As Night Falls (6 page)

Sandy looked up at him. “This?”

Ben extended his arms, taking in the whole of the sprawling kitchen. “This. Just the two of us. Dinner. Conversation. A little music maybe.”

Sandy glanced at the table, and Ben bounded away, scooping up the third place setting and depositing it back on a cabinet shelf. So much was contained in the swift ballet of motions that Sandy's heart seized. Love. Understanding of how Ivy's empty place would strike Sandy. Her husband's own penchant for thoroughness, how he would never leave so much as a plate out. Perhaps the greatest demonstration of all was in Ben's willingness not to delve into whatever had happened, the nature of the conflict with Ivy. He let Sandy have her silence and always had, as if there were some smooth, invisible repellant around her.

“Ivy can fix herself a plate later,” Ben said. “Won't hurt her to eat alone.”

Sandy tilted her head. All was quiet upstairs.

Ben took a step toward her.

Then his chest was pressed against hers, and Sandy couldn't tell whose heart was beating like that, so fast and so strong. Ben leaned down, roaming her mouth with his.

“As for us,” he said, leaving Sandy with cutoff breath, her body straining to find his, “maybe we'll also do a little of that.”

I
t was cold in the SUV; the temperature had fallen while the sky thickened. Nick could feel it now for sure in his leg. He hadn't wanted to give any hint of their presence, not even a plume of vapor from the tailpipe, so he'd turned the engine off.

“Nick?” Harlan said.

“What?” Nick asked. No snap to his tone, although his nerves were on edge. As many preparations as he had made in advance—and there was a limit to what could be done inside—there was still so much that could go wrong.

The weather being number one.

He'd meant for them to be in and out and on their way with everything they needed. Speed meant safety. The hunt for two escaped cons was on, and staying put would be risky, even in a spot as out of the way and remote as this one. While where Nick had them going was unsearchable. He and Harlan would never be found so long as they kept moving.

But if they had to remain here longer, pinned in place by a storm? Nick looked up at the hill, considering.

“Nick?” Harlan said again.

Something must've shown in Nick's face because Harlan recoiled, or tried to. There wasn't anyplace for his massive body to go, despite the roominess of the car.

“Forget it,” Harlan muttered. Then, “It's just that it's cold out. I'm cold, Nick.”

Harlan should've known better than to complain, but nothing was normal about tonight. The rules had all changed, and though Nick wouldn't have thought that he'd miss them, there was a frenzied whirl of emptiness inside him, like he'd fallen into outer space.

“Yeah,” Nick said. “I am, too. Just give me a second to think.”

They could stay in the car a little while longer before making their entrance. Limit their exposure and the potential for complications inside. But that was a temporary solution given the temperature. Might be better just to make their presence known and deal with the repercussions right off.

Harlan spoke up again. “Nick?”

“Goddamnit!” Nick roared, and Harlan jumped, his head grinding against the roof. Nick lowered his voice. “I said, give me some time to think. I just need to think.”

Harlan stared at him for long enough that Nick broke their silent exchange. If another man had looked at him like that, Nick would've broken something a lot worse than a glare. But Harlan had always been different. He didn't anger Nick the way other people did. Also, there wasn't much to argue with behind his eyes.

Not a blink of awareness of what might be coming.

Snow would slash their chances at survival. Distort things, blind them, freeze.

Of course, it would also make the search for them more difficult. And it might help in another way, too. Since Nick had gone inside, ways to summon help had multiplied like rabbits. He couldn't believe there was cellular signal up here on the mountain, but if there was, it would likely be compromised by the weather.

Cell signal wasn't the only kind he had to worry about, though. There was something called Wi-Fi, which rich people used to make their useless computers run faster and to watch TV. Nick was forced to pay cash for this bit of recon—the new guy who'd informed him was some kind of religious nut, didn't smoke or even drink coffee. But it'd been worth it to find out about the existence of a junction box through which all sorts of cables would run.

“Like a fuse box?” Nick had said in the yard, lowering his barbell.

His cult case informant had also been lifting: squatting, heaving, standing.

Nick's moves were smoother. His arms made winged patterns in the air.

The kid grinned between huffed breaths. “Not quite like that, old man.”

In the midst of his set, Nick cocked his head, watching the kid raise his own weight. He wondered how much force it would take to smash the kid's skull with the iron disk, given that gravity would be on his side. That was the kind of computation someone smart would think of. All this kid had going for him was that he'd been born a little later.

