THIS WAS what it was like to never be alone.
There was Holly, and the pimply-faced George who took their sopping wet selves around the key to Cutler Channel, where a Latina Mary waited at the end of Paradise Point Drive in a Range Rover stocked with snacks, blankets, towels, and a change of clothes. He lay with Holly in the cargo space as Mary drove them nonstop up the chicken leg of Florida, higher, playing the radio loud so they could all listen to what they had wrought.
Holly pulled the blanket over their heads when they stopped to fill the tank, and in the humid darkness she whispered that he was a hero of the Revolution, and that one day his name would be in the history books. He didn’t ask if he would be there as a villain or a hero, because he wasn’t sure he could form the words. As Mary pulled onto the highway again, Holly kissed his forehead and ran her fingers down his chest to his groin, and he closed his eyes. He had submitted to everything else; why not this?
Afterward, he slept.
It was long after midnight, and they’d been on the road thirteen hours straight when they arrived at a large, rambling house in the swamplands of Louisiana, deep in the kudzu empire. Both he and Holly walked weak-kneed into the embrace of eighteen Georges and Marys, all excited and terrified by what had occurred, but however they felt about the act they were uniformly in awe of Kevin, one of the Revolution’s bloody hands. They served him and Holly homemade gumbo, watching every bite he took. He felt as if the eyes of God, everpresent, had suddenly become flesh. That wasn’t all he felt.
He felt as if, by virtue of one little trigger, he’d aged considerably. It wasn’t the first time—there had been Afghanistan, after all—but the intimacy of him, a sniper’s rifle, and a woman on a stage was something entirely different. Like someone opened a door in his head, ignoring the sign that said, “Don’t open until midlife crisis.” Like he’d walked through that door and gotten cozy with a new kind of mortality.
The adoration only made him more claustrophobic, made him want to kick them out of the house and tell them not to come back until they’d found a fucking cell phone so that he could call his mother, but not even those who blow the first trumpet of the Revolution are allowed such things. A room of honor on the top floor, yes. And Holly, who stared down any Mary who showed signs of interest. But no phone.
He didn’t sleep—how could he? Holly made sure he didn’t, and even without her he knew he wouldn’t have been able to. So he tried out her Pall Malls, holding down coughs as he smoked by the window and watched the sky brighten into morning. He felt so lost.
A day passed. A day of leftover gumbo and cans of Miller Lite and eager looks and Holly, midday, bringing him back up to their room. By then everyone knew that Diane Trumble would likely survive the bullet in her neck, but that didn’t undermine their awe and appreciation. A man could live like this, he thought, but only as long as the ruse lasted; only until they realized that he wasn’t the hero they’d made him out to be.
It was nine the second morning when Benjamin Mittag pulled up to the safe house in a pickup truck driven by a young woman. Kevin saw them approach from his window. Both Mittag and the woman were in rough farmer’s clothes; Mittag wore a fake mustache and mirrored cop glasses, a small bag on his shoulder.
The Georges and Marys watched as, in the living room, Mittag gave him a bear hug, then turned around and raised a fist in the air. They raised theirs, a field of floating knuckles. He said, “This is one of the first heroes of the Revolution. In the future, children will know his name.”
Kevin tried to control his bowels.
Mittag said, “Come on, motherfucker,” and pulled him upstairs. When they entered the bedroom, Mittag closed the door and sat on Kevin’s stained sheets. He rubbed his hands through his hair. “You got her in the neck, but weren’t you aiming for the chest? Was there trouble with the shot?”
He’d had plenty of time to prepare his answer. “I heard—well, I thought I heard—someone in the building. Outside the room. Coughing.”
“Did you see anyone?”
He shook his head.
Mittag frowned. “And that threw your shot?”
“I don’t know, but it’s the only thing I can think of. Just as I was pulling the trigger. Aim. Cough. Fire.”
Mittag leaned back. “Yeah, that might do it.”
“Or maybe I’m not as good a shot as I think.”
“You are, man.” A grin. “Look, you and me, we’re going on another trip.”
“Where?”
“Boss man wants a meeting.”
“Bishop?”
“Daddy’s pissed off. But we’ve been quiet long enough.”
Kevin had no idea what that meant.
“We leave in a couple of hours,” Mittag said, then sniffed the air. “Does it smell like pussy in here?”
His good-bye to Holly was easy; she’d always treated him as if he were leaving. To the others, he just nodded. After a late lunch, he and Mittag were driving a car with Texas plates through the swamps, and north. They didn’t speak, which was a relief. Though nearly two days had passed, Kevin still felt the residual echo of his shock and feared that if he started speaking he might not stop, blabbing his entire life, from birth all the way to now.
When, the following morning, they stopped at a backwoods gas station near Marshall, Texas, Kevin went in search of a toilet. The fat woman behind the counter directed him around the side of the building, but when he got there the bathroom door was locked. He was turning back to ask for the key when he heard a toilet flush.
The door opened, and a skinny black teen opened the door. His eyes were shy, embarrassed, and Kevin felt an inexplicable urge to hug him, to tell him everything was fine. Instead, he said, “Hey, brother.”
“Hey.”
Though his scrambled brain felt a few degrees west of crazy, he controlled his voice, keeping it steady. “Can you do me a solid?”
The boy just looked at him.
“My cell died. I gotta get word to my mom. Tell her I’m gonna be late for dinner.”
The boy looked him up and down, shrugged, then shoved a hand deep into the pocket of his low-hanging jeans. He pulled out a cell phone. “You ain’t calling another country?”
Kevin laughed, then cut it short because he didn’t know how it sounded. “No, man. She’s in San Antonio.”
The boy watched as Kevin, hands trembling, dialed the number he’d been holding on to for months, the one he had last sent a text message to on June 18.
After two rings he heard a woman’s voice. “Yes?”
“Mom, it’s Kevin.”
Janet Fordham, who had only days before told Rachel Proulx that she had given up hope of ever hearing from her agent, almost shouted. She got control of herself, but when she spoke she was choked up. “So good to hear from you, son.”
Kevin started to cry.
“Shit,” said the boy, turning away to give him privacy.