Just to warn you - it will probably be confusing that there's a Chapter 41 listed, but it's really the postscript section I mentioned earlier, in which I give my thank-yous and address some things. And so.. here it is. The grand finale (and it makes me so sad to say that.. but also relieved ;)
Chapter Forty
"We were wondering if we might ask you a few questions about a woman we have reason to believe you may have been in contact with."
The words reverberated in his ears. It wasn't like he hadn't expected it - as soon as the man had called out his name, he'd known, with a kind of telepathic certainty, what they were here for. He and Kate had had so many close calls and false alarms that they had to be past due for the real thing. Only... why now? Why this morning, of all mornings?
From the second he'd noticed the men on the porch, he'd been regretfully aware of one important fact. He didn't have a gun with him. He'd gotten in the habit of bringing one along with him nearly every time he was out of the house, but for some unfathomable reason, he hadn't bothered with the precaution today. Maybe it was because it was so early in the morning, or maybe it was that the frost had bewitched him, or that his thoughts of the future had distracted him. But whatever the cause, he understood that he was now completely defenseless, in a physical sense - which meant that Kate was, too, unless she somehow happened to see them from the window and armed herself inside. Because these agents surely had concealed weapons, whether they'd only come here for questioning or not.
All this flashed across his mind in the space of a few seconds while he sought desperately for a mode of dealing with the situation. Then, without even consciously deciding it, his instincts took over. As the men watched him, he turned casually back to the truck bed and lifted out another chunk of wood, dropping it on the pile.
Glancing back over at them, he replied in a half-sleazy, half-charming tone of voice. "Well, now... I been in contact with a lotta women lately, if you catch my drift. You're gonna have to be a little more specific than that."
The tactic worked. The younger of the two men, Agent Reed, gave Sawyer a slight, conspiratorial smile. "Oh, I'm pretty sure you'd remember this one. She's what we like to call in the force "a special case."
Sawyer appeared to be thinking for a second, then he threw his head back as if he'd just realized something. "Ah... I bet I know what this is about." He walked over closer to them, leaning his hand on the back of the truck. "It's that's girl, ain't it? The one from the plane?" He paused, as if he was trying to remember something specific. "Kate," he finally said, pronouncing her name with precision, as if it felt strange in his mouth, as if he'd just recalled it out of the depths of his memory. "Took you long enough."
The look on the taller man's face appeared to confirm his guess. "Then I assume you have some idea of how the investigation stands at this point?"
Sawyer shook his head a little, going back to work unloading the wood. "Nah... Not really. But I hear she gave you boys the slip again. That true?" He looked at them. "Hell, from I what I remember, she probably don't weigh much over a hundred pounds. You tellin' me the entire FBI can't manage to keep hold of a tiny little thing like that?"
Agent Reed looked somewhat miffed at this. "It's not quite that simple."
"And why's that?"
"Because that tiny little thing somehow managed to overturn a vehicle moving at fifty miles per hour, from the back seat, while she was handcuffed. She's emotionally unstable and highly dangerous."
Sawyer had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling proudly. "Guess it's always the ones you least expect," he said, as if he thought this whole thing was funny.
Agent Callahan gazed at Sawyer coolly. "Would you mind describing your relationship with Ms. Austin during the month you knew her on the island?"
"Relationship?" Sawyer asked, stressing the word. He laughed a little, and picked up the axe from where he'd flung it to the ground in preparation earlier, wondering vaguely if he could use it as a weapon, if it came to that. "That ain't exactly the word I'd use to describe it." He expertly split one log down the middle. "I'm sure you two know how it is. I was lonely... she was hot... I chased around after her for a while, but nothin' much ever came of it." He raised his eyes to them, shrewdly. "You know those types 'a girls that think they're above all that... like they got PMS all the time?"
Agent Reed reciprocated with a tiny smile of acknowledgment, but Callahan showed no response. He was in his fifties at least, his hair beginning to turn gray, obviously a career officer who'd run out of patience at being paired with green, inexperienced agents like his current partner.
