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 Does that worry you?
 Them?
 For your son? You?
 They don t bother with people s kids. And they never got anyone in a Witness
Protection Program before. It s a hundred percent.
 I ve heard that, he says. He takes a deep breath, pats the tabletop, and
stands up.  Well.
 Cured, huh?
 You ve come to grips with what happened, he says.  Most people never get
that far.
He holds out his hand. I take it, and we smile.
My cell is emptied out. Already waiting for the next sucker. Two federal
agents from Witness Protection arrive in the afternoon. They look at me like
I m something stuck to their shoe and give me a dossier on who I am. I have a
history. An uncle with a glass eye. A mom with parents from Dublin. A collie I
grew up with. An odd little story that all adds up.
They put me on a small private plane and we take off heading west. They ve
lined up a job at a metal shop on the edge of town in Bozeman, Montana. I did
some metalwork in middle school and it s the best I can do among the choices
they re giving me. Everything is very low-key. A brown two-bedroom ranch down
a gravel road. A small green four-door Chevy. I m not to go to the same store
more than once a month. I will keep a log.
The big agent with the crew cut, Karp, he s staying with me for a time. A real
treat, seeing his bland pasty face staring at the TV every afternoon when I
get home. The way he breathes through his nose with a little whistling noise
while we assault our frozen dinners across a little round Formica table in the
kitchen.
The night before he s to leave, I find him on the front stoop, watching the
lightning flashes, the wind whipping at his flannel shirt, hands stuffed deep
in his pockets.
 So this shit works? I say.
He looks at me and offers a smile that quickly fades before he nods.
 They never got one of your guys?
 It s impossible, he says.  Sometimes I m sorry to say that.
  Cause that s what we deserve?
He stares into my eyes for a moment, then shrugs and says,  A deal s a deal.
And we always keep our part. That s the difference.
He pushes past me and in through the front door.
 Nice knowing you too, I say in a voice he can t hear.
When he does leave, though, I actually miss the company. I have been warned
about relationships. Friends are a no-no. A woman is okay, just not a married
one. I keep my eyes open for the single type, but Bozeman is no big city and
I m not allowed to join any organizations where you might meet one.
There are woods at the end of my lane, though. Woods that stretch up into the
hills. Woods where deer and bear battle to live.
I go to Wal-Mart and look at the guns, intend to heft one, but change my mind.
I buy a compound bow instead and listen to the kid behind the counter tell me
about the elk. My blood heats up a bit and I buy a target to set up in back of
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my house, and some field points for the arrows to practice with.
The mindless work in the metal shop doesn t kill me. I buy a cookbook and do a
little of that. Do I think of her? Of course. But it s him I think about
mostly, hoping that he s thinking about college now, knowing he ll have the
money to get there, wondering if he has any fond memories of me at all and
will I ever see him again.
By the time the nights get cold, I m good enough with the bow to take it out
into the woods. I put up several tree stands along a high ridge where the game
move at dawn and dusk. My farthest outpost is in the crook of a tall beech
beside a narrow hissing brook. I leave work early one day and hike in.
I fall asleep there, just listening. When I wake I know it s too dark to hunt.
The flying squirrel I sometimes see chitters and takes off into the dark
space, flapping his mammal wings and wavering through the darkness.
When a branch snaps, my heart stops.
 Hello? I say. My mouth dries up and a shiver runs through me. I scurry down
and creep along the bank of the stream. I am totally aware of the world around
me. The mossy smell of the air and the trees. The sound of the water. The
blackness of night. And I know I m not alone. I freeze and stare hard at the
vague shapes in the darkness behind me, my stomach sick, fear coursing through
my blood. I sense a bit of movement, and hear the faintest metallic click.
Orange flame lights up the trees, and my chest burns for a moment before I
lose my breath and grow numb. My fingers dig into the soft moss and I scuff up
dead leaves with the heels of my boots. Something warm fills my mouth and
trickles from the corner down my cheek while the rest of me goes cold.
The black shadow of a man leaps the stream and looms over me. He snaps on a
light, blinding me, and scans the steaming wound in my chest before he clears
his throat. The light drops down beside his leg. In the glow I see the long
drooping mustache. The sad dark eyes. Empty eyes that remind me of my own when
I m shaving and thinking of the son I ll never see. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]