Mean Streak(53)
But the road was steep, with too many switchbacks to keep count of. It intersected with other rural roads that were similarly daunting. Her right foot was throbbing from having stood at Lisa’s bedside most of the night. Her head was muzzy from lack of sleep. The temperature had to be well below freezing. Which probably wouldn’t be a problem because he could catch her before she’d gone fifty yards.
Realizing the foolhardiness and futility of even attempting to escape, she followed him inside.
He was crouched in front of the grate shoveling cold ashes aside. He laid kindling and, when it caught, added logs. “It’ll take a while to get warm in here. Till it does, you’d better keep the coat on.”
His coat. She had removed it in order to treat Lisa but had put it back on shortly before they left. Suddenly it felt heavy and cumbersome, but she was still glad for the warmth and sense of protection it provided.
He replaced the fire screen and turned to face her. “Are you still hungry?”
“Hungry?” She stared at him with bewilderment. “I don’t get you at all. You commit burglary in order to help a young woman you don’t even know. You’re gentle enough to convert a vicious dog into a pal. But then you fire a shotgun at two men, unprovoked.”
“It wasn’t unprovoked.”
“When we left, you definitely had the upper hand. You didn’t have to go back inside at all.”
“Yeah, I did.”
“Why?”
“Because of you.”
“Me?”
“They’d made some crude references to you.”
“You should have ignored them.”
“I didn’t want to.”
“What did you expect? Refinement? They’re ignorant and scurvy, and—”
“They’re shit is what they are.”
“Okay, they’re lowlifes. Does that justify shooting at them?”
“I didn’t shoot at them. If I had, they’d be dead.”
“Then why fire the shotgun at all?”
She tried to stare him down, but, to her consternation, he turned away. “Do you want to use the shower first, or should I go ahead?”
Furious over his being so indifferent to her outrage, she went after him and grabbed his sleeve, bringing him around. “Damn you, answer me!”
“What?”
“Tell me why you fired the shotgun. And don’t claim it was self-defense.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“Then why’d you do it? Just to make a point?”
He remained immutable.
“Tell me!”
“I shot out the TV!”
Stunned by both his shout and the explanation, she fell back a step, having a wild compulsion to laugh. “The TV? Why?”
He pulled his sleeve from her grip. “So they wouldn’t see your picture on it.”
*
By the time he emerged from the bathroom, freshly showered and wearing clean clothes, she was serving up the scrambled eggs and bacon she’d prepared. After all, it was morning. Most people were having breakfast at this time of day. Breakfast was the one conventional thing in this otherwise Looking-Glass universe in which she was now living.
As though he hadn’t dropped a bombshell before retreating to the bathroom, he thanked her for the plate of food she set down on the table in front of him. As he tucked in, she motioned toward a plate stacked with slices of toast. “The toaster works better. It popped them up.”
“Good. The repair saved me from having to buy a new one.”
Performing ordinary tasks like making toast and placing the stick of butter on a dish had given her a self-delusional sense of control over her situation. She knew he noticed the dish as he knifed a pat of butter and spread it over his toast. He acknowledged it with a glance toward her but didn’t comment.
Halfway through the meal, he asked if she wanted another cup of coffee.
“If you’re getting up, please.”
He came back to the table with their refills, then sat down, straddling the seat of his chair in the way of a man. Any man. A normal, nonviolent man. A man who hadn’t shot out the TV of his redneck neighbors at dawn.
No longer able to hold back the question, she blurted, “My picture was on TV?”
“I saw it on our way out. That’s why I had to go back inside and take care of it.”
“Were they saying—”
“I don’t know what they were saying. The audio was muted.” He took a sip of coffee, watching her through the steam rising out of the cup. “But in big yellow letters across the bottom of the screen was a notice of a reward. Twenty-five thousand.”
“Who put up the reward? Jeff?”
He shrugged. “But I couldn’t let the Floyd brothers see that. God knows what they’d have done in order to claim the reward.”
“Why didn’t you explain this to me right away? Why did you let me go on the way I did?”
He leaned back in his chair. “I wanted to learn what you really think of me. Now I know. You have a very low opinion.”
“That’s not true.”
He made a scoffing sound.
“Well, can you blame me? Pauline, who only met you last night, conjectured that you’re a fugitive.”