Burn, p.23
Burn, page 23
* * *
No more Maglite. Dusk moved on the harbor. Almost dark inside the cavernous shed. The man called, “Listen to me. They will shoot you on sight. There’s a Boston Whaler on the dock below. Keys under the coffee cup in the holder. As soon as full dark, take it. There are extra fuel cans forward. South along the shoreline, stay within a quarter-mile of the coast. Four hundred yards, no more. Closer if you can. Run without lights, half throttle. They are short on patrols and the radar will not pick you up. You’ll have to cross the mouth of the Fore at Portland Harbor. Gun it, you should be okay. You can make it to Portsmouth in six hours. When you pass the point and first see the lights of the town pier, cut inland and tie up at the docks with the brick shed and the green security lights. Understood?”
“What about the grandmo—”
Hesitation. “Detained. Deceased. Cuz of…It’s on me.”
“And your wi—her—?”
“Same.”
Silence.
“I’m sorry,” Jess croaked.
“When I jotted the coordinates I thought it’d be different. By tomorrow I’ll probably be…”
He didn’t finish.
“Why don’t you take the Whaler? We could all…” Jess let his voice trail off. He knew why. Beckett’s soldiers depended on him in the next actions. And he had ignited such a hell the feds would hound him to the ends of the earth. The man knew there was no way out, not anymore.
She had crumbled in his arms, what it felt like. Like he was trying to hold her together, the whimpers less about grief or terror now and more about limbs, heart, lungs, struggling to stay intact. Jess squeezed her to his chest as she shuddered.
“I’ll try,” Beckett lied. “Leave your coordinates, where you live, under the cup. Where the keys were. I have a man at the dock.”
“Okay,” Jess said. He turned away.
“Hey!” The call was abrupt, decisive. Jess turned back.
“I want to say goodbye. To her.”
“Okay.” Jess was confused.
“So many people depend…If I come out, is your man gonna shoot me?”
“My man?”
“What do you take me for?”
He knew. Beckett knew Storey was back somewhere with rifle leveled. He knew his daughter—that unless someone else had been holding her back she would have run out at the first sound of his voice. Again the sense that the colonel was very smart and very dangerous.
“I want to say—I want to hold my daughter. Once. Your word.” It was a command.
“My word, of course,” Jess stammered. “I brought her all this way.” Lame, he knew. It could still be a setup. But he believed what he was saying and he thought Beckett would hear it.
He did. The Maglite flashed in his face again, and then he could see it moving to the side of the dark hulk of boat, and stutter as the man came down a ladder fast. It stayed on his chest and got brighter as the man came on, and then it flicked off and he heard, “Okay,” and Jess blinked and Beckett was there, ten feet off, compact, thick glasses, sweatshirt hood down, lit dimly by the arc lights of a dock to the north. He was aiming a handgun level with both hands, aiming at Jess’s head, close enough to kill him and miss his daughter. Was she passed out? Face buried in his chest? No. She might have smelled her father. Or heard the soft, “Col? Col? It’s Papa.” She squirmed and stiffened and slid from his grasp. In an instant she was grabbing at her father’s leg. Beckett must have been overcome, because the gun was gone, shoved somewhere into his work pants, and he was kneeling and his arms were around her. Her paws clutched at his head, knocked his cap to the concrete, and she was bawling and bawling and crying “Papa” over and over.
* * *
Beckett could not convince her. He forgot about Jess, about Jess’s buddy outside with a rifle, about his own army, his command. He must have. Because he knelt on the cold floor of the shed and held his daughter. And she clutched him, pawed at his hair, his face, tried to crawl into his sheltering chest. Jess could hear him trying to utter words, to quell his own quiet crying, to comfort her, but he could not. He could only sob with relief, with fresh sorrow. This man who had already lost his wife and mother. He gasped, summoned himself, held her face in both hands, enough away that she could look at him while he spoke.
“Col, Col, listen to me. Listen, okay?” She could not listen. He kissed her cheeks again and again, thumbed her tears, and she tried to crawl close again but he held her inches away. “Listen, baby. I will come find you. If I can. Not today, but later. I promise. Know why?”
She would not know. Refused. But he repeated it again and again until she squeaked, “Why?”
“Because I love you more than anything on earth. You know that?”
Jess could not see her face but he saw her head tilt.
“And you’re the strongest little lion, right? And I have to go to work now, and you will go with these nice men where it is safe. These are good men, and, honey, you will be safe, and you will grow up—”
He stopped himself. He pushed her gently outward. Her fingers were tangled in his hair. She would not let go. “You go now, honey. You go with him, and I will find you.”
Jess stepped forward and swept her up and she went limp. Completely. As if she had lost all fight. Her lion hood was crumpled down and her hair was wet. The man looked up and Jess saw the nod. Jess turned. He carried her against his chest and walked toward the open bay door.
“One day,” the man called. Jess turned back. “One day…” Silence. He heard the water lapping at the ramp. Jess waited. In the middle of the dark shed. “One day, please try to tell her…”
“I will,” Jess said. He thought of the man and the girl grinning, each holding up a fish, the one huge, the other tiny. How they beamed. He thought of Collie’s mother behind the camera, probably the happiest, proudest woman on earth.
Jess turned. Through the bay door the harbor was all shadow now, and the sea and sky merged in a slate-dark blue with no horizon.
Acknowledgments
This book would not have been written without the keen insights and thoughtfulness of my first readers: Kim Yan, Lisa Jones, Donna Gershten, and Helen Thorpe. Your generosity and love have sustained the work, and given this novel wings. Thank you.
* * *
Sascha Steinway lent his expertise, as did Adam Duerk, Win Duerk, Bobby Reedy, Mike Reedy, Jim Le Fevre, Isaac Savitz, Tiara Sharma, Justin Ward, and Geordie Heller. Thanks to doctors Melissa Gillespie and Mitchell Gershten for always being on call.
* * *
A special thanks goes to the brilliant Myriam Anderson, whose graciousness and wisdom have meant so much, and to the transcendent translator Céline Leroy.
* * *
David Halpern was with me on this novel from the first pages to the last. He has been the most steadfast and insightful friend and mentor. Jenny Jackson shepherded the novel through with brilliance and great care. She has been an inspiration and a champion, always. To you both: I am grateful for your minds, your humor, and your hearts.
* * *
It is an honor and a privilege to know you all.
A Note About the Author
Peter Heller is the best-selling author of The Last Ranger, The Guide, The River, Celine, The Painter, and The Dog Stars, which has been published in twenty-six languages. Heller is also the author of four nonfiction books, including Kook: What Surfing Taught Me About Love, Life, and Catching the Perfect Wave, which was awarded the National Outdoor Book Award. He holds an M.F.A. from the Iowa Writers’ Workshop in poetry and fiction and lives in Denver, Colorado.
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Peter Heller, Burn
