A Man Overboard Page 13

  Jack pushed gently off his toes, moving the chair back and forth and filling the empty house with the sound of creaking wood. On the floor next to his feet was the backpack, fully loaded with everything Johnson had left with him. He was ready to run. Beneath the dripping candle sat the phone, his eyes drawn to its blank face every two minutes or so, wondering when it might ring. Johnson hadn’t left a charger with him—though there was no electricity anyway—so Jack figured he had about three days, maybe four, until the phone died and he was left to concoct some plan of his own. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that. He wasn’t sure how much of this he could take, being alone in the middle of the mountains, while maintaining a grip on sanity. He’d already worn out a dozen scenarios of how Stacey might’ve disappeared, and he thought he might have a mental breakdown if he didn’t give it a rest. Some scenarios had Stacey laughing at him while making love to her KGB husband, while others saw her floating corpse reaching out in a frozen plea for help. Neither extreme had him clicking his heels across the cracked floorboards. He just wanted to go to sleep, to shut down the computer operating in his mind. He was so tired. But he was too scared to sleep. So he kept rocking, staring into the window as if an assassin couldn’t place a bullet through his eye from half a mile away with him sitting all candle-lit in front of the window like he was. And the questions, like buzzing gnats gunning for his eyeballs, kept coming.

  Did Stacey know about her cancer or not? Was Viktoriya working with the CIA to set her up or the FSB? Why would they set her up at all? There were more resourceful ways to make someone disappear. Unless it was a private matter, hired thugs helping put Stacey back together with Vadim. Was Stacey SVR like Vadim? Was Viktoriya KGB like her husband? What about the strange text message Stacey got the night it all started? And what about the books? Why had the guy taken them out of the house? If it was just a matter of Stacey hooking back up with her other husband, why the need to eliminate Donny and Ivan? Was the CIA really plotting an inside job with Vadim as their Russian flag? But why would Stacey be involved? And what about the thing she’d said about Joseph? Just who the hell had he married?

  His mouth was dry, and he desperately wanted one of the six bottles of water Johnson put in the bag. But he didn’t know how long he was going to be here, so he would conserve them.

  His eyes suddenly felt heavy, and the room around him began to fade. Before he could summon the willpower to stop the inevitable, he was asleep.

  * * * *

  He awoke with a start and knew right away that something had jettisoned him from his slumber. He moved his eyes back and forth, letting them adjust while trying to peer through the room’s eerie shadow.

  Nothing.

  He exhaled the breath he was holding and leaned forward in the chair. The old wood groaned loudly beneath him, but no dagger flew at him from another room, no smoke grenade rolled to a stop at his feet, and no masked men came rappelling down from the ceiling. Slowly, he rose to his feet, debating whether or not to blow out the melting candle beside him. He brought the shotgun up instead, slipping his finger over the double trigger, and stepped carefully toward the back of the cabin. He was sure that whatever had awakened him had come from that direction.

  The darkness swarming in the kitchen made him pause before slipping into its embrace, moving softly to the back door.

  And that’s when he heard it.

  He swore under his breath as perspiration beaded across his forehead. He raised the shotgun.

  There it was again. It was coming from outside.

  He took a deep breath, worked the doorknob with his latex fingers, and stepped outside. He swung the gun to the left. To the right.

  Nothing.

  He continued stepping away from the cabin and closer to a pinch of moonlight that was lingering above the ground in the center of the back yard.

  Snap.

  He jumped, almost squeezing the trigger, and spun around. Something was there, at the edge of the woods by an old tool shed… He was about to call out when a low, moan-like expression lifted from the ground behind him and brought all the hair on the back of his neck standing to attention. But just before turning to discover the source of the sound, the thing in front of him stumbled out into the moonlight.

  Uh oh.

  Jack knew what was behind him even as it exhaled a puff of air from its nostrils—so close that he felt its whispering surge stroke his skin. Forcing his feet to move, he turned around as slowly as he could.

  Sniffing the air five yards away was a big black bear.

