Wolves (54 page)

Chapter 12

She knows
, Huxley thinks as he pulls the horse to a stop in the middle of a small dirt road that leads out of Vicksburg Landing. One that he has traveled before. And at the end of it … 

She knows.

Nadine's eyes are bloodshot, her nose raw from wiping the snot from it with the rough sleeve of the woolen jacket. Sometime while he slept on the ferry, she had finished her picture and she had tucked it away in the pocket of the coat. She is crying again. She stays silent, but he can feel her shoulders shaking. He knows that it isn't from the pain of her leg anymore. He might have changed, but he still knows his daughter. He knows how to tell the difference between her physical pain and her grief.

The afternoon is turning to evening. Everything is golden, turning to ochre. The sun is in their eyes on this westerly road. It's not cold, except for when the wind gusts. There is a barren beauty to all of this finality. The way the sun dazzles between the trees like one last gift for him. Not a bad sunset to finish a lifetime's worth.

He dismounts. It is painfully difficult. Then he stoops down and struggles with the hobble. It is a two-handed job, and he only has one. But he manages to get the hobble looped around one hoof, and then starts on the other. Above his head, he can hear Nadine's breath—sharp and hitching. He has bent to this task as much to hide his eyes from her as because it is necessary.

I don't want her following me
, he thinks, but he keeps his head pointed to the ground so that his tears can fall silently and without her seeing them.
She knows what I'm about to do.

It's a vain effort. Even after wiping his eyes, he knows she can see that they are red, just like hers. He looks up at her, still sitting in the saddle of this poor, tired horse. He doesn't know what else to do. He wants more time. But more time was never part of the deal. And there are promises to keep.

It's only the second night. You have until tomorrow morning.

But Huxley knows that anything could happen between now and then. In the span of a night, he might die from his wounds, or at the least, become so sick and weak that he can't show up. And he will not have Nadine take him there. He will not expose her to Black Heart Davies. He must go while he still has the strength to go under his own power.

“Are you going to leave me here?” she asks, voice cracking.

“I can't take you with me,” his own words are a struggle.

“Why?” she cries out, suddenly loud. “Why are you doing this?”

He lays a hand on her knee. She shoves it away.

It stings him, inside and out.

“Nadine, please,” he begs, hanging his head at first, then raising it, not trying to hide himself anymore.

Her shoulders slump. Her eyes are locked on his. She sniffs loudly. “I don't understand. Why would you get me out of there if you're just going to leave me again?”

Your children always seem to know the words to cut you low.

Huxley puts his hand on her knee again. This time she lets it lie. He feels like he has to touch her, to make that connection, as though better understanding will be imparted through that contact. “Listen to me. I wanted you to be free. I wanted you to be safe. I wanted you to know that I didn't forget about you. You don't … you won't ever know the things that I did to make it here. Honey … I did things I'm ashamed of. And I have things that I need to answer for, okay? You can't just do whatever you want—you remember that. Every action has consequences.” He struggles with the words. He struggles to make them make sense for her. “There's a boy in those woods, not much older than you, and he's waiting for me, just like you waited for me. And I made a promise to him, and to the man that's keeping him there. And now I have to go keep that promise, okay? I don't want to do it, sweet girl, please understand that I don't want to leave you. I want to stay with you. But sometimes you just have to do the right thing, and hope that it pays for all the bad things.” He wipes his eyes, his nose. “If I stayed with you, those bad things would follow me, and they'd eventually find me, and then you might get hurt. And I can't let that happen. I won't let that happen. Do you understand? I want you to live. I want you to be safe. And the only way that can happen is if I go.”

Nadine stares, shell-shocked. “So you're not gonna come back? You're never coming back?”

Huxley doesn't want to answer the question. “Nadine. The boy I told you about? His name is Lowell, okay? He's a good kid. He's smart. Listen to him. I want you guys to go north. I want you to get the hell out of this place. Go north and find a quiet place, find a community that'll take you in. Be safe. Live a good life. Do you promise me that you'll do that?”

“Don't go. Just don't go,” she says, as though it is so simple.

“I have to, sweet girl. Promise me that you'll do what I'm asking.”

The words are weak. “I promise.”

He reaches up with a shaking hand and he touches her face, just one finger. He is scared to grab her and hold her like he wants to. He is terrified of her rejection of him. He does not want that to be his last memory, and time is growing short.

