These Silent Woods: A Novel(55)

“All right. Give a ring if you need something.”

“Of course.”

The two men shuffle out, and we can hear them through the thin panes of the glass.

“What’s the matter with you, stomping mud through the house like that?”

“You’re just mad because you think she’s cute.”

Laughter, engine firing up.

They drive away, the motor fading until it is a low purr and then nothing at all. Finch is sitting on my lap, leaning against my chest, my chin resting on top of her head. My right leg has fallen asleep, and it stings and tingles when I try to stand, wants to give beneath the weight. “It’s okay now, Finch. They’re gone.”

Her shoulders are shaking. From the cold, from nerves. “Coop,” she whispers, her jaw chattering. “That thing you did to keep us together, a long time ago…”

“Yeah?”

“What was it?”

I press my cheek to her forehead. “I hurt someone.”

“I’m scared.”

“You don’t have to be scared of those men. They’re just doing their job.”

“I’m not scared because of them. I’m scared because you’re scared. Don’t lie and say you’re not because I know it: you are.”

What is there to say to this? How do I explain to her that I have watched people step on mines and huddle as a building begins to crumble, that I have watched the only woman I’ve ever loved die of internal bleeding because a deer ran out on a dark road—how do I explain that I’ve seen just how frail the human body is, how everything can break, and will, and does, and that the one thing I have left, I cannot bear to see it break, cannot bear to lose it and so yes, I’m scared? “I just want to keep you with me. I want to keep you safe. That’s all.”

Finch leans her head against my chest. She points to the ladder. I need to go first to push the trapdoor open. “Marie’s up there, remember?”

Yes, Marie. Marie will not be content with the simple answers that satisfy an eight-year-old. Marie will have question after question. Marie will want to know the truth, and maybe I owe her that, now that she’s in on it, now that I’ve given her no choice but to be in on it. Heck, a part of me wants to tell her, wants her to know. It’s just, well. Everyone has secrets. Things they’ve done that they regret. Some of them are bad enough that they could change the way a person perceives you. Of course I don’t want that, but the real issue at hand is protection of the things dear to me. Survival. Safety. Not just ours. Hers.





TWENTY-SIX




After CPS took Grace Elizabeth and I realized I’d made a mistake in letting her go, getting her back didn’t go well. That was to be expected, I suppose. Judge and Mrs. Judge wanted her, and they’d easily jumped through the legal hoops to get her. They’d geared up for a legal fight because they knew they could win. Which is exactly why I couldn’t let the court be the place where the outcome for my daughter was determined.

I drove the Bronco, all packed up with supplies, and went to their place. Pulled up between the house and the little fountain and parked. I went to the door and rang the bell and said I wanted Grace Elizabeth. Judge came to the door and was holding her when I got there. Man, I hated that, the sight of her in his arms.

“Call the police,” he called to Mrs. Judge.

She spun on her heel toward the kitchen.

“Stop,” I said, and I hadn’t planned on it, per se, but I pulled the Ruger, and when she turned back, she screamed.

Grace Elizabeth started crying. Judge handed her off to his wife.

“Kenny—”

“You set me up,” I said. “You came to my house. You pretended you wanted to help.”

“We do want to help, Kenny.”

“You want to take her. And I won’t let you. She’s my daughter. My flesh and blood. You think you can just make a few phone calls and take her and that’s that?”

“Put the gun away, Kenny. No need to be irrational here. We can work this out.” Judge took a step closer. “Come on, son. Put it away.”

“Don’t.” I thought of all the mean things he’d ever said to me and about me, then.

I pointed the gun right at him. Mrs. Judge screamed again, Grace Elizabeth wailing in her arms.

“Put the baby down,” I told her, waving the gun toward the living room off to the right of the foyer. “Set her down on that blanket.”

Mrs. Judge scuttled over, kissing Grace Elizabeth on the forehead before kneeling and placing her on the ground. She stood up, held her hands in the air.

“Both of you, downstairs.” I knew there was a game room down there, a big space with a pool table and a leather couch and a wet bar.

They started down the steps, and I followed.

“Look at yourself, Kenny. Just take a step back from the situation and look. I should’ve let the police come for you like they wanted to, after your little incident at the diner.”

I didn’t know if that was true, whether he’d intervened on my behalf, but this was no time to get into it. I pressed the pistol into his back. “Move.”

Downstairs, I pointed to a space between the table and bar. “Here. On the ground.”

Mrs. Judge was close, and she shifted closer: a flash to my left and then her cold hand on my arm. I reacted. Swung the Ruger fast in her direction and made contact, the nose of the pistol grazing her cheek, just below the temple. Her head spun back and she stumbled, the blow knocking her off balance. She blinked, exhaled, looked lost.