These Silent Woods: A Novel(20)

“Naw.” My pulse begins to roar. “You must be mixing us up with someone else.”

She squints, tying the licorice in a knot. “No, it’s been a while. Five, six years. Maybe more. But I remember.”

This is where we came to call Jake, all those years ago. We used the pay phone out front but also came in to grab a few supplies. “I have one of those faces,” I say.

She clucks and grins, big and lopsided. “That’s the thing. I don’t remember your face. What I remember is that Bronco.” She points out the window. “Nineteen ninety-four, right? Used to have one myself. Same color, same year. Except yours had that Army sticker.”

My stomach flicks and my heart pounds and I nearly choke and I wonder—can Sheila see it, that flare of panic? I want to drop my stuff, forget the fuel, hightail it home because the two of us are at a gas station and there are people everywhere and what was I thinking, bringing Finch out into the world—

I take a deep breath, hold the air in, exhale. Stay calm, Cooper. Breathe. “Best vehicle I ever owned,” I say. I pick up a candy bar, not sure why, and put it on the counter. My hand is shaking, and I shove it into my pocket.

Sheila nods. “I totaled mine. Slid into a ditch, last New Year’s Eve. Now I got the Ranger.” She has not yet touched her register—apparently she’d rather chat—but I push the money closer.

And then a jangle at the door, a flicker of light. Never even heard the vehicle pull up outside, with Sheila yakking and The Price Is Right blaring from the television.

A man walks in. Tall and lean and wearing cowboy boots and a tan and brown uniform. Badge pinned to his chest pocket. He is maybe my age, hair buzzed short, good looking, a military stiffness to him.

“Morning, Sheriff,” Sheila says.

Of all the luck. The room begins to burn white, the objects take on a glow.

After everything you’ve overcome, you can’t just let your own mind get the better of you in a little gas station on the fringe of wilderness. You are almost home, Cooper. You’re nearly there. You’ve got a whole year’s worth of food in the truck. And think of Finch. She’s counting on you. You cannot let her down. Not here. Not now.

Finch turns and stares, jaw open. A woman on The Price Is Right begins to bounce up and down, clapping her hands.

“Sheila.” The man tucks his hat under his arm and pulls a Styrofoam cup from the stack. Opens a packet of sugar, dumps it in.

“Miss,” I say, and try to force a smile. This is something I remember Jake telling me: always default to ‘miss’ rather than ‘ma’am.’ Makes women feel old when you call them ma’am, he told me. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I need to get on home.”

“Of course.” She punches in the numbers, slides the bills into the register. She hands me my change.

“Appreciate it.” I nudge Finch to move, and she shuffles out in front of me, head down.

“Get in the truck, sugar.”

She climbs into the back seat. I fill the Bronco first, then I grab the fuel containers. My hands are shaking as I pump the gas and kerosene. The pumps are old, nothing digital, no buttons. Which also means they’re slow. Finch watches out the window as the numbers on the pump roll past. At last, all four containers are full. I slide them onto the floor of the passenger side and get into the truck.

The officer is standing outside the store, looking at us. He raises his arm, pointer finger up, signaling us to wait.

I debate this. I could pull out of the station, act like I didn’t see him.

He’s walking toward us.

“Cooper,” Finch whispers.

He taps on the passenger window.

I push the button and open it.

“That your daughter?” he asks, leaning closer.

I nod.

“How old is she?”

My heart races. There’s no way he has pieced everything together after one minute of observation in the store. Impossible, impossible. I consider lying, just in case.

“I’m eight,” Finch says from the back seat.

He takes a sip from his Styrofoam cup, winces at the coffee’s heat. “Girl her size ought to be in a booster seat, you know.”

“Yes, sir. I took it out last week and forgot to put it back in.”

“Well, don’t forget next time. It’s for her own safety,” he says. “Not to mention it’s the law.”

“Yes, sir. Will do. Thank you.”

He steps back from the truck. “All right. You folks get on home.”



* * *



As I turn on the ignition, my head is pounding and I can feel the panic swelling at me hard, a choking sensation that tightens and tightens.

Breathe.

I remove the lid from the canteen and take a swig.

“What’s a booster seat?” Finch asks, as we pull out of the gas station.

“You shouldn’t have talked to that police officer,” I tell her. “I told you don’t talk to anyone, no matter what.”

“Do you think Walt Whitman’s okay?”

Sometimes she does that, ignores what I say, changes the subject. “Finch.”

“Well, he asked a question, and you didn’t answer. He was just standing there.”

“I’m serious, Finch. I need to know that when I tell you something, I can trust you to listen.”