The Harder They Come (20 page)

That seized her up, all right. She was no prude, but this was just him pushing her buttons to see how far he could go. He was still posed there, staring off into space, but now he was getting hard by degrees, click, click, click, and she couldn’t have that, not in front of Christabel, so she did the first thing that came to mind—she took up one of the grandmother’s antique-gold linen napkins and snapped it at him, right there, right where it hurt most, and what did Christabel do? She just burst out with a laugh.

Okay. Fine. But Adam got the message, both hands shooting to his groin, and then he sat down, wrapped the towel back
around him, and without another word put his head down and began to eat. Christabel watched him a minute—fork to mouth, his jaws grinding—then let out a hoot and said, “What fun!”, shook out her top and pulled it back over her head, though it didn’t do her sprayed-up hair any good. And herself? She laughed too, couldn’t help it, and in the next moment, as the sky pulled down and the bats shot out of the trees to explode overhead, they were all three of them laughing to beat the band, and when they were done with dinner they went on into the house and built a fire and sat around it, watching the flames leap up the chimney and holding tight to their wine glasses until at some point, Adam, still wrapped in the towel, got up and slipped out the door and into the night.

I
T WAS THE MIDDLE
of the second week when she began to wake up to reality, at least that portion of it that had to do with money and earning a living. She’d had two jobs the week before, one all the way up in Redwood Valley, which would have been no problem if she’d been at home because that was practically in the neighborhood, and the other down in Navarro, at the winery there, where she saw to the owners’ horses on a regular basis, but that meant burning up gas and since she didn’t want to use her credit card—they could trace it—she had to use cash and her cash was running low. Most of her income, the lion’s share (or horse’s share, actually), came from her trade and the connections she’d made over the years, but she relied on subbing to supplement it and school was still out for the summer. And even if it wasn’t, how could they call her if she wasn’t home?

To complicate things, she didn’t have her calendar—or most of her clients’ numbers either, aside from the few she’d kept on the card double-folded in her wallet—and she was sure she must be missing appointments. For the past three mornings now she’d awakened with a jolt from dreams of fucking up, of being late, lost, unable to get where she was going in the hazy geography of dreamland that was clogged with wrong turns and the butts of horses galloping steadily away from her. That made her nervous. Irritable. She’d even snapped at Adam over breakfast when he started going on about Colter. “
Colter,
” she’d spat, slapping the flat of her hand down on the counter, “fucking Colter! I’ve only heard it like ten thousand times.”

He was sitting at the table, forking up French toast, and he
shot her a look that should have warned her off, three parts hurt and one part pure slingshot rage.

“Can’t you ever talk about anything else? Like what you’re doing out there in the woods all day long? Huh? Like what you’re
growing
?”

What happened to the plate he was eating from, his grandmother’s china plate with the rose-cluster design on it? Up against the wall, syrup and all, and then down on the floor, in pieces. And Adam? He looked hate at her, then bulled right by her, and if she lost her balance and slammed against the kitchen cabinet it was nothing to him because he was snatching up his pack and jerking the rifle over his shoulder and then he was over the wall and gone without a word.

So she was sitting there in the kitchen in the aftermath of all this, brooding over things, Kutya licking the scraps off the floor and the sun trapped in the morning fog, which had managed to reach this far up just to depress her further, when it came to her that what she needed was to get into her house, whether they were watching it or not. She needed her calendar, where she’d always been careful to write out her appointments under the date, along with phone numbers, and in the case of word-of-mouth referrals, addresses. And she could use some clothes, having packed hastily to say the least. She was bored with what she was wearing—boots, jeans and the same two tops, in rotation—and figured Adam must be too. She hardly ever wore a dress, but she had half a closetful, including a cute yellow sundress with a scoop neck that still fit her in all the right places. Maybe Adam would like to see her in that, just for a change, to spice things up. And here she went off into an erotic daydream, him sitting there on the couch with the towel wrapped around him, already hard, and her coming across the room to climb atop him and lift the skirt up so he could see she wasn’t wearing anything underneath . . .

