Trapped
Rett Murray sat down on the thin padding of his rocking chair and reached for his book, only to have his hand come to rest on its cover as he surveyed his shabby room with a feeling of disgust and dissatisfaction. He was lonely and for a moment almost wished his busybody neighbor Belcher would stop by to gossip before that thought added depression to the disgust and dissatisfaction he already felt. The air in his upper-story room, oppressively atticlike even in the middle of May, caused his shirt to stick to his sweaty back. Add uncomfortable to the list, he thought in a wry attempt to smile at his troubles and defeat them. It didn’t work, there being nothing funny about the trap he had gotten himself into, and after a moment of numbness where despair and frustration augmented his lists of woes, he tried to force himself to read, but it was no good. Every time he read of the Führer doing something decisive and führerlich, he stopped and felt the whole catalogue of his troubles cascade over him. Reading about Hitler used to be a luxury of self-indulgence wherein he would place himself in der Führer’s shoes and daydream about becoming the national leader of the party. Now even Hitler could not capture his mind. After a few more minutes trying to read he stopped and stared blankly at the wall in front of him, brooding about Darren French, the source of his disgust, dissatisfaction, depression, despair and discomfort, and the one who made his former dreams seem pathetic and delusional. Darren had told him (told him—the phrase made him gag) he might be contacting him tonight after he checked and verified some intelligence he had gathered. Secretive and filled with self-importance, he would elaborate no further. All that was required of Rett was for him to wait. That second outrage was more oppressive than the heat that baked him in his squalid room. Did Hitler ever wait for anyone? Did the world come to him or did Hitler make his own world? And yet Darren told him to wait and he was waiting!
Yes, yes, yes, he thought with his hand pounding the thin armrest of his rocking chair with every iteration of the word, he had made a mess of things and had only himself to blame. Voluntarily he had gone behind the chief’s back on that day last summer when he had made a secret pact with Darren to act upon the case of mongrelization in town. From that original sin, all else had followed. And yet, how was anyone to know that a small betrayal could lead to self-betrayal? There certainly was no hint of trouble at first or for several months after the secret pact. He and Darren had spent many hours last fall looking for Fiona Sparrow and Lowell Edgecomb, and they had discussed many ideas and schemes on what they would do when they found them. Sending threatening letters, publicizing their relationship on the web and in letters to the local newspapers, spray painting slogans on their vehicles or the houses of their mothers, baiting them and then getting a restraining order when their anger turned to violence—these were just a few of the many things they came up with. They learned at one point that the pair was staying at the lake, but unable to find out exactly where, and seeing the pair only occasionally in town in situations not suitable for the implementation of any of their schemes, they went through the fall and into winter without any confrontations, and winter was an even quieter time—so much so that Rett sometimes went days without thinking of the pair. During these months in every particular Darren was appropriately subordinate to Rett, and he had only occasional misgivings about betraying Len Carter.
Then came the spring, and everything changed. Messages from Nazi organizations around the country called for action. There was a big demonstration in Skokie, Illinois, a Chicago suburb with a heavily Jewish population, and an attempt to burn down a synagogue in Atlanta which was foiled only because of quick action from the fire department. That action was still deemed a success because the Torah in the temple was badly burned. Carter, in discussing these and other incidents at the meeting, conceded that their organization should plan something like another demonstration at the synagogue in Portland, though he spoke without enthusiasm, and his customary caution was the real message that came through to his underlings. But it was at this point that a sea change occurred in Darren. After the meeting he began to see the national call to action as a mandate that superseded the chief’s cautious authority. Without explicitly admitting it, he had lost respect for Carter, and since the deference he had paid to Rett was borrowed currency minted from his status as the chief’s lieutenant, very soon Rett was subjected to Darren’s bullying insistence that they do something, anything, as long as it furthered the cause and made their enemies uncomfortable. Rett, taken by surprise at this unexpected bullying, found he lacked the wherewithal to categorically refuse to do any unauthorized action. So it was that frequently during weekends in April he reluctantly cruised the streets of Waska in Darren’s tiny car looking for Edgecomb and Fiona Sparrow at their mothers’ houses, which they were known to visit on weekends, and even more reluctantly becoming involved in the fracas that followed their coming upon the pair planting roses at Pat Edgecomb’s house.
A distaste for violence was one thing he shared with the chief. He thought Darren had acted shamefully and unprofessionally, more like a teenage punk lacking any sense of the dignity of their cause than a freedom fighter. For the first couple of minutes after they drove away he had no chance to express his opinion since Darren was letting off steam in an expletive-filled monologue. Only when he paused for breath did Rett finally say, “Well, that was a complete disaster.”
He made no attempt to hide his Schadenfreude, but Darren denied his premise and ignored his glee. “No, it wasn’t,” he said. “We’ve got them agitated and uneasy. They’re finding they have to pay for the evil they do.”