"From other statements collected from the survivors, it seems that the two of you had something of a scene during your last day on the island... that you became violent towards her? Could you elaborate on that?" he asked blandly.
"Violent," Sawyer repeated with unfeigned contempt. "Who said that?" he demanded.
Callahan continued to regard him evenly, and Sawyer realized his mistake. Collecting himself, he went back to chopping, saying, "Yeah, so?... Maybe I was... But it was only because the bitch tried to take my spot on the raft we built to escape." The word stuck in his throat, and it was something he could barely stand to call her, even as part of the act. But there was no room for sentiment here. He had to get the details right. "You know how hard I worked on that thing? And here she comes along, thinks she can manipulate everyone and make 'em all turn on me, just so she can get what she wants without havin' to sweat a drop for it. What the hell was I supposed to do, let her have it?"
"So in the process, her fugitive status was made known to the rest of the group. Is that correct?"
"Yeah," he said. "Wasn't my intention, but I guess that's what happened."
"Why wasn't it your intention?" Callahan asked.
"What?" Sawyer looked at him, confused.
"Well, I'm assuming that her identity as the fugitive was already apparent to you, but you must have deliberately chosen to keep this information to yourself. What made you come to that decision?" He kept his tone falsely even, but his eyes seemed cunning, almost hawk-like.
Sawyer was suddenly unnerved. He felt there was a trap in this somehow, but he couldn't quite see where it lay. "Guess I didn't think it was any of my concern," he said, raising the axe again. "What difference should it make to me how much they knew about her? I had other things on my mind."
"Let me ask you something, Mr. Ford," Callahan continued, after staring at him levelly for a few seconds. "Was Ms. Austin by any chance aware of your own criminal background?"
The axe wobbled slightly as it came down, the question catching him off-guard. It struck too far to the left on the chunk of wood, nicking off a corner and becoming embedded in the ground. "Shit," Sawyer muttered, pissed off and aware of how closely he was being observed, by both of them now. He played for time, not sure where they were going with this. "Why? You think she woulda done the same for me?" He wrenched the axe out of the earth.
"We have reports from several accounts that the two of you spent quite a bit of time alone together, away from the main camp. It would seem to me that two people with such colorful backgrounds... with so much in common... must have had a lot to talk about. Wouldn't you agree?"
Reed watched him too, even though this line of questioning would never have occurred to him.
It now began to slowly dawn on Sawyer where they were headed with this. "I wouldn't know," he said irritably. "I'm not really the talkative type."
"But surely," Callahan went on in a coaxing voice, "It must have been tempting to share your experiences with someone who could partially relate? After all, it must have seemed, at times, like nobody else on the island could really understand your... special circumstances. And it wouldn't be entirely unreasonable to assume that she felt the same way towards you.
"Yeah, well," Sawyer said, getting pissed. "To tell you the truth, I wasn't in the market for a soul mate. When I was alone with her, I was mostly just concerned with how I could get her to take her pants off."
"I see," Callahan said, with a sly smile, as if he didn't believe a word of it.
Sawyer went back to chopping, while they watched him silently for a moment. This conversation was becoming increasingly alarming, but a sudden realization had just caused his blood to run cold, making him forget all about his ill-considered responses. He'd just remembered that Kate was supposed to come out here to help when she was done with her shower. She had to be getting close, didn't she? Unlike most women, she was generally brief about getting cleaned up. She didn't wear makeup, and she didn't even blow-dry her hair. Every molecule in his body screamed out a silent prayer that something would distract her, that she would refrain from coming out that door for just a little longer.
"Maybe we should just cut to the chase here, Mr. Ford," Agent Reed suddenly said, bluntly, as if he was tired of playing games. Callahan flashed him a lethal glance, but he didn't stop. "We've been informed that your local police were alerted by an anxious mother a few nights ago, on Halloween. Apparently her son told her he saw you in the company of a woman whom he believed matched the description of Katherine Austin."