“This thing is gonna look space age,” the kid said, grunting with effort. “Probably be in the basement.”

He'd told Nick a few more things then, throwing them in for free and soothing Nick's rage. GPS, satellites. People could watch things from the sky, or from objects small enough to fit in a pocket. Their possessions. Their children. Themselves.

The whole goddamn world had changed.

Nick was finally out in that world. He had actually pulled this off, back to the kind of success he was meant for. Things were proceeding according to plan, and now Nick had to focus on the next phase.

Having made it here, he had hoped to accumulate some old-fashioned intel on the house, the kind you picked up with your eyes and ears. But this place was even more secluded than he'd been led to believe. Two hands again; one good, one bad. The isolation would work in their favor, especially if this driveway became impassable. It wasn't like the man of the house would be getting out to plow tonight, not till Nick had finished with him anyway.

He felt a smile grow, then wither.

But because of the emptiness, Nick couldn't get close enough to a window to peer inside, determine who was home. He might be walking into a happy family talky-do, or he could have minutes on his side to secure things.

Finally there was Harlan. Harlan who could make someone jump just by looking at him, who would keep order without even trying, but who also impeded things by not understanding, or misremembering, especially if he didn't like what he was being told to do.

Nick's tolerant direction usually did the trick against the outstretched palm of Harlan's obstinacy, but he just wasn't feeling all that patient right now. And he'd sensed earlier what might happen if a rare instance of Harlan's opposition met rising mercury inside Nick.

He looked across to the other seat.

Harlan was inhaling and exhaling heavily, his breaths loud enough to fill the whole car.

Nick took a look around the vehicle—Christ, he was on edge—before holding out his hand. Nodding understanding, Harlan removed the sole from his shoe. He took a homegrown smoke, a combination of road kill tobacco and toilet paper wrapping, and laid it on Nick's hand.

“Harlan?” Nick said. Back to patient.

“Yeah?”

“Aren't you forgetting something?”

Harlan studied the cig. Finally his eyes cleared—great furrows smoothing out on his forehead—and he reached for his shoe again. He shook out a match, the colored tip of which had nearly all been worn away. Harlan had to strike it against his bared heel to get a spark.

Nick sucked nicotine in—paltry, pitiful stuff, the shreds of someone's nearly finished smoke—trying to quiet his nerves.

Stupid. Pointless. There were too many unknowns up in that house. Nick wouldn't be able to calm down till they had truly escaped, not just reached this way station.

He cracked the door and flicked the smoldering butt onto the ground. Cold punched him. They hadn't been issued any gloves or hats, just the coats. It wasn't freezing like this when they'd bussed out a few hours ago. That moment already felt like a full sentence served. Time moved fast outside.

Nick zipped up his coat, and watched Harlan try to do the same, but Harlan's coat was too small. The sleeves only made it to his forearms, and the zipper couldn't close over his chest.

Harlan gave up. “Hey, Nick, we don't have any masks.”

Nick's mouth made a thin, bleak line. “We don't need any.”

Harlan looked at him. “We don't?”

“No,” Nick said. “These people are going to know who we are.”

He opened the car door, ducking to avoid the branches that hung over the car. Harlan came out, hunching even lower to get beneath the stalks. Needles and twigs flew off as he shouldered his way through.

They concealed themselves behind the firs that lined the drive as they walked steadily uphill. At a certain point, there were no more trees and they had to step out into the open, just the descending night for cover. The rush of a nearby creek camouflaged any noise they might make, but nothing could be done about Harlan's enormous, lurching form or the dash of Nick's body against the dark.

A series of precisely pinpointed floodlights came on, and Nick ducked, shoving Harlan to make him do the same. He barely budged Harlan's bulk, although momentum did carry him a little ways out of sight.

This place was lit up like a painting in a goddamn museum. There must be motion sensors on the lights. Nick stepped out of a cone of white, pulling Harlan along with him. It was like trying to tow a barge. They stood in place, both of them breathing hard, until the lights turned themselves off.

Nick edged forward, coming to face a wide sweep of porch with pillars on either side of the staircase. The house seemed to grow out of the landscape: huge boulders giving rise to stone siding, windows that looked clear through from front to back, sloping roof backed by a cup of valley.

Get in, get what you need, get out.

Nick stood there, staring, until the words became a tuneless ditty in his head.

Get in, get it, get out.

His mother used to tell him that he had musical talent. Nick would be banging a knife on the counter while his sister did the clearing up, and his mother would compliment his drumming.

