Still no phone, by the way. The shopdidemail me to tell me they anticipated one would come available in another month. I did not hold my breath. The medical program in Pennsylvania informed me they would hold a place in the spring semester until the fifteenth of November, then it would go to the next candidate and I could try again in the fall.
Plenty of time. Jackson’s situation should have resolved by then. I circled the first of November on my calendar as a reminder that if I hadn’t heard from the Army by that day, I needed to call the liaison and request an update. What would I do if they didn’t have one to give me?
Move on. I would move on.
That night, I went down to the home improvement store and bought a stack of moving boxes. We stared at each other, those boxes and I, then I removed the books from one shelf and ceremonially placed them into an empty cardboard cube.
I had decided. The time had come to leave that place near the spine of the Rockies, the one where Jackson could point to it and say, “Sebastian is there.” Sebastian wouldnotbe there.
Myplace was in the future. One that didn’t include him.
I still took the books out of that box three times before I could force myself to tape it closed.
* * *
A thunderous banging on my front door woke me out of a dead sleep.
I sat up in bed, startled, heart hammering in my chest, and wondered if I’d dreamed the noise. Crickets chirped out the window. My air conditioner hummed as it kept a swell of unseasonable autumn heat at bay. The first snows wouldn’t hit for another couple weeks at the earliest, and right now, we had what we call “the warm before the storm”. Heat builds up and creates a hot day or two before a cold front sweeps in and smacks it down again. These phenomena are why Coloradans keep both jackets and shorts in their cars-
BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG!
The slams on my front door scared me enough that I damn near fell out of my bed. I launched myself out of the sheets, almost tripped as one clung to my foot, and untangled myself as another barrage of banging jangled my nerves. I didn’t even remember my robe. It was all I could do to get to the door and throw it open so the slamming would stop.
Randall Sadler stood on my porch, fist raised to beat on my door again.
“Boy, do you not believe in answering the phone?” he snarled, low and full of rage.
I had never taken the statementwhen Death comes knockingas gospel before. Seriously, who knew Deathactually knockedon the door, and looked like the father of the man who wants to divorce you for cheating? Because I had no doubt I was going to die right then. Jackson’s dad had come to kill me.
“I don’t have a phone,” I said, too stunned to form a coherent thought. “Laramie broke it and I can’t find another one. Chip shortage.”
Randall did not care about the chip shortage. He jerked his head towards my driveway, where I saw his truck parked in a pool of moonlight. “You’re coming with me. Now.”
Absolutely going to die. Probably in a ditch. Maybe thrown off Pikes Peak. Could be, I’d have a great view before I perished in agony against the rocks. “Why? Why are you here? What’s going on? Wait, hang on, I have no pants.”
“Get some,” Randall said as he walked towards his truck. “You have five minutes before I drag you out in your tightie-whities.”
First of all, my underwear were grey, thank you. And second? At least I’d die with pants on.
Not going wasn’t an option. Yes, I technically could have closed the door and called the police. They would never have arrived before Randall Sadler drove his truck through my front door and marched inside to pull me out. The one real question was if I would go out with my dignity intact or not.
And find out why he was beating down my door at twelve-ten on a Thursday night. Friday morning. Whatever. Why was he in Colorado at all? Shouldn’t he be in Wyoming? What the hell was this about? He wouldn’t drive all this way to kill me on a random Thursday, would he?
More than one real question. Lots of real questions. I pulled on clothes and ran out the door to shoot for some answers.
26THE OTHER SHOE
“Couldyou at least tell me what’s going on? Why were you at my house at midnight? Why are you even in town?” I asked an endless stream of questions as we barreled through the dark, empty streets towards I-25.
Randall didn’t show any sign of having heard me. His eyes stayed glued to the road and his hands gripped the wheel with a frankly terrifying determination. His jaw closed tight, the muscles tense, lips pressed flat.
The speedometer topped sixty on some of the main thoroughfares, which isn’t legal but no one was there to care. Wherever we were going, he wanted to get there sometime yesterday. I had a sudden, awful thought.
“Did something happen to Jackson?” I asked.
The only reply was the creak of the wheel and the whitening of his knuckles in the glow from the street lights. A cold dread oozed into my gut and sat like my singular attempt to cook lasagna. It was Jackson. Ithadto be Jackson.
That didn’t answerwhathad happened, or why Randall had come to get me. It did tell me not to bother asking more questions. He would tell me when I had to know, not sooner, and until then, I got to sit shotgun and shut the hell up.