Sawyer's heart gave a sickening thud, but he only rolled his eyes sarcastically. "What, those little bastards who were trespassin' after midnight with bags full of toilet paper? Sure sounds like reliable testimony to me."
He split another piece of wood, this one breaking cleanly down the middle, to his relief. "So I got a thing for brunettes... That a crime?" He narrowed his eyes at them, as if he was a little worried. "Look...," he said defensively. "That girl I was with on Halloween. She said she was eighteen, all right? Just in case you track her down to bother her with some pointless questions like you're botherin' me... I want it on record that she told me she was eighteen."
Reed sighed, looking vaguely disgusted, but also disappointed, as if he'd hit a brick wall. "Yeah... We'll make a note of it." He glanced at Callahan, ceding defeat, letting him take over again.
"So in other words, what you're saying, Mr. Ford, is that you haven't heard or seen any trace of this woman since the two of you parted ways on the island... is that correct?"
"Yeah," he said. "I guess that's what I'm sayin'."
"Let me ask you another question, then. Do you have any idea of where she might be? Did she ever mention any specific location that would make you think she might attempt to seek shelter there?"
Sawyer pretended to think for a minute. "Specific location? Only specific location she ever mentioned to me was Disneyland... said she hadn't ever been there. Maybe that's where you oughtta look," he said with an unfriendly smirk.
"Disneyland," Reed echoed, clearly thinking Sawyer was messing with them. He gave a snort of laughter. "Thanks for the tip."
"Well, then," Callahan said, with an air of finality. "I suppose there's not much more we need to discuss here. Sorry to trouble you, Mr. Ford, but we're required to check out all these reports of suspicious activity ourselves. Of course, ninety-nine percent of them turn out to be nothing, just like in this case, apparently... but it's protocol. I'm sure you understand."
"Yeah," Sawyer said, beginning to let relief creep over him. "No problem."
The two men turned as if they were on the verge of leaving, but then Callahan glanced back, as if he'd just thought of something else. "Oh, one other thing, Mr. Ford. While we're here, you wouldn't mind letting us take a quick peek inside, would you?"
"Inside the house?" he asked, his momentary ease evaporating in an instant. "For what?"
"It's just a formality, really. That way we can prove to the suits down at the Bureau that we covered all the bases. Why? Is there a problem?" He watched Sawyer with cold, suspicious calculation.
He turned away slightly, pretending to be occupied with tossing some previously split pieces over to the side. "Ain't no problem. But I don't suppose you got a warrant on you, by any chance, do ya?"
"Well," Callahan said calmly, "A warrant's only required if you refuse us entry. It would be much less time-consuming and complicated.. for all of us... if you just let us take a little look around. After all, if you don't have anything to hide, there's not really much point in being difficult, is there?"
Sawyer laughed harshly, shaking his head. "No offense, but I'm not exactly in the mood to be cooperative when I already done told you everything I know. Now, as you can see, I'm kinda busy here." He gestured to the pile of wood. "I don't think I got room in my schedule to give you the guided tour. You want to waste any more of my time today, you're gonna have to make it a little more official. So, you come back here with that warrant, and then maybe we'll talk." He turned away impatiently, with a secret, terrified desperation in his heart.
There was a moment of silence. He could see, out of the corner of his eye, the two agents looking at each other, identical expressions of careful, controlled satisfaction on their faces. They knew they were onto something.
"Suit yourself, Mr. Ford," Callahan said, with a cold smile. "Or should I rather say... Mr. Sawyer."
Sawyer turned around with a quick, seething look of hatred. "We done here?" he asked in a low voice. "Because if so, I think you've about worn out your welcome."
"We're all done for now," he replied, still with the imperturbable expression, as if he had Sawyer right where he wanted him. "But I wouldn't roll up that welcome mat quite yet. I have a feeling we'll be seeing each other again, son."
