‘At least,’ said Ren, ‘let Salem stand in front of the mirror.’
‘Why would I do that?’ said Jason.
So he can see the whole room. ‘What harm is it going to do?’ said Ren.
Salem started to move sideways toward it. Jason didn’t stop him.
‘Jason,’ said Malcolm, ‘put your gun to Salem’s temple and shoot him if Agent Bryce here doesn’t do what she’s told.’
Jason did as he asked.
‘Hold your arms up in the air,’ said Malcolm.
Ren held her arms up. He reached in and removed her gun from the holster under her arm, his hand brushing off her breast.
Her stomach turned. He bent down to her ankle holster. There was no gun there. He frisked her and found nothing else. He walked over to the battered old sofa and slumped down into it.
What is going on here?
Ren watched Salem. He had started shouting again. And sobbing. If Jason Wardwell, pumped-up and edgy, was going to do something, it would be directed at Salem first, it wouldn’t be directed at her. Because, no matter what, she was an agent and Jason Wardwell didn’t know yet if he was going to make it through this.
‘You need to shut the fuck up,’ said Jason to Salem.
‘He can’t,’ said Ren. ‘He’s afraid.’
‘He better get over it,’ said Jason. ‘Right now.’
Ren saw how Salem had realized he could see her face reflected in the mottled mirror in front of him. He fixed her with beautiful, terrified eyes.
Ren started humming, quietly – a John Prine song, top of the Most Played on Salem’s little iPod when she’d charged it. Everyone looked at her. Salem stilled. Ren hummed a little louder, holding him with her eyes.
Jason swung the gun her way, ‘What are you –’
Then there was no more shouting. Only the sound of Ren humming. The others turned to watch Salem, subdued. Jason turned the gun back to him. Ren could see Salem blinking rapidly, his chest heaving. Ren started to sing, ‘We lost Davey in the Korean War and I still don’t know what for, don’t matter any more.’ Her voice was shaking.
‘Shut up, you crazy bitch,’ said Jason. ‘What is wrong with you all?’
‘Salem, sweetheart,’ said Ren. ‘You’re going to be OK. Stick with me, OK?’
Tears poured down Salem’s face. He started to sob.
Ren kept singing, ‘You know that old trees just grow stronger. And old rivers grow wilder every day.’
‘Stop,’ said Jason. ‘I mean it. Stop.’
Salem was rocking again, his sobs growing louder and louder.
‘Shut up! Shut up!’ said Jason, raising the gun, lowering it, running the back of his hand across his forehead. ‘Shut up!’
‘No,’ said Ren. ‘No. Let him go, Jason. Let Salem leave. Let him get out.’
‘He’ll call the Sheriff –’
‘Think about it, Jason,’ said Ren calmly. ‘How can Salem do that? Salem has no way of doing that.’
‘She’s right,’ shouted Salem. ‘I don’t. I really don’t.’
‘Stop talking,’ said Jason, taking a step toward him.
Salem flinched, throwing his arms up, covering his head. ‘No,’ he said, over and over.
‘Stop,’ said Jason. ‘Stop.’
Ren started again, singing the rest of the song, her voice steady, but low: ‘… people just grow lonesome. Waiting for someone to say … hello in there … hello.’
Ren stopped as Jason raised the gun again toward Salem. Salem was swaying gently, his eyes closed, his hand across his stomach. Ren wanted to shout at Jason, to tell him Salem was quiet now, to tell him he wasn’t a threat, that she would be quiet too. But she knew she would startle Salem and she didn’t want him to have to open his eyes to this scene, unless she knew he was going to make it out alive. But in the new silence, Salem opened his eyes and locked on to hers again. Ren smiled at him.
Jason pulled the trigger.
Salem was blasted backward, shattering the mirror behind him, a huge hole blown into his sunken chest. Ren had closed her eyes only when she knew Salem could no longer see her. She looked down now on his small, broken frame, slumped against his rocking chair, a plaid blanket half-fallen across his body.
‘You fucking bastard,’ she roared at Jason. ‘You fucking bastard.’
She stepped sideways and took a step forward. She pointed a finger at him. ‘Do not say a fucking word, you fucking animal.’
‘Do not move,’ said Jason, pointing the gun at her.
‘I’m not coming near you, you son of a bitch.’ She walked with her hands in the air toward Salem, bent down and pulled the rest of the blanket over him. ‘I’m trying to give a man some dignity. So, you? You stay the fuck away from me.’
She had her back to Jason Wardwell as she covered Salem with his coat. With her right hand she reached around to the back of the cooler box, pulled off the gun she had taped there and slipped it into her ankle holster.
She stood back up and turned to face Malcolm Wardwell.
‘Jean Transom tracked you down, didn’t she? You would remember her as Jennifer Mayer. She came to confront the monster who abducted and abused her and her eleven-year-old friend, Ruth Sleight. She came up to the most remote place she knew she could find you. Somewhere she could talk to you in private. And if anything bad happened, you could be far away from town.’
Ren thought of the image that Ruth Sleight had drawn – the mosaic pattern from the floor of Wardwell’s store – the store he had the keys for, the one that had been vacant for years; down the stairs into the darkness, the windows boarded up. The beautiful patterned floor was the only thing Jennifer Mayer could see under the blindfold. And Ruth Sleight was able to back her up. And the smell that came through the vents was from the brewery next door. Jean Transom never drank beer. And never really knew why.
Malcolm’s face was gray.
There is something not right here.
Ren thought about the store. She thought of the whole line of stores down Main Street. She thought of the risk of discovery. The argument between Malcolm and Jason Wardwell about Mountain Sports, their bitter words flashing back: spoilt, ungrateful, terrible, terrible child; stay out of my business, Dad; pact with the devil; sackcloth and ashes. All because he was going to Mountain Sports. Ren remembered, standing on the balcony, looking out at the beautiful view over the Blue River. And closer still, the day-care center next door.
Oh my God. ‘There she was,’ said Ren. ‘Poor Jean. So close, so close. And she picked the wrong guy.’
Malcolm Wardwell looked at Ren, confused. But he had years of practice in saying nothing. Salem’s voice rang in Ren’s ears. You take the hits. You take the hits.
‘When the police came knocking at your door thirty years ago and raided your house,’ said Ren, ‘and you watched them take away those magazines and videos … you were more surprised than they were,’ said Ren.
Silence.
‘You took the hit, Malcolm, didn’t you? You took the hit for your son. In a split