“I know that you understand,” he tells her. “I know you don't like it either, but please don't hate me. Remember the good times, okay? If you can, remember your mother. Remember when we were all together. Can you do that for me? Can you remember me like that?”

She nods, unable to speak.

Huxley forces himself to smile for her. “Sweet girl. I have so much more to say. But I don't want you on the road after dark, okay? Lowell is going to come meet you. Wait right here for him. And then go back to Vicksburg Landing before it gets dark. And then north in the morning.”

She squeezes her eyes shut.

“Hey.” He gets her to look at him again. The next words are difficult to say. They want to stick in his tightening throat. “I love you … more than all the stars in the sky.”

The words are like blows to her. He hadn't intended it that way. She rocks back, pulling away from him. He draws his hand back and he turns.
Best to go. Don't drag it out. Don't make it hurt any more than it has to. You've made things so horrible already. Just go. Go, and know that she'll live.

He walks away from her.

“Daddy! Wait!”

He turns back to her, barely able to see her. He doesn't want to walk back, but he's pulled back to her side by some taut cord of instinct. It is not so easy to leave your daughter. It is not so easy to ignore her crying out for you.

When he is beside her again, she leans down and she throws her arms around his neck and she squeezes him like she used to when she was young, when she was trying to impress him with how strong she was. She's grown stronger, but it still feels so light around his neck. He puts his good arm around her shoulders and holds her like he's wanted to since she was ripped away from him.

She called me Daddy, but this time it wasn't a dream.

Or maybe it is.

She's the angel in this nightmare.

He pours a year and a half of pain and longing into that embrace.

He pulls away, hand on her shoulder. “I have to go,” he says.

This time she doesn't try to stop him. She doesn't beg for him to stay. She must understand, just like Huxley knew. She understood from the moment that she saw him standing bloodied and murderous in that penthouse lounge. She understood that there would—there must be—a reckoning. She understood that he was only hers for a short time.

But it's not just a short time. I'm yours forever. Just remember me before. Remember me at the barley fields. Remember me under the stars at night. Remember me for the good.

She reaches into the coat that he gave her, and she pulls out the piece of paper, folded back on itself again. She handles it delicately.

“I want you to have it,” she tells him.

Huxley takes it in his worn fingers. He begins to open it, but she stops him.

“Not here,” she says, shaking her head. “Open it … when you need help … remembering.”

He takes it gently. He doesn't mean to do it, but unconsciously he holds it against his chest. Jealously. Like an item of great value. He clings to it with the quiet pride of a poor man's sole possession.

“Okay,” he promises. “I will.”

Chapter 13

Huxley steps into the clearing.

“Mr. Huxley,” Black Heart Davies calls out. There is a note of surprise in his voice.

He stands behind Lowell, the boy kneeling, still bound, but not hooded. The Black Hat must have heard Huxley coming through the woods. He has his pistol in his hand, the muzzle hovering behind Lowell's head. The boy looks up at Huxley and their eyes touch for a brief moment.

I'm here. I came back. I keep my promises.

Lowell is scared, of course, but relieved. And stricken. He wants to live, but he knows that Huxley's life is the only currency that can buy his own. There is a weight to that which the boy should not have to bear. Not with everything else that he carries.

“It's okay, Lowell,” Huxley says to him, having to raise his voice just a bit to carry clearly across the intervening fifteen yards. His voice is steady now. He feels, in a way, bled dry of his emotions. His eyes still feel raw and red and crusted, but there are no tears left in him. Now it is time.

There is a sick feeling in his gut. But it is the feeling of letting go. That first initial plunge as you begin to fall.

It is okay. This is for the best.

Across from him, Davies eyes Huxley up and down, taking in how battered he is. His eyes linger on the revolver still stuck in Huxley's waistband. “Why'd you come armed, Huxley?”

Huxley raises his good hand to show he has no intention of making a move for the pistol. The paper is still held in his hands, between his fingers. He has not yet opened it. First Lowell goes free, and then Huxley can settle his soul. “I've come, Davies. That's what matters, right? I'm here.”

Davies' tongue swipes over his top teeth. He gives Huxley a hard stare. “Did you think I would try to kill you both?”

Huxley stays motionless. “Don't take it personally.” He makes a fractional nod toward Lowell. “Cut the boy loose. Let him go. You can have my gun. I didn't come for a fight.”