“You don’t think it was disastrous? They’re probably calling the cops right now. We’ll probably be charged with assault and battery. Remember that the idea was to get them in trouble with the law, not us. I’m telling you, this is a disaster.”
“Hey! I didn’t make the first move. That nigger lover shoved me. I’ll tell you what. Even if they do call the cops, even if we’re arrested—which I doubt very much—they’re not going to win in court. They have no case.”
He spoke sharply and angrily, and Rett found himself intimidated. He had weakly objected that the courts would not be friendly places for Nazis, but when Darren cut him off without even listening to him, it was at that moment he realized he was no longer even a colleague. In Darren’s eyes he was a lackey.
“The swine!” he said. “I’d like to have another chance to smack his face. And that brother! He sucker punched me in the belly. If we’re going to get in trouble with the law, I’d like to have it for something worth getting in trouble for.”
“You’re crazy. What will the chief say when he hears about this? He’s going to be pissed. He’s going to chew us out royally.”
Darren waited for a couple of cars to pass before he took a left turn. Turning sharply and flooring the accelerator, he said, “I don’t see why. We were driving by. We slowed down when we recognized them. Then they started name-calling. The chief can’t blame us for that.”
“He can if he knows we were looking for them.”
“That’s just what he won’t know. We’ll tell him we were driving by—it was an accident.”
Rett watched a police car approaching them and grew apprehensive, but the cop didn’t even look at them. “What will we say is the reason we were on the road?”
“We’ll say we were going to take a ride upcountry and coming from the south side of town that road was the quickest way to get to Route 101. And if he asks us why we were taking a ride, we’ll say we were discussing the party. You worry too much, Rett.”
“That’s because I know the chief.”
“So do I. As long as he thinks we came by accidentally, he can’t object. Let me do the talking.”
He swallowed that last piece of Darren’s effrontery without a word. To contradict him and claim precedence as the chief’s lieutenant would simply lead to an unseemly squabble which he was by no means sure he would win. Another factor also kept his tongue from wagging. Wit
hout actually admitting to himself that he was afraid of Darren, he was afraid. He was, however, more afraid of the chief than of Darren so that some small comfort could be derived from the knowledge that the one who did the talking would also likely be the one who endured the chief’s wrath. Nevertheless a bad night followed. He was only able to sleep by remembering that the SS was a separate outfit from the political wing of the party. Okay, he thought, Darren’s the man of action; I’m the thinker. Okay, then, okay, okay. I’ll be the intellectual. Let him be the goon. This strategy worked well enough to hold himself together up until the following night when they met with Len Carter. Then he made the biggest miscalculation of his entire career as a Nazi, one that he was not sure he would ever recover from and the main reason he was sitting in his room meekly waiting and experiencing his quintet of wretchedness: disgust, dissatisfaction, depression, despair and dis-comfort.
The chief, having already learned about the case and knowing no legal action was going to happen, listened to Darren’s explanation without betraying any emotion. He nodded occasionally and didn’t even ask what they were doing driving by the house. He simply accepted—or seemed to accept— Darren’s story that it was serendipitous. All he said when the tale was completed was to be careful.
It was too much for Rett. Having expected Darren to be put in his place and order restored, he positively trembled with indignation, disappointment and frustration, and emoting rather than thinking or calculating, and worst of all in a whiny, high-pitched tone that vibrated like a violin string with the hurt he felt, he said, “I tried to stop him from getting out of the car, Len, but he wouldn’t listen to me. I think—”
The chief regarded him through narrowed eyes. He chewed at his lower lip for a moment; then his eyes widened and the glint of suppressed fury that made all who knew him want to seek the safety of a bomb shelter threatened an explosion. Seeing it, Rett stopped in midsentence and waited. But the fury passed, and with a wave of his hand the chief said in a tone at once dismissive and contemptuous, “The matter is closed. As long as you don’t instigate violence in a way that could lead to legal problems, you’re all right. I expect you to use your judgment.”
He knew instantly that the chief had seen what he was doing and had lost respect for him. Like a younger brother asking his father for support, he was trying to get the boss to back him, and the chief had seen the implicit admission of weakness. Nor was he imagining this. For the past three weeks Len had been noticeably cool to him.
It was like losing love, like being an orphan, like freezing outside and not being able to get in. It was horrible, and all of it was Darren’s fault.
He went over to the bed and stretched himself out. He closed his eyes, not to sleep or dream, but to be miserable and think again of everything that fell into place after the secret pact had been made. He wished he had never met Lowell Edgecomb and Fiona Sparrow. He wished he had never met Darren French. Anything but this misery, misery, misery. But he did not wish he had never become a Nazi. What would he be without the cause? The question caused physical pain, a tightening in his chest that choked the heart, an emptiness that made life a morass of sorrow. He clenched his fists, fighting the need to cry. Would he ever recover that sense of purpose and meaning?