But while Nick had once been content to fool himself, going along with such grand ideas, the years inside had cured him of that. You didn't get what you wanted—truly achieve greatness—if you settled for empty visions of glory. There was reality, and then there was every crap promise and proclamation about him his mother had ever made.

The temperature had finally leveled out—the twinge in Nick's leg was letting up—but that was only because snow was getting ready to fall. The sky was laden with it, big-bellied and full. Nick hadn't had to figure in the weather for twenty-plus years, but he'd grown up in the north country, and the instinct came back. They had some time yet, but not much. He and Harlan needed to be lost to search efforts, able to crawl into a shelter and wait out the storm in some distant place soon. Getting there depended on things going smoothly inside.

Behind him, Harlan shifted on his feet.

They were surrounded by wilderness. In a half hour or so, weather permitting, they would walk off into it, never to be seen on a single stretch of road. That was the bolt of genius that had come to Nick just before he pulled the road crew assignment.

No manhunt could cover the great swaths of land between here and his destination.

Nick turned back to the house. Through a wide wall of glass, he could see into a lit-up room. The kitchen spotlighted the whole first floor, while the second level was dark and empty, nobody moving around up there. The occupants were about to eat dinner downstairs, two places set, two chairs pulled out.

It was going to be a short meal.

Nick's boots thudded onto stone, while Harlan started heavily forward as well. He caught up just as Nick brought his hand down on the door.

B
arbara stood in a cold draft from the refrigerator, despairing as she studied the shelves. No milk, no butter, no eggs. No orange juice, which of course boded trouble, and how was she going to fix a side dish or vegetable for dinner tonight? They were out of just about everything except for a freezer half-full of the game Gordon had hunted last fall, processed for them by Thiele down the road, and neatly wrapped in yellow paper by Thiele's wife.

Barbara hadn't figured out the trick other mothers seemed to have for getting errands done with their children. All the constant needs and demands, plus the ever-present threat of a tantrum. People had started to talk when Barbara was out and about in town; she knew they had. And she couldn't stand to give them additional fodder for gossip, nor let them look at her beloved little boy in that way. He had been the most adorable baby, always drawing attention for his looks; and as he learned to talk, his precocious vocabulary. But once he turned two, the reactions had started to change.

He toddled in now, surer on his feet every day. He'd been small as an infant—although darkly beautiful, as if to make up for his size—but he seemed to be growing now. Barbara didn't really know any other children his age to compare him to. She could see that he was skinny; the doctor had advised adding a raw egg to milkshakes in the hopes of plumping him up a bit. But how could you worry about straw-like limbs or the knobs on his back when you saw those thickly lashed eyes and thick, droopy curls?

Every day, Barbara marveled at the miracle of this child who'd gone from beetle-helpless, flat on his back, to scooting around, then walking, and running. The boy hadn't even turned three yet, but he was as agile as an athlete. And his speech! Barbara was constantly suggesting to Gordon that they consider starting their son in school early, though she knew she'd have trouble letting him go when the time came.

She turned and shut the refrigerator door with her hand behind her.

The cold air settled, and for a second all was still.

“Want orange juice.”

Barbara took a moment to treasure the pronunciation.
Owange
. Then she felt her eyes flutter shut. “I'm sorry, dear. We're all out.”

“No orange juice?”

Barbara shook her head. “No, Nicky. We don't have any—”

He started to wail. “Orange juice! Want orange…”

Barbara glanced around as if some of those townsfolk might be peering in right now. They weren't, of course, and thank God Gordon was gone, too. Lord knew what her husband would do if he ever had to witness one of these tantrums, let alone handle it.

Gordon was a good man, loving and kind, but he didn't have the will their son did. Gordon accepted things; he was an able provider. But Nicholas, even at this young age, bristled against whatever bothered him or held him back. Her son had a brute strength that staggered Barbara. One day, he was going to make his mark on the world.

The little boy marched toward the refrigerator and began tugging at the silver handle. He wasn't strong enough to open it yet, or at least he never had been, but as Barbara looked on, she heard the suck of the seal breaking and watched the door release. Nicholas shot backward, landing on the floor halfway across the room.

Barbara waited for a yowl, but instantly the boy was on his feet again, surging forward with an intent expression on his face.

“Orange juice,” he said decidedly, then leaned his little body inside the refrigerator.

Not the refrigerator. Nicholas had accidentally opened the freezer side.