He turned away after giving him one last penetrating gaze that Sawyer met head-on, not blinking. Giving Reed a quick gesture, he headed toward the driveway, where they'd apparently parked farther up in order to make a quiet entrance. Reed nodded shortly at Sawyer, as if he, too, were sizing him up, then turned and followed his partner.
Sawyer watched them until they were completely out of sight, and then continued to stand there in numb shock, only gradually letting any emotions flood back over him. He felt an immense measure of relief that they'd gone, but their last words didn't leave much room for the easing of anxiety. They would be back - there wasn't a doubt in his mind. It was only a matter of time.
And meanwhile, Kate was in the house, taking a shower, with no notion of any of this, yet. She was still living in the world they'd awakened in this morning, the one that he himself had just recently been ripped out of by the merciless claws of reality. And now he would have to tell her. The idea that he would have to be the one to shatter, with his own words, her fragile prism of safety was somehow worse than anything else about this... it made him feel like collapsing onto the ground and refusing to move. But there wasn't any time for that.
Instead, he turned himself reluctantly in the direction of the house, and with heavy, heartbroken steps, started toward the door.
He waited for her, in the living room, sunk into the chair that had always been his favorite, although he didn't know why. It certainly wasn't the most comfortable chair in the room, but it had a way of conforming to his body, and so he always chose it. In a way, his feelings for this particular chair resembled the way he'd always regarded the house itself, up until a few months ago.
He'd bought it back with wariness, but also with a certain indefinable need, and had then retained it in his possession regardless of the fact that he hardly ever lived in it. The annual property taxes were outrageous, every time he stayed here something expensive needed repairing, and the resale value, at this point, would probably bring in at least triple what he'd paid for it, if not more. And yet, despite all that, it had never occurred to him to give it up. Even when he was desperately hurting for money, the idea of selling the house hadn't once crossed his mind, which was doubly ironic, considering how much he'd always hated the place. It was like the physical manifestation of all the emotional baggage he carried with him; a solid, imposing reminder of everything he'd suffered. No matter how much pain it caused him, it was a necessary evil, and he'd accepted its presence in his life as a given, the way he'd accepted, and come to need, the presence of the letter in his pocket.
As he sat there waiting, his mind wandered back over what he knew of the history of the house. His great-grandfather had somehow made a fortune during the First World War - nobody seemed to know how, but considering the nature of the family, Sawyer would be willing to guess that it wasn't through anything terribly ethical. He'd come here with the intention of operating his own coal mine, installing his bride in the newly-built house in 1918. Unfortunately, he hadn't bothered to first ascertain how much coal there was in the immediate vicinity, and it turned out that there wasn't much. To make matters worse, his young wife went and died on him while she was delivering their first, and only, son - Sawyer's grandfather, Adam. His life and fortunes a wreck, the thwarted man had never married again, and had just barely managed to see his son to adulthood, dying soon after and leaving the house to him.
His grandfather had remained a bachelor for years, bringing home his own bride, Josephine, when the two of them were both already in their early thirties. His grandmother's story was itself a saga of pain and hardship, but she had always been sketchy about the details, and so Sawyer didn't know exactly how they'd met or decided to marry. Nor did he know much about their years in the house together - just that they'd been deeply, probably dangerously, infatuated with one another. There was something dark and tangled in their past, a presence he'd been vaguely aware of, even as a child, but he didn't know what it was. He supposed it was the kind of thing you only became interested in when it was too late to find out the answers.
His own parents' catastrophic history was, of course, all too familiar to him. Their brief tenancy here had ended in the ultimate tragedy, and it would seem that, with them, the house had had its fill of twisted love stories. Except that obviously wasn't the case, as these last few months with Kate appeared to prove.
Sawyer smiled almost bitterly as he thought of all this. How could one simple, two-story frame house nestled modestly in the sheltering, encompassing Appalachian corridor manage to contain so much human drama? Surely not every dwelling experienced such an ongoing cycle of misery, heartbreak, and passion? What the hell was it about this place? Or maybe it was just that the men in his family were cursed, as well as the women they were inevitably drawn to.