  Jack moved the barrel of the shotgun around so that it was pointing at the beast, and with all the self-control he could muster, made himself take one small step backward at a time. If the cub, now behind him and playing in the silver spotlight, came any closer, then mamma bear might just feel the need to defend her family. Jack had seen footage of bear attacks and wanted no part in one of his own.

  He made it to the door without the bear taking issue and slipped inside. Then he went and moved the rocking chair, candle, and backpack into the kitchen, settling down to keep an eye on the wildlife moving beneath the shimmering moonlight. He couldn’t avoid the symbology though and again was pestered by thoughts of dreaming.

  A bear. Russia.

  But he would stick with the theory that this was a normal occurrence, that bears lived in the mountains. At least until it stood on its hind legs, reached into its fur, and extracted an AK-47. Once that happened, he would have to face the more unpleasant theories of what was happening and where he truly was.

  But by the time he dozed off again, the bear hadn’t yet whispered any Russian codes to the cub, pulled out a Pearson novel, or waltzed with his wife through the clearing.

  23

  The cabin had become too claustrophobic for him, and upon waking and finding the bear family gone, Jack took to strolling through the sunlit paths in the woods. He found that the cool morning air, carrying the fresh scent of nature bathed in dew, actually relieved the tension mounting in his gut. But the scene couldn’t transport him completely from his trouble, and he kept checking and rechecking the cell phone, making sure he had two bars of reception at all times while also making sure a call hadn’t been missed against the wild orchestra sounding around him.

  He came to a wide lake that was entertaining a lonely picnic table and bench along its side, their limbs strangled by long weeds. He set the shotgun and backpack down across its warped surface and sat down, casting his gaze out over the lake. The sun was sparkling off the smooth water, and there was a mysterious serenity to it all. Until sudden thoughts of Donny came rowing toward him, his high school friend now dead. He tried dodging the painful realization, but the light breeze that was pushing ripples into the lake also seemed to fill the sails of his mind, nudging it into the greater depths of memory’s disjointed sea. And it was there that he sank into an odd, incoherent interpretation—death and loss the two lenses of his goggles translating his submerged memories.

  An eagle appeared gliding over the water’s surface, its talons dipping beneath the lake and snatching itself a wiggling snack. Just like that. The fish swimming along with its fish-family one second and impaled by razor-sharp claws and flying through the air without the ability to breathe the next…never to see his gilled kind again, destined only to suffocate and bleed in its unfortunate role in the food chain. And then nothing. Non-existence. Because fish didn’t go to heaven, right? Wasn’t there something in Revelations about there being no sea in heaven? That would mean no fish, then, right? Unless their resurrected bodies came with wings and all eternal fish were flying fish. But the mental image of fish fins strumming golden harps in the clouds just didn’t sit right. The fish—destined to a pointless existence and then doomed to an excruciating departure into nothingness… But then, if Stacey was right in her theology-absent worldview, he wasn’t much better off than that fish, was he? The powerful bird disappearing over the tree line summoned a recent beach memory. A washed-up fish struggling to breat
he, a seagull stabbing at it with its beak and dropping it back into the water, it washing ashore again just to be pissed on by a curious dog, poked at by stick-wielding kids, and finally escaping back into the ocean only to be caught again by the seagull and ultimately shared with its friends as an afternoon snack. Nature was cruel, indeed. And so was humanity. He felt like life was pissing on him now, while he was out of water and couldn’t catch his breath, hungry CIA seagulls searching for him.