Barbara stared with a mix of admiration and disbelief. A thought seized her—
what if the door swung shut right now
—followed by a queasy pang. She began pulling on her son, trying to get him out, but he was fighting her, not registering the cold until his little shrimp fingers curled around the metal rim of a shelf and stuck there.

The howls started then.

Barbara left her son and ran for a cup of warm water. She poured the liquid over the frosty shelf, soaking Nicholas' wrists through his pajamas while his screams climbed in volume. Finally his hold loosened, and she was able to drag him out.

Nicholas' arms were as strong as cables when Barbara turned them over to check for damage. The flesh on his fingertips had pinkened, but looked intact, nothing peeling away. Something in Barbara's stomach lurched, and she pressed her hand over her mouth.

She began stroking her son's hot, wet cheeks, his whole body vibrating against hers as he continued to cry. Barbara got up and pawed through the trash. She found the empty orange juice carton and poured the remnants into a cup, diluting them with water from the tap.

She handed the concoction to Nicholas, who downed it thirstily.

Blessed silence filled the room.

Barbara fisted her hands on her hips and smiled down at her son. “Now. Shall we go to the store for some more?”

Nicholas looked up at her. “Orange juice? In the store?”

“Can you be good in the car?”

He nodded, three rapid jerks of his head. His curls flew. One day, she was going to have to trim them.

Love seized her, warm and glowing. She bent to scoop up the little boy in a hug.

“Why don't you put that carton in the trash for me,” she suggested, pointing. “While I get us some clothes?”

Nicholas walked in the direction she'd indicated. For just a second, he wasn't a toddler anymore, but a growing, competent child, completing a task. Barbara bent over, feeling herself grow short of breath, as if she were being compressed in some creature's great fist. How had no one ever told her what it felt like to be a mother, the way it robbed you of air and light and nourishment, but you didn't care, didn't even notice, because in exchange you were given this one consuming focus and it was all you'd ever need again?

Barbara turned and left the room to fetch an outfit for her son and a fresh dress for herself, assuming she could find one. In addition to errands, it was hard to make time to iron and do laundry these days as well.

Gordon had purchased a station wagon just before Nicholas was born, which turned out to be a bit of an indulgence given how rarely Barbara ventured out. But she was grateful for the new car now, complete with air-conditioning, which she'd never used. She reached across the generous front seat and buckled Nicholas in. She slipped the shoulder strap behind his back, leaving just the lap belt.

Nicholas started to twist and churn. “No buckle.”

Barbara turned the key in the ignition, speaking lightly as the engine rumbled to life. “Then no orange juice.”

She wasn't sure she'd have the strength to carry out this threat if Nicholas continued to protest. He could move into the back where you didn't have to worry about seatbelts. But the little boy settled down, looking out his window.

Barbara rolled hers open. It only got good and hot for a month or so in Cold Kettle, but this was the month. A breeze fanned them both as Barbara drove along Crook Road.

The back of her dress grew clammy, sticking to the seat. Maybe she
should
turn on the air-conditioning. She checked the rearview mirror and saw that her face was flushed. From the fracas before? Nicholas' response had been understandable. Barbara served him orange juice every morning and he'd come to expect it.

She checked her son, sitting there solemnly, watching meadows and pens and barns roll by outside. He looked as still and cool as stone.

Barbara wiped off her face with one of Gordon's handkerchiefs, left behind in the glove compartment. She imagined Mr. Mackey would have the fans turned on in the grocery store. She didn't usually react to the heat this way, and it was a little disturbing. Barbara made a turn onto Main Street, angling the wagon into a vacant parking spot.

“Come, Nicky,” she said, an idea striking her. “We'll buy you an ice cream cone after we get our groceries. Would you like that?”

Nicholas was already pushing at the door. He tumbled out onto the sidewalk, but righted himself swiftly and took off. Barbara got out, too. She paused for a moment, placing one hand on the flank of the car and jerking back at the metallic burn. Then she noticed Nicholas looking over his shoulder at her, his little sneakered foot poised above the curb. Barbara felt too queasy to give chase. But Nicholas stepped into the street then, which did necessitate a run.

It took forty-five minutes to load the cart, so sluggishly was she moving. Nicholas kept seeing items and demanding that they be added. The total was going to be high, and Barbara nervously fingered the fold of bills in her purse.

“Want orange juice,” Nicholas said, twisting around in the high-up seat.