It didn’t take her long to convince herself that they wouldn’t be watching her house. She was too small-time. She hadn’t killed
anybody, had she? And she told them she was quarantining the dog, though it was just plain stupid because anybody could see he didn’t have rabies and what was a little scratch on some scrawny lady trooper’s hand? A quick raid on her own house, that was what she was thinking. But not in daylight—it might be totally paranoid to think they were watching the place twenty-four/seven, but it was very much in the realm of possibility that they’d send a patrol car by once in a while just to see if there was a vehicle in the driveway. No, she’d go at night. Tonight. Late. Adam would love the idea because here was another chance to stick it to them, and all at once she was replaying the scene at the animal shelter, how her blood had raced, beating like a drum circle, and how the two of them had laughed in the car as they rolled down the highway free and clear, laughed till they were gasping for air and she put a hand on his thigh and asked him if he wanted to party and he did. Oh yes, he did. With gusto. And the party was still going on.

When he came in around six he was wired on something, he wouldn’t say what, still pissed over what had happened that morning. “You’re out of line,” he told her, glaring at her, standing there poised over the sink in the kitchen that was sunlit and warm and peaking with the aroma of the homemade lasagna she’d sweated over half the afternoon. “Way out of line. Because for your information I’m not growing nothing.”

“Anything,” she said automatically.

Still the glare. “Nothing,” he said carefully. “I’m not growing nothing.”

It wasn’t really in her to be repentant—that just wasn’t her, sorry—but she tried her best to placate him, keeping her mouth firmly shut and handing him a margarita when he came up for air after dipping his head to the faucet and letting the water run over his face and scalp, saying everything she had to say with gestures, as if she were a deaf-mute. There was no mud on him, not a trace,
though his boots were thick with trail dust, and he took the margarita without comment and went out to sit on the porch with it. She gave it a minute, then brought the pitcher out to him and her own glass too and they sat there in silence, pouring till the pitcher was empty. He wouldn’t look at her the whole time and she took the hint and made as if she were wrapped up in her own thoughts, the two of them sitting there in silence, getting a buzz on, but she couldn’t help sneaking glances at him—and not just to gauge his mood but because she loved watching him, the way he moved, the delicacy of his smallest gestures, how he circled the rim of the glass with his thumb and forefinger and brought it to his lips, his eyes narrowing in on something she couldn’t see, beautiful eyes set off with a girl’s lashes, eyes like flowers, like flowers in a field.

Then she served him the lasagna and poured him a beer—and poured herself one too, though the carbs went straight to fat on her—and when he started in on Colter and the Chinese she listened to as much of it as she could take before cutting him off. “Adam,” she said. “Listen, I’m sorry about this morning but the thing is I need some things up at my place—I mean, this is great here and all, but I feel like I’m camping out, you know what I’m saying?”

He shrugged as if it was nothing to him.

“My address book, for one thing. I need to get hold of everybody and make sure I’m not screwing up my appointments—and clothes, I need to pick up some clothes. Like a dress. Would you like that—me in a dress?”

Maybe he would, maybe he wouldn’t. But he wasn’t going to show her anything.

She dropped her voice till it was a purr in her throat: “What do you say to going up there tonight? Just you and me. Late, like maybe midnight or one maybe, when nobody’ll be around?” Her own lasagna was getting cold. She tapped the fork on the edge of the plate,
tap-tap, anybody home?
“A raid,” she said. “Let’s call it a raid.”

She was watching him closely, like that first day in the car, and she could see she was having an effect. He’d gone still, the beer clutched in one hand, fork in the other. After a moment, he set down his beer and swiveled his neck to bring his eyes to hers, and he wasn’t staring through her now—now he was seeing her.

“Well,” she said, “what do you say?”

