I knew I’d be of no use to Fields or myself if I just gave up. I forced myself to ignore the cold wave of panic threatening to wash over me.
I had to find her and bring her back.
First off, I had to unlock the door and go inside. There were things I needed to take with me when I looked for Fields. These things were inside the house.
I shoved my left hand inside the pocket of my jeans. No keys. The other pocket, perhaps? This would require me to use my other hand, which held Fields’ .38.
Clear your head and switch the gun . It couldn’t be simpler .
After a few awkward moments of blackness, I let my head clear. I placed the pistol in my left hand and used my right to search the other pocket. I began staring at the .38 and suddenly lost track of what I was doing.
Idiot. Focus. Get the damned keys, unlock the door and get your ass inside .
Then what? What was I supposed to do when I went inside?
Grab whatever you’ll need to take with you to go find Fields, dammit !
After taking another deep breath, I was finally able to focus long enough to pull the keys out of my pocket and open the door.
The kitchen, of course, was empty, the soft, steady hum from the fridge reminding me that the home generator was up and running. The room was dark except for the three small nightlights I kept plugged in, which cast hazy yellow halos on the floor near the hall and dining room doorways.
I stood glaring at the darkness, longing to hear her voice or smell the perfume of her hair. It hadn’t been that long since Fields had stood right here just moments before she’d left the house to go on her walk.
The hum of the fridge intensified the silence, making me feel even more alone. For a moment I thought that if I flicked on the flashlight, her image would materialize on the other side of the table.
I tried, but of course it didn’t work. The dark emptiness continued mocking me.
I wanted to scramble down the hall, into the living room, and collapse on the sofa. I wanted to lie there on my side in fetal position, safe and warm and at a safe distance from the nightmares. I wanted to close my eyes and dream about Fields and me doing all the things we’d done since we’d arrived at the farm an eternity ago, when Reed and Uncle Joe were still in our lives. In my dream, Fields and I would be together again, and our fears would never...
Moss, stop all this crap and start looking!
I stiffened. Was that her voice I’d just heard? Or was it my own?
Or was it my conscience telling me to stop the self-pity and start acting like myself again?
This wasn’t me at all. If Fields came through that door right now, she wouldn’t believe what she saw. If I saw my own reflection, I wouldn’t believe it either. I didn’t feel anything like the man who twenty years earlier hunted down suicide bombers, slave traders and Mexican drug runners. I’d been stabbed and shot, and had stared down the barrel of a gun more times than I cared to remember.
Right now I didn’t think I could cope with much of anything.
I felt useless and invisible, like a stick of old furniture no one wanted anymore.
I’d come a long way in the last couple of hours.
Fields told me I handled things too easily. Reed had said the same thing just a few months before that. Emergency situations were second nature for me. When a crisis arose, I reacted with the speed and efficiency of a highly-tuned machine. I reacted coldly and economically, my gun out and ready. In an instant, someone was dead, the emergency successfully abated.
If only Fields or Reed could see me standing in the kitchen doorway, gawking stupidly at the darkness, teetering on the brink of hysterics...
Moss, stop this !
Was it her voice again?
It didn’t matter whose voice it was. I had to somehow regain my composure, pull myself together and focus. I had to do what I was trained to do, what I’d done in the military and what I’d been doing the last six months.
Surviving. Picking up the pieces.
I had to find her and bring her back.
First off, I had to unlock the door and go inside. There were things I needed to take with me when I looked for Fields. These things were inside the house.
I shoved my left hand inside the pocket of my jeans. No keys. The other pocket, perhaps? This would require me to use my other hand, which held Fields’ .38.
Clear your head and switch the gun . It couldn’t be simpler .
After a few awkward moments of blackness, I let my head clear. I placed the pistol in my left hand and used my right to search the other pocket. I began staring at the .38 and suddenly lost track of what I was doing.
Idiot. Focus. Get the damned keys, unlock the door and get your ass inside .
Then what? What was I supposed to do when I went inside?
Grab whatever you’ll need to take with you to go find Fields, dammit !
After taking another deep breath, I was finally able to focus long enough to pull the keys out of my pocket and open the door.
The kitchen, of course, was empty, the soft, steady hum from the fridge reminding me that the home generator was up and running. The room was dark except for the three small nightlights I kept plugged in, which cast hazy yellow halos on the floor near the hall and dining room doorways.
I stood glaring at the darkness, longing to hear her voice or smell the perfume of her hair. It hadn’t been that long since Fields had stood right here just moments before she’d left the house to go on her walk.
The hum of the fridge intensified the silence, making me feel even more alone. For a moment I thought that if I flicked on the flashlight, her image would materialize on the other side of the table.
I tried, but of course it didn’t work. The dark emptiness continued mocking me.
I wanted to scramble down the hall, into the living room, and collapse on the sofa. I wanted to lie there on my side in fetal position, safe and warm and at a safe distance from the nightmares. I wanted to close my eyes and dream about Fields and me doing all the things we’d done since we’d arrived at the farm an eternity ago, when Reed and Uncle Joe were still in our lives. In my dream, Fields and I would be together again, and our fears would never...
Moss, stop all this crap and start looking!
I stiffened. Was that her voice I’d just heard? Or was it my own?
Or was it my conscience telling me to stop the self-pity and start acting like myself again?
This wasn’t me at all. If Fields came through that door right now, she wouldn’t believe what she saw. If I saw my own reflection, I wouldn’t believe it either. I didn’t feel anything like the man who twenty years earlier hunted down suicide bombers, slave traders and Mexican drug runners. I’d been stabbed and shot, and had stared down the barrel of a gun more times than I cared to remember.
Right now I didn’t think I could cope with much of anything.
I felt useless and invisible, like a stick of old furniture no one wanted anymore.
I’d come a long way in the last couple of hours.
Fields told me I handled things too easily. Reed had said the same thing just a few months before that. Emergency situations were second nature for me. When a crisis arose, I reacted with the speed and efficiency of a highly-tuned machine. I reacted coldly and economically, my gun out and ready. In an instant, someone was dead, the emergency successfully abated.
If only Fields or Reed could see me standing in the kitchen doorway, gawking stupidly at the darkness, teetering on the brink of hysterics...
Moss, stop this !
Was it her voice again?
It didn’t matter whose voice it was. I had to somehow regain my composure, pull myself together and focus. I had to do what I was trained to do, what I’d done in the military and what I’d been doing the last six months.
Surviving. Picking up the pieces.
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