A half hour later came the knock on the door. He knew it was not going to be Belcher, but that was his wish.
Darren was dressed in the military fatigues he had lately been favoring. The expression of pleased self-importance he wore above the ugly scar across his chin was as much a part of the uniform as the clothes. He swaggered now rather than walked. Even standing there in front of him and fixing him with a look of arrogant condescension, he swaggered like Mussolini. Uninvited, he strolled into the room, and without so much as a greeting he said cryptically (another one of his new affectations), “Here’s our chance.”
Rett, after glancing out into the hall, closed the door. He turned and faced his unwelcome guest, who stood in the middle of the room. He didn’t offer him a chair. “Chance for what?”
“Edgecomb and the nigger girl are at a party tonight. Their cottage is empty.”
“How do you know that?’
“I have my sources.”
“Oh?’ He arched his eyebrows. “And how do you know where the cottage is? The same mysterious source?”
Sarcasm was wasted on Darren. He was too full of himself. Flashing a pleased, self-satisfied grin, he said, “I found out that information a couple of months ago.”
“And you didn’t tell me?”
“There was no reason to.” He spoke airily, as if to a child.
Infuriated, Rett took a breath and looked out the window at the back of the drugstore on Main Street. It was illuminated by a streetlight that had just gone on. There was only one car parked in front of the back door. It was near nine o’clock, closing time. “Even if you do know where they live and have been informed they’re not at home, are you sure you can trust your sources?”
“Absolutely. They’re at a party at that dyke Tara Wright’s house. I drove by and saw their car before I came here. It’s not a question of trust now. It’s verified information.”
“But…”
“But what?”
“Well, what is our objective? What do you plan to do?”
“You’re afraid of another confrontation, aren’t you? Listen, they’re not going to be at home. Don’t worry. We can do many things. We have choices.”
Rett continued looking out the window at the shadowy night. Choices were a luxury for someone trying to come up with a way to say no without being bullied or called a coward.
Unbidden, Darren sat on the bed and leaned forward, his hands on his knees. He stared at Rett, forcing him to drop his eyes. “We want to do something, am I right?”
Rett nodded slightly, the only means he had to express his resentment.
“Because action is demanded. Am I right?”
Again he offered a noncommittal nod.
“And the national movement is asking for action. Well, we have gift wrapped right here in town the very thing we’re dedicated to fighting. The chief doesn’t have the stomach for it. He’s an intellectual. But do we want to be intellectuals, effete and ineffective? I don’t.”
“Now look here. I’m the chief’s lieutenant. I can’t be going behind his back.” He stopped, realizing he was again trying to borrow the chief’s thunder. His mouth went dry. For the first time in over five years he yearned for a drink.
Darren hadn’t missed the vulnerability Rett exposed and took instant advantage. With surgical precision he pressed at the weak point. Rett could see what he was doing but was helpless to counter it. “Let me ask you something, Rett. We both know the chief is too cautious. He doesn’t like confrontation. But you, in contrast, admire Hitler, right? Did he act when it was necessary? We’ve been planning on doing something since last summer. Nine months have gone by and it’s time for this baby to be born. Keep in mind that for almost a year we’ve done nothing. Even the chief admitted last month that we should do something to generate publicity for our cause. You yourself have said there are fewer visits to our web site and chat room lately. We’ll look like fools if we fight mongrelization with pamphlets and web pages while right in front of our noses we let evil go on.”
When Rett said nothing, Darren leaned back on the bed with his arms straight and his fingers splayed. Look at me, his gesture said. Admire the grandeur of my self-possession. Consider the strength of a will that can move mountains. Listen to me. Obey me. “The most activity, the most interest we’ve ever had, was after the temple business. The press attacked us, but I ask you, was that operation bad publicity for us?”
“No, of course not,” Rett said emphatically. He was proud of that operation and regarded it as his best contribution to the cause.
A grin passed over Darren’s face as he read the pride in Rett’s voice. “Then what are you afraid of?”
“I’m not afraid of anything. But an operati
on has to make sense. Wouldn’t this just be a prank? Would Hitler do something like this?”
He shrugged and pursed his lips. “Hitler would do what was necessary. Doing nothing, what does that get you?”
“But what good will it do? Isn‘t it just petty harassment? You want to do something just to do something. It’s not too smart.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. By harassing them we can make life so unbearable for them that they’ll split up. Then when we do we can write it up on our web site as a blueprint for other organizations.” Grandly he added, “That could be your contribution.”
Rett, thinking he heard a noise in the hall, raised his hand. “Quiet,” he whispered, “I think someone is outside.” He crept to the door, but the ancient floor creaked a warning with every step. When he opened the door the hall was empty.
He turned back to look at Darren. He sat on the bed calm and unconcerned. “Didn’t you hear something?”
