dishes on the tile floor. Inside the living room with its cathedral ceiling the furniture has been upended, as if an earthquake had suddenly struck.
I pause for a second in the living room, looking out the large windows and past the enclosed porch and down to the frozen waters of Lake Marie and, off in the far distance, the snow-covered peaks of the White Mountains. I wait, trembling, my hand still curving for that elusive weapon. They are gone. My house is empty.
But their handiwork remains. The living room is a jumble of furniture, torn books and magazines, shattered pictures and frames. On one clear white plaster wall, right next to the fireplace, two words have been written in what looks to be ketchup:
GO HOME.
This is my home. I turn over a chair and drag it to the windows. I sit and look out at the crisp winter landscape, legs stretched out, holding both hands quite still in my lap, which is quite a feat.
My hands, at that moment, want to be wrapped around someone’s throat.
Old feelings and emotions are coursing through me, taking control. I take a few deep breaths and then I’m in the cellar, switching on the single lightbulb that hangs down from the rafters by a frayed black cord. As I work among the packing cases and undo the combination locks, my shoulders strike the lightbulb, causing it to swing back and forth, casting crazy shadows on the stone walls.
The night air is cool and crisp, and I shuffle through the snow around the house as I go out to the pickup truck, making three trips in all. I drive under the speed limit and brake completely at all stop signs as I go through the center of town, wasting minutes and hours and listening to the radio. Since Nansen is so far north, a lot of the stations I pick up are from Quebec, and there’s a joyous nature to the French Canadian music that makes something inside of me ache with longing.
When it’s almost a new day, I drive down Mast Road. Most towns around here have a Mast Road, where colonial surveyors would mark tall pines that would eventually become masts for the Royal Navy. Tonight there are no surveyors, just the night air and darkness, and a skinny rabbit, racing across the cracked asphalt.
When I’m near the target, I switch off the lights and engine and let the truck glide the last hundred feet or so. I pull up across from a darkened house. A pickup truck and Subaru station wagon are in the driveway. Gray smoke is wafting up from the chimney.
I roll down the window, the cold air washing over me, almost like a wave of water. I pause, remembering what has gone on these past weeks, and then I get to work.
Chapter 43
The night vision scope comes up and clicks into action, and the name on the mailbox is clear enough in the sharp green light. TOMPKINS, in silver and black stick-on letters from the hardware store. I scan the two-story Cape, checking the surroundings. There’s an attached garage to the right and a sunroom off to the left. There’s a main door in front and another door for the breezeway that runs from the garage to the house. There are no rear doors.
I let the night scope rest in my lap and reach my hand over to the side, to my weapons. The first is an old-fashioned M79 grenade launcher, with a handful of 40mm white phosphorus rounds clustered next to it on the seat, like a gathering of metal eggs. Next to the grenade launcher is a reminder of my past life, a Heckler & Koch HK416. Another night vision scope with crosshairs is attached to the rifle.
Another series of deep breaths. Easy enough plan. Pop a white phosphorus round into the breezeway and another into the sunroom. In a minute or two, both ends of the house will be on fire. Our snowmobiler friend and his family will wake up, and, groggy from sleep, and in the terror of the fire and the noise, they’ll stumble out the front door onto the snow-covered lawn.
And the HK416 will be in my hands, and the crosshairs on a certain face, a face with a mustache, and then I’ll take care of business and drive on to the next house, and then the next one after that.
Sure.
I pick up the grenade launcher and rest the barrel on the open window. It’s cold. I rub my legs together and look outside, up at the stars. The wind comes up and some snow blows across the road. I hear the low hoo-hoo-hoo of an owl.
I bring the grenade launcher up, resting the stock against my cheek. I aim. I wait.
It’s very cold.
I begin trembling, so I let the weapon drop to the front seat. “Fool,” I whisper to myself. “Damn rookie.”
I sit on my hands, trying to warm them up, and the breeze continues to blow. Idiot. Do this, and how long before we’re in jail, and how long after that are we on trial, before a jury full of friends and relatives of those fine citizens you gun down tonight?
You call that planning? You call that thinking ahead?
I start up the truck and let the heater sigh itself on, and then I roll up the window and slowly drive away, lights still off.
Damn rookie. Trying so hard to do the right thing, trying so hard to ignore your background and training and experience. Your old comrades would be laughing at the amateur-hour stunt you’ve almost pulled.
Especially Emily.
Emily.
“Fool,” I say again, and with the truck’s lights now softly on, I drive home.
Chapter 44
Another session with Ron, and the only thing worth mentioning only takes a few minutes.
“I’ve decided to give it another go,” I say.
“How’s that?”
“I’m not going to let some of the people in town bother me,” I say. “Whatever it takes, I’m going to make the adjustment, I’m going to fit in. I’ve worked too hard and survived too much to toss it all out and try to start over again. I want to stay in Nansen and keep on with my new life.”
A little nod, maybe even a triumphant little nod. “I’m glad to hear that.”
“I know you are.”
Chapter 45
A handful of days later, I’m in my house. There’s a fresh smell to the air—I’ve done a lot of cleaning and painting, trying not only to bring everything back to where it was but also to spruce up the place. The only real problem was in the main room, where it took me three coats of paint to cover up the words GO HOME. I ended up doing the entire room. The funny price of homeownership.
The house is dark and it’s late and I’m waiting, a glass of red wine in my hand, standing on the enclosed porch, looking out to the frozen waters of Lake Marie, seeing the light snow fall. Just waiting. Every light in the house is off, and the only illumination comes from the fireplace, which is slowly dying and needs some more wood.
But I’m content to wait. I’m at peace, finally at peace after these weeks and months in Nansen. Finally, I’m beginning to fit in, and I’m remembering who I really am.
I sip my wine, waiting, and then comes the sound of the snowmobiles, and I see their little wavering dots of light, racing across the lake, doing their bit for charity. How wonderful. I raise my glass in salute, the noise of the snowmobiles getting a bit louder as they head across the lake in a straight line.
I put the wineglass down and then walk into the living room and toss the last few pieces of wood onto the fire, the sudden heat warming my face in a pleasant glow. The wood I toss in isn’t firewood, though. It’s been shaped and painted by man, and as the flames leap up and devour the lumber, I see the letters begin to fade: DANGER! THIN ICE!
I stroll back to the porch, pick up the wineglass, and wait. I think that wherever Emily and the rest of Task Force Wallaby are, they would approve.
Below me, on the peaceful and quiet shores of Lake Marie, my new home for the rest of my
new life, the lights go by.
And then, one by one, they blink out, and the silence is just wonderful.
About the Authors
James Patterson has written more bestsellers and created more enduring fictional characters than any other novelist writing today. He lives in Florida with his family.
Brendan DuBois lives in New Hampshire and is the award-winning author of twenty novels and more than 150 short stories. His work has appeared in nearly a dozen countries. He is also a Jeopardy! game show champion.
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