She sees their blue car half concealed by pine trees, parked in front of a split rock, remembering them leaving their bicycles in the same spot twenty-six years ago, but no sign of her husband now, McCluskey stopping the car, getting out fast, a lone trail leading away from the road, McCluskey pushing his gun into its holster as they head out together on the path she remembers, and even if McCluskey were to keep quiet, someone will think to suspect Patch if he goes through with what he wrote, someone will find the message he sent her this morning. What was he thinking? She prays they will not be too late.
McCluskey is surprisingly fast over the ground, Hannah working hard to keep up, the story jumping through her mind in fragments, like cards being flashed in front of her eye, McCluskey pausing to help her over the rocks, Hannah tiring now, and again she can feel the sense of that pistol being pressed to her head, the same spot on her temple where the nightmares fire up in the dark, the dreams in which she remembers the smell of his teeth, say it again, and then suddenly she is tied to a tree, feeling the sting of those pellets on her skin, a pain like being punched in the eye, never a harder punch in the world, and then darkness, dark like a cave, her eye like a cave.
The trail carries them over hollows choked with tree roots, across the heat-baked earth, the ground studded with half-buried rocks, the path coming to a fork.
Which way, Aitch? You remember?
She thinks about Patch and a red bandana soaked in water.
There was a stream, she says, panting, out of breath, McCluskey nodding and pulling her along the path that heads down into a shallow valley, and the closer she gets to that place, the more she can hear it, like moving toward a waterfall, the sound starting out like a whisper, building up to a roar, as she remembers her words. Because you’re a faggot.
The scree on the steep trail makes the path almost slick, Hannah trying not to fall as she remembers how the words came out of her, not even thinking what she would say before she spoke it out loud, especially not that final word, something she heard at school a hundred times a week, the confusion of a young girl, a different kind of world, twenty-six years ago, another century.
There are other words. What if she’d used another word? Would it have made any difference?
They cross the stream, and she knows they must be nearing the place, remembering the way Patch had moved that red bandana toward her, holding it up to what was left of her eye, and the look on his face, that’s when she realized how bad it was, Patch’s cheeks turning pale, a sense of him wanting to recoil.
The trail starts to rise, sheer rock face on one side, the other thick with mountain laurel, McCluskey turning to help her, another shelf of rocks, but Hannah gesturing to stop as she remembers pushing through bushes, and she points off through the branches toward a place she will never forget.
Stay here, Aitch, he whispers, but when McCluskey turns off the trail, she follows him into the brushwood and dried leaves, the undergrowth brown like butcher’s paper, and then into the thicket of glossy leaves, the tangle of branches, stepping carefully, quietly.
Until suddenly McCluskey halts, throwing his hand back to stop her as he reaches for the gun beneath his jacket, but Hannah takes another step, a twig snapping underfoot, and she can see past his shoulder, into the clearing.
There it is.
She remembers the tree, the same tree, only this time it is Matthew tied to that tree.
And Patrick is holding the gun.
* * *
HE STANDS BACK, EXAMINING THE ropes and the knots, the shotgun hanging in his right hand. Matthew appears groggy but with a look in his eyes as if he still believes he can talk his way out of this. And Patrick supposes he did promise to remove the tape from his mouth. Besides, what harm can it do now?
He is about to step forward when a sound comes from the bushes and Patrick raises the shotgun, steadying it with his other hand as he swings around, turning and seeing a man at the edge of the clearing. The man reaches under his jacket.
Patrick lifts the shotgun to his shoulder, cocking the hammer. He is about to shoot when he notices someone else and his finger loosens its tension on the trigger.
Hannah?
And now the man in the bushes has a gun pointed at him. Patrick, hey, it’s Mike McCluskey, the man shouts. We met one time, right? Detective McCluskey. Look, will you do me a favor? Can you lower your weapon?
Hannah? he calls out.
Patch, it’s me, she says. Patch, listen, everything’s OK.
Mike McCluskey? Yes, Patrick does know the name, Detective McCluskey, he always passes on the best details to Hannah. The detective waves his hand. Patrick, keep your eyes on me, buddy, just me, he says. Remember, you made brisket? Best damn brisket I ever had. So how about you put down the gun, Patrick? Come on, we can talk about this.
Hannah! he says, everything starting to become clear as the detective shouts something else. But Patrick isn’t listening to the words, noticing only how the birds in the treetops haven’t stopped singing and then hearing the sound of his own breath in his head, his breath and his thoughts swirling together, everything falling into place now. There is only one path, nothing can be undone and Patrick can see his own path like a light, how could anything else matter, how could he ever have thought himself lost if this is where the path was leading him? Now he sees Hannah more clearly than ever before, understands her better than he’s ever understood anything, seeing her as she sees him, the distance between them nothing but air, a space so empty he can hear what she’s thinking, what she wants him to do, what she has always wanted him to do, the look in her eye perfectly clear.
Life has always been sending him back here. It feels so inevitable now, this ending, a sense of purpose at last.
Patrick, please, I need you to drop the weapon now!
He turns and pulls the trigger.
* * *
A KIND OF DARKNESS STARTS to fade and Patrick opens his eyes, a weight pressing down on him, as if rocks have been piled high on his chest. And then he hears a voice as everything starts to turn softly blue. Hannah’s voice, a warm sound. Patch? Patch? Oh God, Patch.
That’s it, keep the pressure on, right there, Aitch. I got no fuckin signal in this place, I’ll go and get help.
Patrick is looking up at the sky, its darkening blue. But then he sees Hannah. This is everything, there is nothing else in his world.
He is lying on his back, wondering how he got there. And now he remembers, feeling again the kick of the shotgun in his hands, a prickling in his fingers.
Her eye is wet. He tries to speak, tries to say her name, Hah, and she hushes him but he has to speak, he has to, Hah … What happened, Hannah? Am I shot?
Yes, Patch. Yes you are. But someone’s going to come and help you. Very soon, I promise.
Matthew?
He’s dead, Patch, Matthew’s dead.
Did I save you?
Yes, you saved me, Patch, of course you did. I always knew you would.
He was coming after you. I had to stop him this time.
Yes! Yes, he was coming after me, Patch.
Had me fired. Him and Trevino. Together.
Oh, Patch.
I was never on his side. I was always with you, Hannah.
I know, Patch, I’m so sorry.
No, it’s like an escape.
An escape from what, Patch?
What? I don’t know. What did I say?
Patch, everything’s going to be OK now.
Yes. I love you, Hannah.
I love you too, Patch, so much.
Then that’s the only thing … he says, wanting to say something more. But there are no words left. To have loved her has made everything in his life shine, that’s what he wanted to say. He hopes she heard him anyway.
Patrick can feel his breath leaving him now, the warmth of him ebbing away, everything beginning its return to the earth. Yes, it all makes sense. He is nothing but borrowed parts, pieces large and small that must be returned, some of them given and some of them taken—from the dust, from the oceans, from the fields, from the sky—but now it is the world’s turn to take of him, soon he will come to be sustenance, this is how everything works.
Hannah blinks, the light of her eye falling on him like a raindrop as he thinks about the smallest pieces of him rolling away, stones spilling from the mountaintop, pebbles dropping into a lake, everything falling into the blue.
And the lake is the blue. And her eye is the lake. Because that’s where he sees it, his life with her beginning, its light in the blaze of her eye as he falls deeper and deeper into the blue.
Where they kiss. For the first time, the last time, they kiss. And it surprises him how gently unfolding it is.