He shook his head. “No, you must have imagined it. Who would be there anyways?”
With a final survey of the hall and stairs, Rett closed the door. “I have a busybody neighbor. An old man. But maybe I was hearing things.”
“Is he the guy who lives across the hall?”
“No, he lives downstairs. There’re two other rooms up here. One’s empty and the landlord’s having trouble getting a tenant for it. The other one has a young guy, but he’s rarely around.”
Will Dubuque was his name. He played rock music so loud that Rett’s walls vibrated from the giant woofers of his sound system. Mostly Rett endured the noise, but sometimes it was so unbearable he would walk across the hall, pound on the door until he was heard and ask Will to turn the volume down. Grudgingly he would do as requested so that for a while things would be quieter. Invariably, however, the volume would be turned up by degrees so that half an hour later it was louder than ever. Night after night, week after week, this pattern was repeated. Finally Rett was forced to ask Murray Foss to issue an ultimatum. The landlord did so as grudgingly as Will turned down his volume, with the result that Will was looking for a new place and Foss would have another empty room on his hands. Right now Rett was not a popular man in his building. The landlord always assumed a wounded, martyred look whenever he saw him, and the young noisemaker had for several weeks refused to even speak to him. The sordid history of his neighborly problems had no relevance to the matter at hand, but before dismissing it from his mind, Rett did make a connection: Darren had no more respect for him than his neighbor did.
Darren stood, startling Rett out of his reverie. “I don’t think that old fellow could sneak up here unheard, so it must have been your imagination. But lemme use your bathroom, would ya.”
“It’s across the hall.”
His mind began racing when he was alone. He tried to think of an objection that Darren would accept, but his mind was as frazzled as if it was assaulted by Will’s rock music, and he could think of nothing.
Too quickly Darren returned. He came into the room looking at his watch. “Okay, Rett, the time is right. Are you with me or not?”
Rett’s answer was a frown and a slight tilt of his head. He would go, but nothing was going to make him like the plan.
“Okay, good,” Darren said as he critically appraised Rett’s clothing. “The first thing— you’re going to have to change that white shirt. Wear something dark.”
For the sake of his dignity, Rett refused to change his shirt, but he did put on a dark blue jacket, which together with his brown pants would make him suitably obscure in the dark. That satisfied the fatigue-clad Darren, who swelled with self-importance as he led the way downstairs. The light was on in Belcher’s room as they passed. They could hear the muffled sound of his television. Darren pointed with his thumb at the light but said nothing.
Darren’s car was parked around the corner on Main Street, a short stroll away. Unlike his uncomfortable third-story room which held the day’s heat for hours after sunset, the night was seasonably cool and had the effect of making him feel expansive and free. Momentarily he forgot about his doubts about their enterprise, even his wounded and tattered self-respect. A few blocks down on lower Main Street he could see Ray’s hot-dog stand, the only downtown establishment open at night. Many times when he felt lonely or hungry or both he would walk down to get a hot dog late at night and feel human solidarity. On such occasions he rarely spoke to anyone or lingered amongst the men and women who frequented the place, but still he always felt better when he returned home, even grateful. He liked his town, a place his ancestors had lived for well over three hundred years, always as obscure toilers. He regarded the work he was doing for the Nazi Party as his way of making the town better and honoring his ancestors. He used to think frequently and with deep satisfaction that he was going to be the first distinguished member of his family. In that mood he would also daydream of his wife coming to regret that she had divorced him and taken his two daughters out of state to be away from him. Maybe those feelings and those dreams could be salvaged from the wreck if tonight’s work was successful.
Darren got into his car and then reached over to unlock the passenger’s door. This simple act had the effect of crushing at once his foolish optimism by reminding him of the passivity of his role in their scheme. He was in a sullen, brooding mood as they drove through the town to the road that led upcountry. Neither of them spoke much. Not even as pretense now were they friends. At first the lights from the homes of country folk and the dairy farms suggesting a cheerful and cozy homeyness comforted him, but when no cars passed and they drove through stretches of thick pine forest he marveled at how dark the world was outside of the city, an effect that was even more emphatic when the quarter moon was hidden behind fast-moving clouds. The darkness made him feel uneasy again. He suspected his partner had no specific plan and would do what he thought he could get away with. But distinctions had to be made. Spray painting a slogan was malicious damage, but still only a misdemeanor. Anything beyond that would stretch into felony.
He broke the silence. “Tell me again. When we get there, what exactly do you plan to do?”
“I told you. We’ll spray paint a slogan or two. If things look okay, we can trash the cottage.”
“Wait a minute! You didn’t say anything about that before. I think we should keep it a prank. Trashing would be a felony. It’s too dangerous, too risky.”
“Rett, you’re too damned cautious, Was Hitler cautious? Didn’t he dare to take chances?”