  Unzipping the bag, he took out a bottle of water and a can of tuna fish. Tuna fish. He laughed at the irony of it. There was a can-opener and some plastic utensils that Johnson had included, and once Jack had the lid off the can and its water drained into the dirt at his feet, he began shoveling mouthfuls of warm fish past his lips. As he forced it down, eyes still captured by the light show over the water, he considered the fact that people wanted him dead. It was a sobering thought, and he wished he knew who these people were and why they needed him to be fish food. Fish food. The thought made him look down at the meat on his plastic fork. What was happening here? Was tuna fish going to be the tipping point of his sanity? He shook the thought away, returning to the people trying to kill him. It was true that certain of his views would’ve gotten him a secret file with the FBI back in Hoover’s day, but while he was vocal about his beliefs and most of his friends knew he was a “conspiracy nut,” he wasn’t any type of activist. He wasn’t holding rallies and signing petitions. There was no reason the government of the United States, even the corrupt shadow figures sitting behind the scenes, would think of him as any type of threat. Right? Even if the “threat of terrorism” that was actually threatening the Constitution, allowing intelligence agencies to spy on everyone, did land him on someone’s list, there was no way the government would go through all this trouble just because he questioned the official story of…well, everything. Whoever was after him now was trying to tie off a loose end, but why the initial trouble of tossing him overboard? The answer depended on who “they” were. The cruise would be a convenient way for anyone to get rid of him, but then Stacey’s suicide note…that would ensure her a new life somewhere. Maybe with Vadim.

  Love hopes all things, believes all things…

  But if he was in the middle of some false flag setup, like Johnson had hinted at, then maybe the FBI man was right. Maybe all this unplanned attention due to his surviving the fall would derail whatever plan was being concocted. How many people could they afford to take out before the corpses began demanding questions from the public?

  Jack washed the remainder of the tuna fish down with another gulp of water as frustration began rising inside him again. He laid his head on the table, trying to be still. But after a minute, he started slamming his head against it, yelling. He looked up and screamed at the woods around him. “Are you out there? Are you watching me?” He picked the shotgun up off the table. “Come on, bastards! Come and get me already!”

  But only a few startled squirrels responded to his challenge by darting up a nearby tree.

  After the moment passed, he put the gun back down and rested the cell phone on the table next to it, staring. Waiting.

  Come on, Johnson.

  * * * *

  The sun was settling comfortably into its afternoon pose by the time he made it back to the cabin. After searching each room for any sign of an intruder, he leaned the shotgun against the wall and slipped the pack off his shoulders. Unscrewing the cap to his second bottle of water, he took a short sip while staring out the window, rubbing sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.

  The cell phone rang.

  The ringtone was halfway through its third segment by the time he had it out of his pants and up to his ear.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s me,” Johnson’s voice stated.

  Jack waited in silence for whatever Johnson had to say, knowing that it would most likely define the rest of his life.

  “I’ve been reassigned to Arizona.”

  Jack swore under his breath, and he felt what little hope he had tucked away start to crumble.

  “Listen,” Johnson went on, “I know where she is.”

  “Stacey?” Hope hung on.

  “She’s in Connecticut.”

  “With Viktoriya?”

  “I don’t know where Viktoriya or Joseph is, but it’d be my guess.”

  Jack’s heart struck up a fierce baseline in his chest.

  “She’s with the other man.”

  “With—”

  “Yes. No more names. Whatever this was going to be is over now. I think you’re safe.”

  “What about—”

  “I’ll text you the address. That’s all I can do now. I’m sorry. Good luck.”

  The call ended.

  Before Jack could even compute what had just happened, the phone beeped, and a text message appeared. An address in Avon, Connecticut followed by: BE SMART. LOSE PHONE.

  And Jack knew where his wife was. That she was alive.

  Elation. Fury. Happiness. Jealousy. He was going to get her back. He was going to kill her. He was going to rescue her. He was going to beat the truth out of her. He was going to tell her that everything would be okay…

  He picked up the bag and flipped it upside down, spilling its contents onto the floor. Then he selected the items he would need: the gloves, all the water bottles, and the coat. Hoping that Johnson was right about no one coming for him now, he just left the other things on the floor, no longer caring to keep his presence here a secret. With the shotgun in hand, he left the house for the shed, where he found a dull hacksaw. Five minutes and a pair of sore arms later, the shotgun’s barrel was reduced enough so that the gun could fit inside the backpack. Ten minutes after that, he was on his way, following the long driveway out to the road.

  At the end of the driveway, he reached the gravel road and debated on which way to go. Sweat was already dripping down his face. Right was the way they’d come, and he could only remember a tangled mess of smaller roads that he would never be able to retrace. He went left, figuring there was something just as likely to be up around the bend as not.