“Cool,” he said. “I’ll bring the rifle.”

“What? What are you talking about?” His eyes were on her still and he was holding on to that half-formed grin of his that seemed to stick in the corner of his mouth as if his lips just couldn’t lift it all the way up. “No,” she said, “no way. That’s just crazy.”

She hated guns and she put her foot down, or tried to, because this really was overkill, not to mention a recipe for disaster, but five hours later there they were following the track of her headlights up the hill on a moonless night, his gun propped between them—not in the trunk, not laid out flat on the floor in the backseat—and a pair of night-vision goggles dangling from his neck. He’d drawn two slashes of oil or greasepaint or whatever it was under his eyes like the players you’d see on
Monday Night Football
if you were unlucky enough to be bar-hopping in the middle of it and he was so amped up he kept talking about the plan, what the plan was and how they were going to execute it—his word:
execute
.

“Look,” she told him, leaning into one of the wicked switchbacks that seemed to chase the car all over the road (and she wasn’t drunk, not even close—just a little buzzed), “it’s all in good fun, but that thing isn’t loaded, is it? It’s not going to go off and blow a hole in the roof or anything—?”

He didn’t answer. She’d already extracted a promise from him that he wasn’t going to do anything more than just sit there in the car—which she was going to park down the street from the house, out of sight—and wait for her. Ten minutes, that was all she was going to need and he could just sit tight, okay? Was he cool with that?

They hadn’t seen a single car since they’d turned onto the
highway and that had helped with her blood pressure, which must have been spiking despite the alcohol in her system because she was regretting ever having mentioned this whole fiasco to him—she should have just waited till he was asleep and snuck on up the road by herself and he’d never have been the wiser. But she’d wanted some moral support (that was a laugh: it was more like amoral support where he was concerned) and things had sort of ratcheted out of control. He was a boy, playing war games. She could understand that. But this was no toy rifle and if he saw a cop, any cop, anywhere, who could tell what he might do? And what would that make her—accessory to murder? It was bad enough that the next time a cop stopped her she’d be going straight to the county jail, and while she wasn’t ready to accept that or genuflect to the system either, she was still smart enough to stay out of its way as much as possible. You couldn’t fight them. Look what had happened to Jerry Kane. She’d tried to tell him about that, how the pigs had shot dead one of the gurus of the movement, the foremost, the very man whose seminars she’d attended and who’d opened her eyes and revolutionized her life, gunned him down in a Walmart parking lot in Arkansas and his sixteen-year-old son along with him, but it just seemed to go in one ear and out the other.

“I said, that thing isn’t loaded, right? Because if it is, I’m just going to turn around right here and now. You hear me?”

His voice, soft as fur, came at her out of the darkness: “Jesus, you sound like my mother. But you’re not my mother, right?”

And that got her, that reminded her of what was real, what counted, what she was doing here on this dark road. With him. “No, baby,” she said, softening, and she reached out her hand to him. “I’m not your mother, I’m your lover. And when we get home, watch out.”

So that was that. Whether the gun was loaded or not or whether she was going to enter into a contract with the sheriff’s department under threat, duress and coercion and go to jail
for the better part of her natural life or wind up shot herself or just assert her right to travel in her own personal property to her own house and reclaim the personal property she kept there was anybody’s guess. But it was late and Willits wasn’t exactly Times Square and they’d be turning off well before they got into town proper and there really wasn’t anything that could go wrong. She was just being a slave and a coward even to think it. The cops were asleep. And so was everybody else.