That trick was getting old. “Hitler has nothing to do with this. How do you plan to get in? Breaking and entering is also a felony.”
“Would you relax. We’ll play it by ear. We won’t take unnecessary chances. I have a crowbar. We’ll either force the lock or break a window. Or we won’t—it depends. Maybe we’ll just spray paint outside. As I said, we’ll play it by ear.”
“How long will it take? If we make a noise, a neighbor might call the police.”
“The nearest neighbor is over three hundred feet away. Don’t worry. I’ve scoped the place out.”
“Sounds travel at night. Three hundred feet isn’t that long a distance.”
“Don’t worry. Trashing a place can be done quickly—if we do go inside, that is. Scratching furniture with a knife doesn’t make any noise. That could be done first. Maybe the last thing we do is kick in a television or break dishes or some artwork. We’re going to park a long ways off and go through the woods, so we’d be long gone before any cop got there.”
“What if our fingerprints are found?”
“Again, don’t worry. I’ve thought of everything. I’ve got some latex gloves for us.”
They were approaching the lake now, but before they got to it Darren slowed down and turned onto a secondary road. They passed two or three houses. At the last one a man was just getting out of his car and looking at his wife, brightly illuminated at the open front door. They drove another quarter of a mile past mixed pine and deciduous woods
before again Darren slowed down. He appeared to be looking for some landmark. He drove very slowly while craning his neck to look across the road, not in front of him. Finally he muttered, “There it is,” and making a quick left turn he went across the road into a little clearing in the woods and then drove the car behind a thick clump of small pines. He cut the lights before coming to a full stop.
After shutting off the engine and pocketing the key, he reached to the floor of the back-seat and pulled out a bag of equipment from which he began distributing its contents into the many pockets of his fatigues. In the dark Rett couldn’t see what all the stuff was, but there was a lot of it. “Okay,” Darren said finally, getting out of the car, “let’s get going.”
In the moonlight the scar on his chin took on an exaggerated grotesqueness that looked like an open wound. He was all business, acting like a commando officer issuing final instructions to his men. “We’re going to walk through these woods. On the other side is the shore road. When we get to that point we’ll have to walk down it for several hundred feet. If a car comes, be prepared to drop into the shadows of the woods and don’t move. There’s going to be a truck parked in front of Edgecomb’s cottage. It doesn’t mean anything. They use their other car, a station wagon, when they travel together. That’s the vehicle I saw in front of Tara Wright’s house. No talking once we get into the woods. Understood?”
The quarter moon in the now cloudless sky allowed them to see as they made their way through the semiopen woods, though it wasn’t bright enough for Rett to feel comfortable. Light-colored things had a strange silvery tone that was disorienting; shadows were black holes of nothingness. These patterns of light and dark made it difficult to distinguish a leaf from a rock. More than once he tripped. Then nearby he heard an animal crunching through the leaf litter and felt a chill of primordial fear. He was following Darren, who seemed to know his way and never once tripped or lost his balance. He wanted to ask him what kind of animal he thought it was but didn’t dare violate his instructions not to talk. It was probably a good thing he kept his mouth shut—he was shaking he was so nervous and knew his voice would betray his fear and earn Darren’s contempt. He had hardly been in the woods at all since he was a boy. His father, who worked in a tannery and brought the smell home with him every night, watched TV and guzzled beer when at home. He was only interested in sports on TV and never had much to do with him or his brother and sister. That’s why his uncle, his mother’s brother, invited him and his brother to go camping at a state park with him and his own boys. At first he thought it was going to be fun, but he found the darkness and the sounds of the night scary, and then when he finally fell asleep he woke to rain so torrential it swamped the tent, causing them to retreat to the car. There, shivering and cold, he decided he hated nature. The experience was enough to keep him out of the woods for the rest of his youth and into his manhood. That made him a rare exception for someone who had grown up in Waska, where the Maine woods began where the houses ended on the outskirts of town. Ron Turner, Ted Cummings and DD and the other members of the National Rifle Association always regarded him as a queer bird because of this antipathy. Perhaps they also thought he was queer in the slang meaning of the word, but he wasn’t. He regarded himself as a Nazi monk, one who worked in society and had no business in the woods. After this night, he decided, he was not going to have anything more to do with Darren. He was cold and scared again, just as he had been when a boy.
Suddenly Darren raised his hand. He waited for Rett to come up beside him and then pointed to a clearing in the woods ahead of them. “There’s the road,” he whispered. “Remember, hide if a car comes.”
