Gone

TWENTY-SIX

WHEN I WAS MIDDLE SCHOOL AGE, MAYBE TWELVE OR fourteen, Loretta ordered me to set fire to the woodpile because bumblebees had built a nest in the ground beneath it. She was convinced it was true because bees had chased her from the chimney side of the house almost to the dock, and Loretta is not a woman who enjoys exercise, particularly running from bees.

“I had a Great-aunt Rosy-on my grandma’s side-who was stung to death fetching firewood,” she had explained. “So our smell might be something insects sense. You know-that runs in the family? I’m only thinking of your own good, Hannah, since the one in charge of wood, come winter, is the most likely to be killed. Plus, you’re faster.”

Not fast enough to outrun a tornado of bumblebees that came spinning out of the ground when I lit that fire. For protection, I’d worn socks as gloves, a hat with mosquito netting, and a U.S. Army jacket my father had left behind. The khaki weave had felt thick enough but wasn’t, so I suffered four or five hot-poker stings before diving off the dock to safety.

Bumblebee stings. When Ricky Meeks fired the shotgun, the pain was similar. Like a couple of hot needles had jabbed me. Not enough pain to keep me on the ground, though, especially with Olivia pulling me by the arm again, yelling, “Run!”

I did-but only after I’d grabbed the pistol.

With Olivia leading, we climbed over roots, crashed through limbs that tore at our clothing, putting all the distance we could between us and the next gunshot. It was too dark to see anything but ghostly shapes, even though my vision was improving. Every yard was painful. Olivia caught her ankle on a root and almost fell. A stub of broken limb pierced my jeans near the thigh, which hurt worse than the pellets that still stung my arm. Which is why we hadn’t gotten far when Ricky yelled, “I see you!” and fired again-BOOM!

Shotgun pellets buzzed us, slowed by a flurry of mangrove confetti, leaves and twigs that rained down on our heads. The shot caused us to stop and crouch low, waiting for more. Instead, all we heard was the man’s labored footsteps splashing near the front of the cruiser, and Eugene’s voice from inside, calling, “What the hell’s going on?”

Instead of answering, Meeks leaned his weight against the boat, waist-deep in water, and used the powerful beam to poke among the trees. If the man couldn’t hear us, I realized, he might be unable to find us. Even if he’d lied about losing a shoe, he was still weak. He didn’t want to risk such a wild thicket-not in pursuit of a woman who’d already shot him once. The same woman getting ready to shoot him again… and that’s exactly what I had decided to do.

No choice, my mind was telling me, and I knew it was true. Which was why I had dropped to one knee, to steady myself, while using both hands to level the pistol. Dark as it was, Olivia knew what I was doing. She touched a shaking hand to my back, a silent question between two people with much in common: Are you sure?

I nodded yes,pleased when the girl removed her hand. Concentration was required.

Trouble was, I couldn’t see Ricky any better than he could see us-even if he’d guessed right with the spotlight. We were separated by walls of vines and limbs a lot thicker than any Army jacket. The only space that appeared cleanly over the pistol’s sights was the cruiser’s prow, a few feet below the bowsprit. It was where Ricky’s head would appear, I guessed, if he moved a few feet, so I held the pistol steady and waited.

From inside the cabin, Eugene yelled, “Goddamn it, answer me!”

“Get your ass out here and help search!” Meeks railed back and then turned to his right as if he’d heard something unexpected. When he did it, the left side of his face appeared briefly above the pistol… but I missed my chance because my finger wasn’t on the trigger. It is a safety procedure I had been taught-the correct way, too-but kneeling in a swamp, waiting to shoot a man who has vowed to rape and kill you, is an unusual circumstance.

My trigger finger dropped to where it needed to be.

Ricky was still behaving as if he’d heard something, so I tilted my head to listen. It took a moment, but my ears found it: foliage rustling not far away, an animal with enough weight to crush branches as it pushed closer. Meeks, of course, suspected it was Olivia and me, sneaking away. Why two women would move toward a killer wielding a shotgun, was a question Ricky probably should have asked himself, but he didn’t.