“Hm.” Davies' lips flatten out. “Alright. But you'll do exactly as I say. Or I'll put holes in you both faster than you can make a move for whatever ancient piece of shit is hanging out of your waistband. Am I understood?”

Huxley is tired. He has no energy left. He just nods, wearily.

Davies produces a knife in his left hand, keeping the pistol trained on the back of Lowell's head, and he cuts the boy's bindings with it. “Go,” he tells the boy.

Lowell rises and walks unsteadily, holding his red wrists and rubbing them. He takes a few steps toward Huxley and tears spring up in his eyes, very briefly. His mouth works shakily, and then clamps shut, and the tears are gone. He is a hard person. He's had to be. That's good. It will keep him alive. It will keep Nadine alive.

Lowell stops just a few feet in front of Huxley. He whispers. “You don't have to do this. We could fight.”

Huxley just shakes his head once. “Listen to me. Okay? Are you listening?”

“Yes.”

“My daughter is on a horse a half mile toward Vicksburg Landing,” he says. “Her name is Nadine. She's got a broken leg. Get her to safety, Lowell. Get her someplace safe in Vicksburg Landing, and then take her north, okay? Take her north, and keep her safe. That's what you need to do.”

“Okay.” Lowell is fighting his emotions again.

“Are you still listening to me?” Huxley asks.

Lowell takes a second. He swallows everything down. He nods. “I'm listening.”

“Stop being afraid. Stay safe, but don't live your life in fear. You can't hold on to this life forever, and when you try, you do things you shouldn't. Remember that there are worse things than dying, okay? Live a good life. Be a good man. And take care of my daughter. I know you can do it. I have faith in you. You're better than what I made you become.”

Lowell seems frozen in place.

Is he capable? He's just a boy.

“You know this isn't your fault, right?” Huxley asks.

Lowell says nothing.

Huxley shakes his head. “You saved me. The moment I almost forgot who I'd been, the moment I almost lost that one last, good piece of myself, you forced me to remember who I'd been. All of this? I earned it, Lowell. It's my tally.” He looks at the ground. “Go, now. And remember what I said.”

Lowell turns his body away from Huxley, away from Davies.

He walks away. His footsteps fading through the woods, and then they are gone.

It is just Davies and Huxley in the clearing.

Davies stands, pistol held straight out in his right hand, good aim, right at Huxley's upper chest. And he can fire as fast as he can pull the trigger. And Huxley has not even pulled his comparatively obsolete weapon out of his waistband. It is not cocked. He will die if he goes for it. They both know this.

“Very slowly,” Davies begins. “With your thumb and forefinger only, take the revolver from your waistband and drop it on the ground.”

Very slowly, with his thumb and his forefinger only, Huxley complies.

A gust of wind plays with the picture in his fingers. He wants to look at it now.

He drops the revolver at his feet and focuses on keeping that invaluable paper from flying out of his grasp.

“Kick the gun away from you,” Davies' voice carries over to him.

It is just background noise now. He complies, not for any reason but because he wants another moment to remember. Nadine knew he would want to remember. That is all they have. Everyone in this world. They just have memories. Memories of people they have loved and lost. Memories of better times.

He kicks the gun. It skitters through the dirt, just a lump of steel without a killer's hands on it.

Davies takes a few steps toward him. “Kneel down.”

Huxley kneels, staring at the folded paper, and thinking about beautiful things. They are far away. They are hard to grasp sometimes. They don't belong in this world. They're from a different one. Why do the memories fade? Why can't they stay true for your whole life? The good ones always fade like the colors in a photograph, but the bad ones always seem to get worse. The blood gets redder … 

No need for that now.

You're done with blood.

Go back. You were trying to remember … 

But faces. Faces are hard to remember for some reason. At least, they've always been for him. He's watched them weather down like sculptures over eons, each day, each horrific thing, a year of rain and winds that scours away the detail from the carvings of his memories, making them plain and homogenous. But the real faces were anything but plain. They were alive. They were bright. They made his life beautiful.

She had hair the color of the barley fields when the sun was behind them. She had blue eyes that were bluer in the middle, and they sparkled when she smiled. A big smile. Beautiful mouth. She'd been a joyful person. A wonderful person. The best person I know.

He feels and hears Davies stepping around him, circling around to stand behind Huxley's kneeling form.

It's almost time.

He opens the folded piece of paper.

New tears, his last ones, hot and burning in his eyes.

There you are.

