I walk through both dark spaces and into the small bathroom between—clearing the floor. (Some habits never die). Then I go back up to the main floor, carry my pack over to the gun cabinet, and, using a small pick I’ve got in my pocket, unlock the cabinet door. The keys on the key ring appear to be a garage key and two house keys—one a deadbolt, the other not. No one’s mentioned anything about Haywood coming back for the contents of this gun cabinet, so for now I’m going to call it mine. I stash my weathered M-14, my M4 Commando, and my HK MP5 there, but leave my TAC-338 in its hard case.
With my bag over my shoulder and the McMillian case in my right hand, I make a quick pass with my left hand over the butt of the .45 at my hip, then start to climb up to the top floor.
The third floor houses two bedrooms and two bathrooms, plus a library. It’s probably 2,000 square feet up there, with maybe 1,000 of those dedicated to the palatial master suite. I feel a jab of want as I remember the rustic-opulent space, with its pale stone fireplace, soft, faux bearskin rug, luxurious-looking king-sized bed, and two big, bay windows facing south.
When I’m halfway up the staircase, I turn and grip the bannister. I’m still getting winded pretty easily, but it’s better than it was a few months back. I shut my eyes and fill my lungs and try to focus on being present. Right here, right now.
Fuck, I’m tired.
I climb slowly up the remaining eleven stairs and clear the floor. When I’ve satisfied my irrational impulse, I return to the master. From the doorway, the fireplace is on the left, a stone behemoth in the middle of a wall of built-in mahogany shelves. The king-size bed is on the right, between the bay windows. I lay my gun case and my bag on the bed’s silky, sage-green spread and unzip the bag. Nestled between shirts and pants, socks and boxer-briefs, are a bunch of cans of Red Bull. I pull the cans out and line them on the night stand to the bed’s left.
Then I check my watch.
It’s 2:12 p.m.
I pop open a can and take a few warm swallows, then set it back down. My stomach growls. My gun case looks strange there on the elegant bedspread. I want to see the .338, so I take it out. I run the fingers of my right hand over its cool grip. I peer through the Leupold MK4 scope, then stand with the gun in hand.
One small step toward the left bay window, and I turn back toward the bed and lay the heavy gun atop the mattress. I take the scope off and take it with me to the window.
Through the thick woods, I can see the green tin roof of the little cabin next door. I peer through the scope and watch some leaves flutter down onto it. How long until Gwenna White emerges for her afternoon workout?
I stand there waiting—two hours and six minutes. With the quiet precision of my trade, I track her up the hill behind her house, moving from the left window to the one on the right of my new bed. When her small form becomes a long shadow, I walk downstairs.
I stand around the kitchen for a moment, feeling lost. Then I fire up the Keurig and make myself a mug of hot chocolate.
THREE
Gwenna
The rest of Wednesday passes in a thick haze of relief. Everything seems better now. My cappuccino—stale-tasting the last time I brewed one—tastes delicious this time. The sheets on my bed—just regular, silky sheets—feel outright luscious. My closet—an honest-to-God danger zone—appears before me as a giant stack of lovely things. I’m fortunate to have them. I’ve got a soft robe, a cozy couch, a beautiful clearing near the top of the hill where I can work out.
Working out is more fun, too, I notice Wednesday evening when I finish, because no longer am I practicing my Taekwondo with the intent of getting a last-ditch job as an instructor. I may still get re-licensed for the fun of it. Because, until I got “discovered” as a model, Taekwondo was one of the biggest parts of my life, and it would be nice to be able to instruct again. Maybe even pro bono. But I don’t have to if I don’t want to.
I spend Wednesday night packaging the plush black bears I sell on the sanctuary’s web site at an $8-per-bear profit, then watching Doctor Who (David Tennant) while lounging on the couch, yammering with my mom and Jamie. My brother Rett calls too, letting me know how glad he is that everything worked out with the sanctuary.
When I think I’m finished with my talk-a-thon, my mom calls back to ask me a mundane question, and I can hear the tears in her voice. She doesn’t like me to ask outright, nor does she actually want to talk about how she misses Dad, so I just chat with her like normal, tidying up my office as we chat, then, when her lengthy debate—mostly with herself—about what piece to sculpt next starts to melt my brains, I sit at my desk and start reviewing footage from the cams.
Tomorrow is an enclosure day for me, so I need to spend some time figuring out where my bears are tonight, and how they seem to be doing. I track them via their anklets and then, because my mom is still going strong—she’s leaning toward a woman mostly covered by a large shawl; ?
??perhaps really a mourning veil,” she says excitedly—I check the footage from Cams 1 and 2 around the time I was out practicing.
To my horror, I see something. Something blurry. Something moving. Something man-sized. And then, just when I start to second-guess myself, I see a hand. A real, flesh-colored hand—I’m sure it is!
I stop the footage and hit rewind, and I can finally see. It is a person. Holy shit! It’s someone wearing camouflage. I would never have realized had I not seen that left hand. He must have taken off his camo gloves.
Oh holy shit, who is this person?
The trajectory in which he’s moving in the footage points him toward me. He’s moving toward me at the time I would have been headed back to the house.
Shiiiiitttt.
“Hey Mom, can I call you back?”
“Of course. Don’t worry with it tonight. I feel much better. Thanks for listening, love.”
“No prob. It sounds amazing, Mom. I love you.”
“Love you too.”