Darren started down the road, at first walking quickly, then picking up his pace to a slow run. Rett followed, feeling foolish as he realized Darren was forcing him to playact being a commando. Once at the drive leading to Edgecomb’s cottage—Darren pointed to the sign that also contained a painted pine tree under the name—they walked. The drive was rocky and pitted with gullies. Approaching the lake now, it was also downhill. Rett concentrated on not tripping. Presently they could see the shadowy form of the cottage ahead of them and glimpse the silvery lake through the aromatic pines. Darren pointed to the truck parked a hundred feet from the cottage. He shook his head. Keeping to the shadows, they approached the cottage. Thirty feet away they stopped, still in the shadows, and examined the cottage carefully while at the same time surveying the lake. Darren took out two pairs of latex gloves and handed one to Rett with the whispered instructions, “Put these on.”
His survey revealing no hidden dangers, he walked across the open space to the door. Rett followed. From his pocket he took out a small crowbar, but first he tried the door to assess the strength of the lock, and here he was surprised. He emitted a low whistle, turned and grinned at Rett. “This is going to be easy. The door’s not even locked.”
“Maybe that means someone’s at home,” Rett whispered, trying to quell the panicky feeling in his belly. “Maybe we should get the hell out of here.”
“Do you see their car? Get a grip, would ya. All it means is that air-headed hippie either forgot to lock it or doesn’t lock it. But if it makes you feel better, I’ll knock.” He rapped on the door three times lightly and then again louder.
“That satisfy you? But wait!” He cupped his hand over his ear and pretended to listen closely. “Do you hear someone saying ‘come in’? I believe I do.” He pushed the door open and stepped in.
His bizarre jocularity scared Rett. “I don’t think this is anything to joke about. We’re on a mission, remember,” he whispered as he followed Darren inside.
“I do.” He took a flashlight covered with a red lens out of one of the pockets of his fatigue jacket and shined it around the room. The cottage was one large room with a kitchen area opposite the door. The bathroom was in the corner by the kitchen, and above this area was the loft. On the other side of the room facing the lake was the deck. Sliding doors on the kitchen side led to a breezeway with screening on three sides. The furniture in the living room consisted of a couch and some chairs with a coffee table in front of the couch and two smaller tables beside the chairs. A desk was situated in front of the small window on the lakeside (the other one was a large picture window). A television, a shelf with books and a sound system, and a kitchen table with four chairs rounded out the portable accommodations. A woodstove stood to their left in front of the fireplace.
“What do you want to do first? Spray paint?”
“No, let’s check out the place to be sure first.”
Just to spite him, Darren took out a can of spray paint and began spraying the words NO MONGRALIZATION IN AMERICA on the wall above the fireplace.
Rett, deriving some small satisfaction in seeing the misspelling, said, “Okay, they’ll get the message from that. Let’s go.”
“What? And refuse to take full advantage of their hospitality?”
He swept the room with the flashlight, pausing on a carved bird on the shelf with the sound system. He walked over to it, knocked the carving to the floor and then crushed it under his foot. He regarded it with satisfaction for a moment, then took from his pants pocket a jackknife. He opened the blade and ran his finger lightly over the edge of it to assure himself it was up to the job, then cut several welts into the shiny finish of the table. He turned back to the coffee table, swept a pile of magazines and a book from it and repeated the same ugly operation on its surface.
“So far so good,” he said. “Anything you’d like to do?”
“No thanks. You’re doing a fine job.”
“And it’s not finished yet.” The desk had caught his attention. He went over and looked through the drawers and some letters in slots on the desktop. Finding what looked to be financial papers in one of the drawers, he examined them one by one, after which he ripped them into shreds.
Rett waited, prey to a thousand fears that settled in his stomach and gave him cramps, but Darren was not quite finished
with the desk. He put the flashlight down and urinated into several drawers before his supplies were depleted.
Disgusted, Rett was about to ask if that was really necessary when suddenly he heard something that sent a chill of horror through him. A sound, distinctly human, as of one asleep and mumbling to himself, came from the farther end of the cottage. “Did you hear that?” he asked, forgetting to whisper in his horror.
Darren had heard it. He too looked frightened momentarily before he recovered. “Yeah, but it’s probably nothing.”
“Nothing? It sounded human to me.” He remembered to whisper, but it came hoarsely.
Darren frowned. He pointed towards the breezeway. “Do you agree that’s where it came from?”
When Rett nodded, Darren said sarcastically, “Well, let’s go put our minds at ease.”
He was more worried than he let on, though, for he crept across the floor very cautiously. Both of them were on tiptoes as they approached the open sliding door. Darren directed the flashlight beam into the space, which revealed a chair with several articles of clothing hung haphazardly on the back or crumpled upon the seat, then moved the beam to the right to reveal a low bed or cot upon which a sleeping figure could be seen. His mouth was open, he had a heavy beard, and he appeared very unkempt. At first Rett thought that by some extraordinary coincidence someone else had broken in and—but before his mind could take flight and conclude this piece of luck would throw suspicion off them, Darren spoke in a low voice.
“Jesus,” he gasped. “It’s Bill Paine, the nigger lover’s brother.”