It was an unfortunate echo of this morning. Barbara gave her son a wan smile. “When we get home, okay?” she said. “You can have a nice big glass.”

Maybe she would have one, too. With ice.

Nicholas leaned over the metal lattice separating him from the groceries, and stretched out his arm. Unable to reach down far enough into the cart, he stood up on unstable legs.

Barbara wasn't sure what to do. If she took him out, Nicholas was likely to throw another fit. But the chances of him successfully climbing into the cart were low. And what would he do even if he made it? Guzzle juice straight out of the carton?

She realized her son was likely to do exactly that, and the thought of the sticky mess he'd make caused her stomach to lift.

Nicholas stood teetering on the seat. There was a gasp from a woman standing by the pyramid of soup cans beside the cart, and the next thing Barbara knew, her son was in the woman's arms. The woman turned toward Barbara, who was leaning against the red-and-white cardboard Campbell's sign.

“Oh, Mrs. Burgess,” said the pastor's wife.

Barbara felt grateful that if anybody was going to observe what was about to happen, it would be a woman of God.

“I didn't see you there. You must keep an eye on your little boy now that he's so mobile.”

As if on cue, Nicholas bucked against the woman. “Down! I want to go down!”

Glenda Williams cocked a brow at Barbara. “Mind your
p
's and
q
's, then,” she said.

But Nicholas continued to writhe in the woman's arms until Barbara reached for him.

Glenda gave a quick shake of her head, keeping Barbara at bay. “Should I count?” she asked Nicholas. “By three you're going to be nice and still. All right? One, two…”

Nicholas quieted, and Glenda set him down on the floor.

She aimed a smile at Barbara. “Always worked like a charm with mine,” she said. “And what a smart boy to know his numbers already.”

Barbara fingered the chain that lay in a damp hollow at her neck. She made her tone modest. “He hasn't even begun school yet.”

As if knowing he was being talked about, Nicholas took off in the direction of the dairy section. Barbara heaved a sigh and started after him.

Glenda trailed along behind, still murmuring. “My boys didn't get so…willful until they were older.”

The comment was charitable. The Williams boys were shining examples of the community, one with his own farm, two studying downstate, the youngest planning one day to assume his daddy's pulpit.

A thick, wet
thud
came from the rear of the store. Barbara abandoned her cart, purse slapping against her arm as she hurried forward.

Nicholas was sitting in a puddle of orange juice. A carton had fallen onto the floor. Barbara had no idea how Nicholas had gotten a hold of it; he must've climbed into the refrigerated case.

He was trying to scoop up a handful of liquid, slicked with gray dirt from the floor. Barbara went to Nicholas, taking care not to skid. He screamed as she stooped down beside him.

“Mama! No pick me up! Want juice!”

He beat his sticky fists against Barbara's chest—the only clean dress she had left—and one found its way into her mouth. She tasted grit and syrupy sweet citrus and the combination was too much for her stomach, which had been so fragile all morning.

It lifted, disgorging its contents to mix with the juice, and as Barbara leaned over, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she suddenly remembered the last time she had felt this hot and nauseous and tired all at once.

It had nothing to do with the weather, or her boisterous little boy.

Glenda Williams appeared, towing Mr. Mackey alongside her, and Barbara let out a lone, solitary howl of protest that joined her son's.

Glenda scooped Nicholas out of the mess on the floor, directing a hapless Mr. Mackey to unlock the washroom door, and carrying the boy inside. Nicholas' protests didn't abate; the little room rocked with their force.

But as Barbara leaned against the refrigerated section, fanning herself and trying to rid her mouth of its vile taste, things did begin to quiet down. Eventually Glenda emerged, plunking Nicholas on the floor with a little pat to his bottom. The boy smiled up at her. His chocolaty curls were slicked down and his face looked clean, though the bottom of his shorts was still stained orange. Laundry on a live, yelling child in a washroom was beyond even Glenda Williams.

Barbara tried to muster words.

“Mama?” said Nicholas.

Barbara gathered breath for her reply. “Yes, angel?”

“I want ice cream,” he said.

Glenda let out a rather heretical snort.

Barbara looked at her.

“Please tell me you're not going to give this child a treat,” Glenda said.

Barbara opened her mouth to explain. “He's stormy by nature. Sensitive, really. He takes things so hard—”

“Mama! You said ice cream!”

Glenda spoke over the cry. “Barbara Burgess, stop making excuses. For yourself and for the boy. He won't listen because he's not in the habit of listening.”

Barbara stared at her.