Larry sat splay-legged in the backseat of the rented Ford Taurus while Peter drove. Every so often Peter would feel something cold touch his ear. A gun. It was Larry’s way of making sure he remembered to be a good boy, as Larry put it, which meant to do what he was told and keep his mouth shut. Larry didn’t like a lot of extraneous talk, unless he was the one doing the talking.
Peter had listened closely to the call Larry had made a few minutes ago. Every so often Larry would take a slug from the bottle of Jack Daniel’s he’d bought at a liquor store in Moose Lake. The more he drank, the more his mood seemed to improve. Peter had no idea who he was or what he was talking about, but the longer the conversation went on, the clearer it became that he was a man running from the law. Jane had been involved with him in some way, and so had Cordelia. Several times it seemed as if Larry was talking to Peter’s father. All Peter knew was that he’d landed in the middle of something bad, with no help in sight.
At first Peter thought Larry wanted nothing more than his car, that he’d let him go as soon as they were out of town, some-place deserted. They’d found that deserted spot, all right, just north of Cambridge, but instead of setting Peter free, Larry had cuffed Peter’s hands behind his back and then sat outside next to a tree talking on his cell phone. Larry ate a bunch of candy bars there, too, reading a porno magazine while Peter sweated it out in the front seat. It was only after the last phone call that Peter truly realized what was going on. This wasn’t a bad guy hijacking a car, this was Peter being abducted, and that knowledge turned his blood to ice.
It had grown dark by the time they reached London Road in Duluth. They were heading straight for the freeway up to Two Harbors. Peter was keeping track of the odometer readings. Larry probably thought they were in the middle of nowhere, but Peter was familiar with the North Shore and hoped that somewhere down the line, it might give him an edge.
After cruising through Two Harbors, Peter checked the rearview mirror and saw that Larry had screwed the cap back on the bottle and was sitting up. Peter got the feeling they were getting close to their destination. They passed Superior Shores, a re-sort condominium complex, and followed Highway 61 up to Silver Cliff. Once they’d passed through the tunnel, Larry slid over to the left side and stared out the window. The lake was somewhere to the right of them out in the darkness. Most of the smaller resorts were on the lake side of the highway, near the water.
A few minutes later, Larry told Peter to slow down. Once again, Peter checked the odometer. Just over a mile later, Larry ordered him to turn left onto a dirt road. They bumped along in silence for three quarters of a mile until they came to a small clearing, where Larry told him to stop.
“We’re almost home, Petey,” he said, laughing, shoving the back door open. He made Peter stand by the front bumper while he cuffed his hands behind his back again. Switching on a flashlight, he jabbed Peter in the back with it and said, “Now we walk.”
“Where are we going?”
“No questions, just move it.”
They pushed through the brush into the trees. Larry wasn’t very good at holding the flashlight steady, so Peter couldn’t always see the ground in front of him. He slid into a couple deep water-filled holes and nearly toppled over. All the while, he could feel bugs crawling up his pants legs.
“I don’t suppose you brought along any bug spray,” he said. Larry hit him in the head with the flashlight. “Shut up.”
What felt like hours later, but was probably only ten or fifteen minutes, they came to a clearing.
“There she is,” said Larry, washing the flashlight beam over an ancient, completely trashed travel trailer. “Home sweet home.”
When they walked closer, Peter saw that the tires were all flat. The trailer looked almost organic, like it had grown from some bizarre seed. Graffiti covered most of the rusted and cracked exterior. The two windows in the front were both broken.
“It’s a Shasta,” said Larry, his voice full of an odd sort of reverence. “My parents owned a Shasta back in the sixties. Course, this one could use a little work. Couldn’t believe my luck when I found it. I mean, it’s fucking perfect. No rent. No landlords. Lots of peace and quiet.” He pushed Peter into the already open door. They stood in the darkness for a few seconds while Larry fired up a lantern.
The inside of the trailer was even worse than the outside. Not only did it smell moldy and rank, but the water damage was so bad that part of the roof near where the stove vent had once been was completely caved in.
Peter looked around him and saw that the appliances were all missing. Against the back wall was a long bench. A sleeping bag was tied into a roll in one corner. Next to that were two backpacks. One looked empty, the other stuffed full. A old Coleman stove sat on a counter in what was once the kitchen. On the floor were a couple of banged-up coolers. The only table was a piece of plywood attached to the wall by hinges and propped up at the end by a two-by-four. two folding chairs sat on either side of it and a bunch of porno magazines were spread across the top.
“All the comforts of home,” said Larry, dropping the gear he’d been carrying to the floor.
Peter turned to stare at him.
“First rule of basic training,” said Larry, picking up a baseball bat and tapping it menacingly against the palm of his hand. “Never look the drill sergeant in the eye.”
“What?”
Larry slammed the bat into Peter’s stomach, propelling him backward over the coolers.
“Next rule,” said Larry, standing over him. “Speak only when spoken to.”
Peter waited for the pain to subside, then gazed up at him with terrified eyes.
“You need another lesson, boy?”
Peter quickly looked away.
“Next rule. When I ask you a question, you answer and then say ‘Thank you, Drill Sergeant.’ ”
Peter blinked. His heart was beating so fast and loud he wasn’t sure he’d heard him right.
“I think so,” said Peter.
“I think so what?”
“Yes, I understand. Thank you, Drill Sergeant.”
Larry smiled. “Get up.”
Peter struggled off the coolers.
“Sit here.” Larry pulled out one of the folding chairs.
Behind him, Peter could hear Larry fiddling with a zipper. Then something began to buzz.
“Now sit still,” said Larry.
Peter felt the buzzing noise hit the back of his head. He ducked aw ay.
“It’s a hair trimmer, asshole,” said Larry, showing it to him. “Now, sit up straight and don’t move. Can’t have a beard or long hair in boot camp. We gotta get rid of it, clean you up good and proper. Maybe I’ll make you look like one a them skinheads.” He laughed.
Peter’s eves darted around the dank interior. He couldn’t believe this was happening.
“Tomorrow, we start basic training, so you better get a good night’s sleep. Oh, and just so you know, you’re writing a letter tomorrow. Your sister and your dad don’t believe I’ve really got you. Can’t have them thinking ole Larry lied to them, now can I.”
“No. Thank you, Drill Sergeant.”
“Just shut up.”