Rett in return also gasped in horror. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
He turned to leave, but Darren grabbed his arm. “No, wait a minute.” With the flashlight beam he pointed to an empty whisky bottle on the floor beside the bed. “See that? And smell it? He’s dead drunk.”
“So what. He could still wake and identify us.”
But Darren was thinking, not listening. “Back at the desk I saw some paper. We could really cap this operation off with a sign.” He chuckled gleefully, contemplating his idea.
Nervously Rett followed him out to the desk and watched, ready to bolt at the slightest sound from the breezeway, while Darren located some tape, a pen and a sheet of paper.
“What are you planning to say?”
“I don’t know. How about ‘Nigger lovers are trash and I’m the proof’? Yeah, I like it.”
He laid the flashlight flat on the desk so that its beam weakly and only partially illuminated the paper and started writing, but Rett, hearing a different noise, interrupted him in panic.
“Jesus, is that a car I hear?”
Darren listened, cocking his head. “No, it’s just going by on the road. You said yourself sounds travel at night.”
“No, I don’t like it. To hell with the sign. Let’s leave right now.”
But Darren wasn’t listening. He turned towards the door, his face screwed in concentration.
Rett heard it too. His heart started racing past panic, past terror even. For a moment he thought it would stop and that he was dying.
Now the voices were even closer. “Bill left the door open,” a female voice said.
With nowhere to go, trapped and empty of panic, Rett experienced a moment of the most acute hatred and anger for Darren and his idiotic plan and then, with another sudden change, a quite different emotion. He had recognized Fiona Sparrow’s voice and never felt more stupid, more ridiculous, more embarrassed in his life. He felt his face going red at the same time his heart, which surely must have stopped for a minute, started thumping in his chest and neck as the chill of horror returned. There was nowhere to hide now that Fiona and Edgecomb had con-founded all Darren’s stupid plans and come home early.
Darren’s face showed he was going through similar stages of realization, but his instinct was to act, and pushing Rett aside he turned to face the door defiantly.
By now the couple was in the room. One of them had thrown the light switch. While Rett blinked at the bright light, he saw them both stop abruptly. Edgecomb’s eyes darted from Darren to him to some of the damage done. He seemed to take in the situation instantly, while Fiona seemed simply dumbfounded. But then he said, “What the hell are you doing here?” in a voice more surprised than angry. It was almost as if he was speaking to an old friend he hadn’t seen in a long time. Then he gathered himself together, and with a frown clouding his face as he read the slogan spray painted above the mantle and then saw the latex gloves on their hands, he asked imperiously, “What are you doing in our house?”
“The door was open. We came in looking for you, that’s what.”
“Where’s my brother?”
“Your brother is dead drunk and sleeping. You can smell the booze from here.”
His face registered disbelief. “An open door does not mean you have a right to come in. You’re trespassing.” He looked at his feet where Darren had left his crowbar. “You were planning to break in, weren’t you? I see you’ve already done a lot of malicious damage. You’re quite a pair. I’m calling the police.”
The black girl all this time looked terrified and was cowering behind Lowell. She looked as if she wanted to run but didn’t dare make a move.
“I wouldn’t do that if I was you, Edgecomb. We came to teach you a lesson in how to be a white man.”
“Kiss my ass, you creep. Just get the hell out of here. You need a lesson in how to be a man.” He reached in his pocket and drew out his mobile phone.
But Darren trumped him. He reached into the inner pocket of his fatigue jacket and pulled out a handgun. “Nobody move,” he roared, pointing the gun. “Keep your hands where I can see them. Put that goddamned phone down.” When Edgecomb was slow to respond, he waved the gun recklessly and screamed even louder, “Drop it or I’ll shoot!”
The phone dropped to the hardwood floor with a loud clatter, then bounced a few times before coming to a stop. Edgecomb watched it go through these motions, then looked up at Darren. It was obvious he wanted to calm him down. “This is not necessary,” he said softly, evenly. “Don’t let things get out of hand.”
“Just how are things out of hand?” Darren sneered.
“I mean I see what you’ve done. You’ve done a prank. Let’s keep it at that.”
“He’s right, Darren,” Rett said. “Don’t make things worse. Put the gun away. We can leave.”
Darren scowled so savagely at him that for a moment he feared the gun was going to be trained on him, but just then a noise caught everyone’s attention.
They all looked towards the breezeway.
“Lowell, is that you? Paine repeated.
“Hey,” Darren yelled, “come out here now.”
“Who’s that?” The voice sounded sleepy, confused.
Darren pointed the gun at Edgecomb. “Tell him to come out.”
“Bill, come here. Be careful. Don’t be surprised. We’ve got a situation here.”
He looked like hell, his eyes bleary, his clothes wrinkled, his gait unsteady. Walking seemed to cause pain, probably because it jolted the headache the booze had given him. As a former drunk, Rett knew all the symptoms.