It was enough to make him wonder, not completely without seriousness, if the house itself would retain some impression of what it had witnessed. Would the people who lived here in the future be able to sense something of the lives that had unfolded in these rooms, the fates that had been handed down here? Or would it just be an empty, blank space, echoing with silence, as it now seemed to him as he waited for Kate to come downstairs so that he could tell her that their time here was up? He was possessed with the sudden urge to burn the place down, to get rid of all traces of it, once and for all, so that nobody else would ever be deluded into thinking they could be safe here, that they could have a future here. But there was no time for that.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of her bare feet on the stairs. She stepped lightly off the landing and was on the verge of turning toward the kitchen when she caught a glimpse of him. Halting, she smiled. "I can't find my shoes," she explained. He stared at her, not knowing what to say. Why did she have to be so beautiful?
Coming into the room, she sat on the couch opposite him, tucking her feet up under her. With a towel, she continued to squeeze the ends of her hair, drying it. "Did you get it finished already? I said I would come and help."
"No," he said quietly. "It ain't finished." There was something about the way she was sitting that hooked on his memory, like a jagged edge. He couldn't quite shake it. Then he knew why, in a sudden, poignant flash. This was the exact position she'd been in on her first night here, after she'd climbed through the window and then come back down from her shower. Everything was the same - the way she sat with her feet under her, the way she was drying her hair, even the half-challenging, half-pitying glance she held him with. The only difference was the position of the furniture.
Her drying motions began to slack off as she studied him. A nervous flicker passed over her face, and she slowly lowered the towel to her lap. "What's wrong with you? Did something happen?"
He kept watching her, unable to say anything, although he tried to force himself to speak.
"Sawyer," she prodded, growing more worried.
Taking in a deep, fortifying breath, he let it all out and closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them back up, he met her gaze.
"The FBI was here. They just left, about ten minutes ago."
Her expression didn't change immediately, although a little color drained from her face. Swallowing hard, she looked away, then tried to force a wan smile. "I don't suppose there's any chance that's just a really bad joke, is there?"
He didn't answer her. She already knew the truth. Nodding slightly, she said, "I didn't think so."
They were quiet for a few seconds. He gave her a chance to adjust to the reality of it, the same way he'd had to after the bastards had disappeared down the driveway. She was making an effort to conquer her emotions, the same way he had.
She shrugged slightly, in an unconvincing attempt at detachment. "It's not like it's any big surprise, right? We knew this was bound to happen eventually. I can't believe it didn't happen sooner." She looked back over at him. "Why did they leave?"
"They didn't have a warrant to search the house."
"They'll come back," she said softly, with a frank simplicity that made him feel sick.
"Yeah," he whispered, not seeing any reason to pretend to disagree with her. She knew the drill better than he did.
She sat in thought, looking idly around the room, trying to keep her emotions in check, to rein in the hopelessness she felt. He could see the struggle playing out in her features, and as painful as it was to watch, he couldn't tear his eyes away.
"Kate..." His voice sounded choked.
She glanced at him almost warningly, implicitly telling him to give her space.
But he couldn't do it. Not this time.
Ignoring her look, he stood up, and crossing the few steps to her, lowered himself onto the edge of the coffee table in front of her, pulling her against him in the same motion. She resisted at first, keeping her upper body tense and rigid, but then yielded, leaning into his shoulder. He held her tightly, one hand pressing her head against him, his fingers tangled in her still-damp hair. Burying his head against her neck, he whispered hoarsely, "Baby, I'm so sorry." A slight tremor passed through her, and the tears came, hot against his shoulder. This particular term of endearment, which he'd never used except teasingly, would have been enough to make her lose her composure, even without everything else added in. She allowed herself to give into despair for a few moments, but then took a deep, shaky breath.
"It's not your fault." Raising her head up, she regarded him seriously. "It would have happened no matter what."
"Yeah," he said softly. "But that don't mean I can't still be sorry."