It is the picture he thought it would be. The one he
hoped
it would be. And it brings back every image of his wife, of that person that he lost to this world. Her face there on the page before him, remembered and brought to life with details that only Nadine could make. His wife, the love of his youth, the mother of his child, imperfect and ideal. The sight of her is like walking through the door of that cottage. It is faith. It is hope. It is love.

In the picture, she laughs, her eyes bright, her smile wide. How perfectly Nadine rendered her. He hopes that this is how Nadine remembers her. The best side of her.

He closes his eyes, that picture scratched out of charcoal like a key unlocking her, letting her back into his mind. He can see her now. Behind his eyes, he can remember everything that he'd forgotten. He can live there, in this imaginary land, for just a few seconds longer … 

Davies' voice breaks in, but quietly, like a burglar in Huxley's dreamland.

“Who drew that?”

Davies is behind him now.

Huxley opens his eyes again. The light of the real world, even in the coming dusk, seems overly harsh. It washes away the patina of his imagined world. He looks at the picture in his hand. Then he turns his head. Out of the corner of his peripheral vision, he can just barely see the shape of Davies standing there, the pistol leveled at Huxley's head, as it had been leveled at Lowell's.

“My daughter drew it.”

All is silent.

Huxley doesn't know why the question was asked. Can't really figure why he answered, other than because he has nothing left to fight this man with. He has come to pay his tally. Now he kneels and accepts his fate. The executioner stands behind him. His finger is on the trigger. Justice must be done.

He looks back at the picture. He is very quiet in his soul now. He has a stillness inside of him that he has not experienced in a very long time. So long that he wonders if he ever experienced it at all. It surpasses all his understanding, but he welcomes it nonetheless.

A shift of weight from behind him.

A rustle of fabric.

The light scrape of a boot in the dirt.

“Get up,” Davies' voice says.

Fear snaps through Huxley, sudden and intense.
This isn't supposed to happen … 

He turns himself again, but this time all the way, looking behind him.

Davies stands a little further away now. His pistol is still in his hand, but it is pointed at the ground. The grip that Davies holds it with seems lazy. The man, the rocky features … something is passing through them. It is odd. Like hearing an underground river through a sheet of immovable stone. Nothing in his face actually changes, but Huxley can
sense
the cataclysm inside of the man.

He is staring at the picture.

“Why?” Huxley says.

Davies' face twitches at the sound of Huxley's voice. He seems to break from a trance. Then he looks Huxley in the eye. The pistol moves in his hand and Huxley thinks perhaps he only wanted to shoot Huxley in the face, for whatever reason, to look him in the eyes while he did it.

Then Davies holsters his pistol. “Get up,” he repeats. “Go.”

Huxley makes a sound, brings one foot up, then hesitates again.

Davies blinks rapidly. Something on the verge of collapse. He doesn't want it to be witnessed. The fact that Huxley is still kneeling there irritates him. He points into the forest behind Huxley. “Go, I said!” he snaps. “You're fucking free. Get the hell out of here before I change my mind.”

Huxley is buzzing. This has all the surrealism of a dream.

He barely feels his feet on the ground as he rises. He can't feel the pain in his broken arm, or his burned arm. But he can feel his heart beat. Hard. And speeding up. He wants to ask Davies why, but it would be foolish. He can see the man's face straining under whatever is inside of him and Huxley doesn't want to be around when it breaks. It will be violent, Huxley thinks.

His brain keeps telling him,
You should be dead. You should be dead. This is not real.

But he turns himself around. He starts walking with small, shuffling steps. He expects a bullet in the back.
This doesn't matter. None of this matters. He's still going to kill you. This is just a trick. Don't get your hopes up. Keep your head down. You're supposed to be dead.

But his heart is soaring.

Terrified, but soaring.

“Huxley,” Davies calls after him.

He's only made it a few yards. He is close to the woods. Is this it? Is this the bullet in the back? He stops where he is, but doesn't turn around. He braces himself for the impact of the bullet. Davies is a strange creature. As strange as Huxley himself.

“Your daughter,” Davies says, his voice uncharacteristically shaky. “The picture girl. Tell her thank you. From the saddest man she's ever seen. Tell her thank you … for helping me remember.”

Huxley looks back over his shoulder, words stricken out of his mouth, but hoping to look at Davies one more time, hoping that something in the other man's face will make sense of this. But when he looks, Davies has already turned, and he is walking quickly away into the darkening, deepening woods.