  But the bend turned into a long, straight shot of gravel cut through more mountain. Jack was no woodsman; he was a salesman from Philly. He loved taking Joseph on fishing trips to the lake and hikes through the state park, but he’d always preferred the surf to bears and snakes. So as he walked along, he couldn’t help but keep a wary eye on all the seas of green hands waving at him.

  The pack was heavy, and the straps were beginning to dig into his shoulders. It was pushing three o’ clock, and the day’s heat seemed to reach its maximum yield, making the walk much more uncomfortable. Gravel moved beneath his feet, trying to fling him onto his face as he pressed on up an incline. But at least the challenge of it forced him to concentrate on the exercise rather than the implications parading behind the news of Stacey being alive in Connecticut with Vadim. Love believes all things, hopes all things…

  An hour later, dripping with sweat, Jack stepped onto a blacktop road that was split in half by a white stripe—another step closer to civilization.

  The road stretched past him, going left to right, and his tired legs chose the downhill route. But right away he noticed a difference in the temperature. The gravel road had been covered by the forest canopy, but the blacktop had no such roof, the power cables slithering through the air from one pole to the next. The sun had beaten its heat into the asphalt all day long, and now he was walking over an oven as well as beneath one. He swung the pack off his back and let it fall to the ground, unzipping it and taking out a bottle of warm water. It tasted like a chemical drink, but he figured anything would be better than having to drink his own urine—which he’d heard survivalists advocate in severe situations.

  He massaged his aching shoulders and tried resisting the urge to sit for a few minutes. Keep going, he told himself. Thoughts of Joseph and all the memories still needing to be created pushed him on. Whether or not Stacey (or Anna) w
ould be a part of his future, Joseph certainly would be. He would make damn sure of that.

  He swatted at her drunken remark as it came back to sting him once more, fighting it off with fresh reinforcements of willing ignorance. Love believes all things, hopes all things…

  24

  At the bottom of the blessed hill, the road joined another via a red, octagonal sign that read STOP in white, English letters—yet another sign of civilization. Though a traffic light would have been preferred, beggars couldn’t be choosey, could they? And Jack walked on.

  Half an hour later, he was standing in front of a parking lot encircling what could have been Atlantis itself as far as he was concerned. Ma’s. It was a local, backwoods-type restaurant, but as long as it was operated by people and not apron-wearing raccoons, he was all for it. Standing next to Ma’s was a supply store and gas station. And if the restaurant was Atlantis, then its neighbor must be Asgard, Mu, Bensalem, Olympus, Mt. Zion, or Ararat. He didn’t prefer one to the other, and he could have dropped to his knees in praise of any one of their rulers. If not for the fact that he blamed such deities for the mess he was in to begin with. And just like that, he went from praise to rebuke, silently telling Ford Taurus to go castrate himself and the old Saturn and Mercury to choke on it. If the old mythology contained even a whisper of truth in its presentation of the gods—that they were up there entertaining themselves with human misery—then Jack would…well, he didn’t know what he could do other than curse at them. Thrusting a finger to the heavens in defiance of some trident-wielding, bearded god adorned in a dress did offer some satisfaction, but not nearly enough. There was, however, the monotheistic God that his early schooling had educated him in, a God he was less anxious to cast expletives at. Father Jacob had lectured about a God that, for some reason or another, allowed pain and misery in order that such things as joy, love, and worth could actually be realized and appreciated, that man would be forced to deal with the reality of his eternal soul. Free will required contrasts. Good and evil. Light and darkness. Misery and hope. But Jack didn’t know about any of that. A C.S. Lewis quote that Grandmom often shared when reminiscing about Grandpa didn’t massage the doubt from his being either, though it did seem to be building a nest in his hair. The pain now is part of the happiness then. It was the famous atheist-turned-apologist’s response to the death of his wife. Well, maybe if the Man Upstairs could rectify his situation, then Jack would vow to treasure and value every second of life and to consider what comes after it. Maybe he would even revisit those uncomfortable pews he’d hated sitting in. Maybe. If he lost everything, then there would be nothing left to appreciate, and God could take His free will and—