W
HEN THEY WERE COMING
up on her turnoff she couldn’t decide whether to use her signal or not, but then she figured not, because if anybody was watching why broadcast her intentions? “This is it up here,” he said suddenly, fully alert and ready for anything, and she was impressed that he could pick out the road in the dark even though he’d only been to the house once. He was smart—and he’d been born with an internal compass too, no ravine or trail or gulley or back road too remote for him, the kind of person who would always land on his feet no matter where you tossed him. And if there was one thing he wasn’t, it was a coward. Or a slave. He might have been in outer space half the time, but if ever there was anybody born who would take them on, no holds barred, he was the one. And maybe that was suicidal, maybe it was mental—it was, it definitely was—but as she turned into the dark lane between the two vestigial fenceposts that picked the thread of it out of the night for her, she was glad he was there. If anything happened, which it wouldn’t, she’d at least go out in a blaze of glory.

The front end let out a little shriek and then the tires were hissing along the blacktop and she flicked off the headlights, just in case. “Blaze of glory,” she said aloud, tailing it with a nervous cackle, and she was as crazy as he was,
Jesus
.

She pulled just off the road a hundred yards from her house, then thought better of it and swung a U-turn so the car was facing the other way in case they needed to make a quick exit. With no moon, her house was in darkness, nothing showing there but what the stars gave up. Ditto the L-shaped ranch house of her closest neighbors, the Rackstraws, an older couple with grown children
out of the house and a dog so ancient and decrepit it had forgotten how to bark. “Okay,” she said, her fingers wrapped around the door handle, “you know the drill. I’m just going in the house, my own house, that’s all, for like ten minutes. And you’re just going to sit here, right? Don’t even get out of the car. Okay?”

She watched him a moment, the profile of him, too dark to see his features—all she could tell was that he was staring straight ahead, out the windshield and down the road the way they’d come. And that he was wound up, strung tight as wire. “Okay?” she repeated and leaned in to peck a kiss to his cheek before she slipped out of the car and started up the road.

As soon as the door eased shut and she was out there in the night, her tension began to fade. This was her home, her turf, the place where she’d lived for the past eight and a half years since she’d given up on Roger, the place where she walked Kutya and exercised her clients’ horses in the fields and sat out on the deck in the evenings to watch the sun slip down over the distant gray band of the ocean. What was she afraid of? It was her right to be here—it was anybody’s right. This was a free country. Or so they claimed.

Everything was quiet but for the soft percussion of her heels on the pavement and the intermittent grinding of a solitary cricket in the dark dried-up field to her left. Her night vision came back to her incrementally as her eyes adjusted, though she could have found her way blindfolded. Her strides lengthened. She breathed in the night air, fragrant with a lingering sweetness the afternoon sun had pulled out of the weeds and wildflowers, and she felt freer than she had in a long time—at least since that idiot cop had come after her and turned her whole life inside out.

Before she knew it she was heading up the gravel drive, the pea stone—pale in contrast with the darker void of the yard—looking almost as if it were illuminated. It crunched underfoot though, so she stepped off into the dirt: no reason to make noise if she didn’t have to. She fished the keys from her purse, a faint tinkle of metal, and she was actually heading for the front door
before catching herself. She stopped, listened, telling herself she was just being crazy, then slipped round back anyway. Another tinkle as the key turned in the lock and she was in.

For a long moment she stood just inside the kitchen door, in the darkness, debating whether to turn the lights on. She could smell the garbage from all the way across the room, whatever was in there when she’d left gone rancid and probably attracting ants too—they were a problem in this place, always had been, black rivers of them flowing in under the door and darkening the counters, the walls, even the ceiling sometimes. No matter. She’d deal with all that later. Now she just needed to get her address book and her calendar and some clean clothes—and that dress, or maybe a couple of dresses, like the yellow and white polka dot, which was real summery and looked great with her strappy sandals—and then lock up and forget about the place for a while. Let the ants have it.

Ultimately, she did turn the lights on, first in the kitchen, then in the hall where her desk was, and finally in her bedroom. She didn’t bother folding things, just stuffed a couple blouses, some underwear, another pair of jeans and her dresses and sandals into a kitchen-tall garbage bag and rolled up the calendar and tucked it in her purse. She was getting ready to leave, giving things a final look-over, trying to think what she was forgetting—she had her address book, her checkbook, her moisturizer and nail polish remover, the special shampoo she used for dandruff, stamps, envelopes, a beach towel and her bathing suit, just in case he wanted to go swimming some afternoon—when the first rattling burst of gunfire split the night in two and she just about jumped out of her skin.