He stopped, still in the kitchen. “What the hell’s going on?” he asked in the loud voice of the drunkard. His eyes were too stupidly unfocussed to look surprised.
“We have a bit of trouble. Some uninvited guests.”
Darren backed up towards the fireplace so that he could see all three of them. He waved the gun recklessly. To Rett it seemed he was barely in control. “Suppose you move your ass over to where your brother is.”
“Yes sir, Mr. Man. Whatever you say.” Unsteady afoot, he made his way slowly across the living room, stumbling against the desk, while Darren glared at him dangerously.
“I smell piss,” Paine said, then stupidly looked at his pants. “Jesus, did I…?” The thought seemed to bring on the next inevitable stage of a drunk’s progress, shame. He began whispering an apology t
o his brother. Rett could hear the word “sorry” repeated several times.
“Hey! No whispering! What are you saying?”
Paine glared at Darren. “I was apologizing to my brother for drinking half a bottle of whisky I found.” As he spoke his eyes started clearing: he was sobering up as the reality of his situation hit him.
“I’ve heard you’ve turned into a drunken bum, Paine. Were you drunk when you sucker punched me three weeks ago?”
“No, I wasn’t. But put your gun down and we’ll go another round, if that’s what you want.” It wasn’t the booze speaking either; it seemed that instantaneously he was sober.
“Yeah, sure, that’s likely with two of you. Both of you have big mouths.”
He began waving the gun again, recklessly, dangerously. Rett’s stomach was twisted into knots. He was close to puking, and he couldn’t stop trembling he was so nervous. Darren was nervous too. He was sweating profusely and his eyes were wild. Nothing human could be recognized in them. “Come on, Darren. Put that gun away and let’s get out of here.”
“Shut up,” he snarled, not taking his eyes off his victims. “One way to stop mongrelization permanently is to kill a mongrel. What do you think, Rett? She’s already polluted with her nigger father. Shall we put her out of her misery?”
He pointed the gun at her. The girl’s mouth dropped and her eyes widened in terror. The two men tensed.
Edgecomb said, “You’re full of crap. She graduated from college with honors. Why don’t you listen to your partner and leave? Finish trashing the place if you want. We won’t stop you.”
The gun was still pointed at Fiona. Rett watched her undergo a transformation. She closed her eyes for a moment and swallowed hard, and when she opened them again she had a look of brave determination in her eyes, as if she’d gone through an inner struggle and conquered some demon. Nobody else was looking at her. The two men never took their eyes off the gun, and Darren looked at them as they exchanged retorts even though the gun was still pointed at her. He admired what he saw and, unbidden, the thought came into his mind that she was a good person. But the thought was swallowed in darkness as his own insistent terror overwhelmed him. If Darren went over the edge, he would take him with him as an accessory.
“Darren, no! This is not politics. What are you doing? Don’t be stupid.”
He was ignored. Darren pointed the gun directly at Edgecomb’s head and said, “You’re in no position to stop anyone, nigger lover. Maybe you’d be a better target.”
“You’d just get into trouble. I’m not worth it.”
He spoke coolly, putting on an act. Rett could read the uncertainty and fear in his body language. He turned back to Darren, whose eyes glowed devil-like with fury, drunk with the power the gun gave him. He had to try to stop him. “Darren, stop pointing that gun. It’s too dangerous. Let’s just leave.” Then he added, looking at the three victims, “I didn’t know he had a gun.”
“Rett, would you be so kind as to shut your sniveling little trap.”
All day he had endured insults both in the world and in memory. He was past endurance. “You crazy bastard! You planned this, didn’t you.”
Darren glared at him, and for a moment it looked again as if he was going to point the gun at the fourth victim. “What I planned for was every possibility. That’s how a mission should be planned.”
“A political mission does not require a gun.”
“You really are an amazing fool. This is a military mission. This is war and they are the enemy! I’ll prove it!” He cocked the gun.
What seemed a long moment of stillness followed, and then everything became confusion and chaos. Someone, maybe Fiona—or was it his own voice?—screaming, everyone except Darren starting to move, Fiona, her back turning, beginning to run, one of the men lunging at Darren, the other jumping to his left. Rett looked into the fire burning madly in Darren’s eyes, sweeping all rationality before it, and knew it was going to happen. “Don’t do it, Darren! Don’t!” his voice screamed out as the shot was fired. He panicked on top of his panic. He was wild with terror and horror. He grabbed Darren’s arm while the madman looked at him with panic also growing in his eyes from what he had done. He pulled at him. “Come on, let’s get out of here!” Then he began running, alone at first before becoming aware of Darren running too and overtaking him as they ran up the hillside. He could hear Darren’s labored breathing and feel his own lungs burning, but still he ran. He ran down the road and through the woods towards the car, not afraid of nature now, not even noticing, simply running and knowing that from this time onward that was all he could ever do.