Kate nodded, wiping away another tear that refused to be held back. "So I guess, that's that." She forced the next words out, clearly against her inclinations." You don't have to..." She stopped. "I hope you don't think that you have to..."
"I'm comin' with you," he interrupted her, reading her mind. "And I don't want to hear another word about it."
She gave him a grateful look, and for once, accepted his words without argument. "Okay. But we have to leave now."
"I know," he said softly.
They looked at each other intently for a few seconds, still without moving. Reaching out, he brushed away a strand of hair that was sticking to her tear-soaked cheek. She closed her eyes.
When she opened them, there was a hardened resolve there, a change he could see immediately. She looked away, considering.
"We need luggage," she said in a simple, no-nonsense tone. "Backpacks, duffel bags, suitcases... Whatever you can find. But the lighter, the better, okay? I'll go ahead and start getting things together. We have to move fast." She stood up briskly, and he was amazed at the way she could pull herself together like this, though he knew he shouldn't have been. Before she could move away from him, he grabbed her hand and held it to his lips for a second.
With fresh tears in her eyes, she tried to smile at him. "Start looking," she whispered.
"I'm on it," he said, standing up. She hurried back up the stairs, leaving the towel forgotten on the couch.
In what he knew was an action absurd beyond all measure, Sawyer picked it up to carry it to the pantry.
After locating the bags, he stood in front of his own chest of drawers, helplessly. What the hell was he supposed to pack? How did you plan for something like this? It was like they were being forced to go on a spontaneous, unwanted vacation. He didn't even know whether they were heading north or south. Should he pack for warm weather, or cold?
He decided to see if Kate had any idea, or if she was equally clueless, so he stepped into the hall and crossed to the bathroom.
To his surprise, she was standing stock-still, almost frozen, peering intensely at a small box in her hand.
"Hey, I got a question for you," he started. She slowly turned her head toward him, a funny expression on her face, although she didn't appear to have heard him.
"Where did you get this?" she demanded.
"Get what?" he asked, confused. He looked closer at what she was holding. Squinting, he could make out that it was the pregnancy test. "I got it at a drugstore," he told her, as if this should be obvious.
"What kind of drugstore?" Her voice was still sharp.
"What do you mean, what kind?" he asked, perplexed. "How many kinds you know of? It's the only one in town... same one my mom used to go to. Some old guy owns it."
"An old guy," she repeated, contemptuously. "That figures."
"What the hell are you talkin' about?" he asked, completely bewildered now.
"This is expired." She spoke with emphasis. "It expired almost two years ago. And if I hadn't knocked your razor into the trash just now, I never would have noticed it."
He still couldn't understand what exactly she was getting at. "So? I'm sure it's an aisle he don't bother to go down all that often. What are you, one of those consumer advocate people? What difference does it make?"
She stared at him in shock, as if he couldn't really be this stupid. "They aren't accurate when they're expired, Sawyer. They don't work." She suddenly looked scared instead of pissed.
He tilted his head back slightly, the import of her words sinking in. They continued to stare at each other, not saying anything.
"It probably doesn't matter," Kate finally said, as if she were trying to convince herself, as well as him. "I'm sure it was fine. I mean, they only put those dates on there so that they can sell new ones every year and make more money, right?"
It took him a second to answer. "Yeah," he said, unconvincingly. "Corporate bastards."
Neither of them even remotely believed this, and they couldn't deceive each other. The silence seemed to stretch out, the implications becoming unbearable.
Kate shook her head bitterly. "We don't have time for this right now." She looked around with an air of weariness. "We can deal with it later. Right now we have to concentrate on getting out of here."
She gave him one last intense look, and then brushed past him. He remained standing in the doorway.
"Sawyer," she said firmly.
He forced himself to turn toward her.
"Finish packing."
With an effort, he went back to the bedroom.