Talk about panic, talk about going from the launching pad straight up into orbit in the space of a single heartbeat, well here it was. She didn’t have time to think, just run. Later she would find that she’d bruised herself above her left knee, but she couldn’t for the life of her recall how or when, just that it must have happened
in those first few panicky seconds when she was racing through the house to shut off the lights and slam through the back door and out into the blinding dark, where the sharp crackling rattle of gunfire split the night open all over again. But what was it? Where was it? She stumbled across the yard, clutching her purse and the garbage bag to her chest, the night unfolding in layers till she could see again, her breath coming hard and her feet pounding across the gravel—there was the pale outline of the drive, there the dark erasure of the road and the still darker hump of her car planted rigid and unmoving at the side of it and she was running even as the light flashed on in the Rackstraws’ front window and the dog that hadn’t made a sound in the last five years started howling as if it had been set on fire.

And where was Adam, where
was
he, no shape or shadow of him in the passenger’s seat as she jerked open the driver’s door and flung her things in, calling “Adam! Adam!” in a hot fierce whisper that sounded in her own ears like a scream. Her fingers trembled as she rifled through the purse for her keys and then she had them in the ignition and the engine jumped to life and the headlights flew out like heat-seeking missiles and there he was, Adam, right there in front of the car, the rifle tucked under one arm and the twin pinpoints of his eyes throwing the light back at her.

“Jesus!” she shouted, her head out the window now. “What are you doing? Get in the car, get in!” Something changed behind her, something qualitatively different now—another light, the Rackstraws’ porch light, floodlight, whatever it was—and somebody’s voice, a man’s voice, Jack Rackstraw’s, thundering, “What’s going on down there?”

“Adam,” she said, “Adam,” and it was like a plea, a prayer, an invocation to get them out of there, and she couldn’t leave him, she couldn’t, but her heart was going into overdrive and she actually had her hand on the gearshift to shove the thing into reverse and back away from him when the door pulled open and
he slid into the seat and slammed the door shut again and she hit the accelerator with a foot that really didn’t know what it was doing beyond finding that place where the tires would grab and the car would hurtle off into the tunnel the high beams carved out of the night.

“Kill the lights,” he said, and it was the first thing either of them had said since he’d got in the car. They were out on Route 20 now, heading back down the hill, and there was nobody behind them as far as she could see, but then that didn’t mean anything, did it? They had helicopters, whole fleets of cruisers, guns and more guns. She was going too fast, she knew it. The tires screeched. She jerked at the wheel. She was in a state, close to breaking down and screaming her head off, susceptible, fully susceptible—but this didn’t make any sense to her. Shut off the lights? Now? On the highway? In the dark?

He repeated himself, his voice honed and hard: “I said, kill the lights.”

She swung wildly through a turn and then looped back the other way, through the next one, her palms sweating and her eyes jumping at the road ahead. “I can’t,” she said, “we’ll go off the road. I can hardly see as it is—”

“Here,” he said, and he was thrusting something at her—what was it? Heavy plastic, slick glass: the night-vision goggles.

“I can’t—what are you doing?”

“Slow down,” he said. “Watch the road.”

And then they both froze, the sound of the siren riding up on them out of nowhere. A whoop, a scream. It jabbed right into her, shoved itself up under her flesh like a hypodermic scoured with acid. This was it, she knew it, she was done, doomed, everything she’d built in her life gone out the window—she wasn’t going to have to worry about being a slave to the system anymore because she was going to be a prisoner of it. In a jail cell. With what—a
tray of mush and insta-food shoved through a slit in the door three times a day? She wanted to pull over, wait for the inevitable, but she didn’t. She just kept on driving, kept on going down, one turn, then the next, but where was the siren coming from—behind them or out in front?