Instead, he swung the spotlight toward a patch of tree canopy that was moving and ignored Eugene, who yelled, “I want paid first! Go ahead and get yourself killed! Me, I’m gonna find a beer.”

Ricky had no interest. From where I knelt, it appeared as if he shouldered the shotgun and waded a few steps toward the noise, but I couldn’t be sure. The animal was bigger, moving faster than I’d realized, judging from the way trees parted as it advanced. Which, for the first time, caused me to remember that animals can wind-scent blood from miles away. Meat eaters, anyway. Sharks… vultures… saltwater crocs. And Ricky Meeks, waiting there, water up to his belly, in clothes brittle with his own blood-but the Texan didn’t possess my local knowledge.

The temptation was to stand and get a better look, and I might have if I hadn’t been waiting for a clean shot. And when the spotlight went out for some reason-maybe Meeks had dropped it in his excitement-there was an even better reason to stay put, so I did. In hindsight, it was a lucky decision because we heard Ricky holler, “Jesus Christ!” as if surprised by the sudden darkness. Then he fired the shotgun-BOOM!… BOOM! Two panicky shots spaced a moment apart before there was a third explosion-kuh-WHUMPH!-which wasn’t a gunshot at all, although I didn’t realize it at first. It was the sound of the cruiser blowing up, caused by propane gas, and something Eugene had done in the cabin-hunting for beer, my guess.

Either the shock wave or the heat blew me backward, along with a storm of foliage that had protected us from the blast. Before I could think about getting to my feet, I was already up and running, pursued by the screams of what might have been a man. I didn’t want to risk what awaited my eyes if I turned, so I didn’t. Even when I heard an animal crashing through the brush off to my right, I refused to look. Instead, I focused on Olivia’s back and followed her as she snaked her way through the jungle. That girl could run!

There was no problem seeing now. Above us, the tree canopy was waxy with light from an inferno that consumed the Skipjack cruiser. Ahead, I could see an incline that told me the shell ridge was near. I had described the ridge to Olivia in case we got separated, but she didn’t know the area as well as me so I yelled for her to stop and let me take the lead. The girl did, turning to look with a dazed expression, but then cringed. “You’re bleeding!”

At first, I thought she meant my thigh, which was throbbing after being jabbed by a mangrove spike. “My best jeans, too,” I replied, “but it doesn’t hurt. Are you okay?”

Olivia was more concerned with a couple of bloody holes that dotted my Navaho shirt. “He shot you!” she said, using her fingers to explore my left shoulder.

I felt giddy for a moment, thinking, Not as bad as I shot him, but said nothing. The tiny pellets didn’t hurt any worse than bee stings, a few drops of blood proved I was okay, plus I had noticed my friend’s eyes widening at something she saw over my shoulder.

I turned to look, hearing, “Oh my God!” Then Olivia pointed, and asked, “Hannah?”

I had been wrong about a saltwater croc. What we’d heard crushing limbs was the two-hundred-pound boar hog that had threatened me earlier. The explosion had spooked it away, but now the animal was returning to the fire, its sensitive snout held high, alert for the scent of a meal.

I knew where the hog was headed because of something else we could see: the blackened form of a man who had to be Ricky Meeks, stumbling through the mangroves, away from the blaze.

When she spotted him, Olivia almost backed a step, but then yelled, “I’m the one who did it, you bastard! Me. You stay away from us or… you’ll be sorry!”

Ricky already was. I watched him drop to one knee… stagger forward… then clutch the trunk of a tree to rest, smoke rising from his shoulders. The man had lost the shotgun, along with most of his hair and clothes, which was obvious even from a distance. Even so, the girl waited, unconvinced, before repeating her question about pigs. “Hannah, you don’t think…?”

I nodded. “They’ll eat anything. We can’t let that happen…” I looked into Olivia’s face. “Can we?”

In answer, she moved away so I could concentrate-once I had the pistol sights squared. My eyes tracking, the animal trotted like a Sunday horse, a profile of tusks with a spit curl tail, unaware it had been spared when Olivia amended, “No! Just scare the damn thing away!”

Two shots I fired, missing low and to the right. It would have been a disappointment to all of my great-aunts, particularly Hannah One. But it suited me.