Kate made a last trip through the house, checking, with a deep weight of sadness in her heart, for anything they might have missed. In truth, she just wanted to see the rooms one more time. Every one held so many memories, produced and finalized, it was true, in such a short amount of time, but not losing any of their poignancy or meaning because of that fact.
As she quickly glanced through each room, the images floated to the top of her mind, knocking against each other and jostling for space. She saw the two of them hanging wallpaper and trying desperately (and unsuccessfully) to stave off any sexual tension in the room she used to sleep in. The small downstairs bedroom, just past the stairs, brought back to her mind the night she'd first climbed through the window, exhausted and miserable, and the way Sawyer had come through the door, drunk, without a shirt on, carrying a baseball bat. She smiled slightly at the image in her mind.
In the kitchen, despite everything else that had taken place there later, it was their first meal together that she now thought of with the greatest sense of loss... the way she'd practically had to force him to eat, and the way he'd pretended that he could barely stomach it. That meal, as she recalled, had been interrupted by a low-flying helicopter, and this sobering thought brought her back to earth and made her move faster. She checked one last time to make sure that the coffee maker wasn't on, and then grabbed the extra gun from the shelf in the pantry, the two incompatible actions not striking her as strange in the least.
Sawyer was waiting for her in the front hall, standing by the door. He'd already finished unloading the rest of the wood from the truck. There'd be no use for it now.
He watched her as she stooped to secure the gun in the backpack he'd found, fascinated for some reason by her movements. His mind was traveling backwards too, but unlike her memories, he didn't picture the two of them in his. Only her.
He was thinking of the way she looked when she sat on the kitchen counter, her legs dangling over the side, in the dress that he'd seen her surreptitiously pack a few moments ago when she thought he wasn't looking. He recalled the way she jumped into the lake feet-first like a boy, and the habit she had of rolling her eyes when he said something disgusting, and the way she always flushed a deep crimson at the height of passion, just before she cried out and went limp in his arms.
It was still hard for him to wrap his mind around the fact that she was his. He knew it wasn't politically correct, or wise, or even safe to think of her that way, but there was no help for it. No amount of reasoning or soul-searching would have had any effect on its tenacity. For better or worse, it was an idea that had taken root in his heart, a vine struggling up out of what he once would have considered inflexible stone. He would just have to see where it ended up taking him.
"What are you thinking about?" she suddenly asked, glancing up at him.
Taken aback by the question, he told her, "I was just thinkin' it's a good thing we didn't get the damn heater fixed after all. Woulda been a waste of money." She smiled a little and zipped up the bag, not answering. He didn't know whether she believed him or not.
Standing back up, Kate let her eyes wander silently over the stairs and hallway, a familiar grief wrapping itself around her once again. Finally, she brought her eyes back to his. Sounding like a hurt child, she said simply, through tears, "This is really hard."
He put his hands on her shoulders, trying to think of something comforting. "We'll come back," he said softly.
"Promise?"
"Yeah," he said.
They smiled sadly at each other, pretending to believe it. They both knew they would never come back.
He leaned forward to kiss her, lingering, despite their hurry, with a lovingly finicky attention to every detail, gradually increasing pressure on her lips as she tilted her head up toward him, covering her entire mouth again and again until she placed her palms to the sides of his face and pulled herself away. After a second she opened her eyes again.
"You ready?" he whispered.
For a split second, something flitted across her eyes that reminded him, forcibly, of the day they'd sat together in the window seat upstairs, and she'd watched the geese pass by overhead. It was a restless, yearning look, with just a hint of eagerness, or what could even possibly have been termed excitement. It had disturbed him then, and it still saddened him now. But unlike last time, today he felt a touch of it radiating outward from her to him, transmitted somehow, so that it was now something that he could share with her. Kate seemed to sense this too, squeezing his hand with trembling fingers.
She nodded briefly. "Let's go."
Without glancing back again, she hoisted the backpack over her shoulder, opened the door, and stepped out.
After looking around him one last time, Sawyer followed her onto the porch, pulling the door firmly shut behind him.
FINIS