There was a whoop, another whoop, then it faded, then whooped again. “Are they—?” she asked, but never got to finish the question because here came the sheriff’s dead-black cruiser hurtling up the hill in the opposite lane, lights flashing, one suspended moment as the thing rocked past them, Adam motioning with the gun and she furious and spitting “No, no!” at him, and then it was gone and vanished round the next bend.

“The pigs,” he snarled. “The fucking pigs.”

She didn’t feel as if she was driving anymore but sailing, and not across some calm picture-postcard bay, but into a dark maelstrom dragging her down to some darker place still. She stabbed at the brakes, hard, and the force of it threw them both forward—seatbelts, who needed seatbelts?—and he hit the windshield with a sudden heavy wet resonance she could feel like a blow to her own body, the car careening toward the trees, everything held in the balance before it caught on the hard compacted dirt of the shoulder and straightened itself out, and still she was driving and still they were going downhill.

When she could talk, when the words came back to her, stingy, squeezed, caught in her throat, she asked him if he’d hurt himself, was he okay, was he bleeding?

He didn’t answer. But she could feel him there at her side, glowering, outraged, all his jets on high. A minute passed. Two. The trunks of the trees flipped past like cards in a fanned deck.

“Here,” he said suddenly. “Stop here. Turn.”

She saw a dirt road rushing up on the right, a wide mouth of nothing cut between a ragged avenue of trees, and for once she did as she was told.

Later, after they’d rocked and swayed for what seemed like hours over a series of pits and craters and washboard corrugations, a campground appeared under the canopy of the trees, her headlights catching the glint of metal, cars there, half a dozen of them, parked in darkness, and he told her to pull over and shut down the engine. “Here?” she said. “Yeah, here.” She switched off the ignition and killed the lights and everything vanished. The darkness was absolute—they might as well have plunged down a mine shaft somewhere, no trace here even of the stars. And if there were campers out there, they weren’t sitting around campfires roasting marshmallows, not at this hour. They must have had tents, but in the instant before the lights went out she hadn’t seen any.
Aren’t you afraid of him
? Christabel had asked.

Well, here was the test of it. And the answer? Yes and no. Yes, she was afraid he was going to do something crazy, like shoot off his goddamned gun, which he’d already proved fully capable of doing, but no, she wasn’t afraid to be there with him in the blackest depths of the blackest night she’d ever dreamed or imagined. He was right there beside her, breathing steadily. She could smell him, the sweat of him, the neat’s-foot oil he used on his boots, a faint chemical drift of the rum on his breath. He’d brought her here because that cruiser was going to turn around, he was sure of it, because their car was the only one on the only roadway through these hills, one way in, one way out, and now they were safe because no cop would ever think of looking for them here—no cop even knew it existed, she’d bet anything. She breathed out, breathed in. Closed her eyes and opened them again and it made no difference. All right. So they’d had an adventure and here they were, together, in the dark.

All the adrenaline had gone out of her or been reabsorbed or whatever was supposed to happen to it and she felt a deep peace
steal over her. “What now?” she asked, though she already knew.

His voice came at her out of the void. “We sleep.”

“Just sleep?”

He didn’t answer but she could picture him wearing his little smirk, which was answer enough for her.

“You want to get comfortable?” she asked. “Like in the backseat?”

There was the sound of liquid sloshing around its container, liquid in motion. “You up for a hit of rum?”

“No, I don’t think so.” She was hot for him, hotter than ever, excitement running through her like a burn, but she had to ask him one more thing before she pulled her blouse up over her head and dropped her bra and let him nuzzle there like the child he was. “Adam?”

“Colter. Call me Colter.”

“What were you shooting at? There was nobody there. You weren’t even supposed to get out of the car.”