Vanish: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

woods. “Something just tripped the sensor,” he says. “Could be just an animal. Then again . . .” He lingers at the window for a long time, his hand on his rifle. I remember the two men at the service station watching us drive away. Writing down our license number. By now, they must know who owns the car. They must know where he lives.
    The man crosses to a stack of wood, picks up a fresh log, and drops it onto the fire. Then he settles into a rocking chair and sits looking at us, the rifle on his lap. Flames crackle, and sparks dance in the hearth.
    “My name is Joe,” he says. “Tell me who you are.”
    I look at Olena. Neither one of us says anything. Though this strange man has saved our lives tonight, we are still afraid of him.
    “Look, you made the choice. You climbed in my car.” His chair creaks as it rocks on the wooden floor. “Now it’s too late to be coy, ladies,” he says. “The die has been cast.”
     
    When I awaken, it is still not daylight, but the fire has burned down to mere embers. The last thing I recall, before falling asleep, were the voices of Olena and Joe, talking softly. Now, by the glow from the hearth, I can see Olena sleeping beside me on the braided rug. I am still angry at her, and have not forgiven her for the things she said. A few hours’ sleep has made the inevitable clear to me. We cannot stay together forever.
    The creak of the rocking chair draws my gaze; I see the faint gleam of Joe’s rifle, and feel him watching me. He has probably been watching us sleep for some time.
    “Wake her up,” he says to me. “We need to leave now.”
    “Why?”
    “They’re out there. They’ve been watching the house.”
    “What?” I scramble to my feet, my heart suddenly thudding, and go to the window. All I see outside is the darkness of woods. Then I realize that the stars are fading, that the night will soon lift to gray.
    “I think they’re still parked up the road. They haven’t tripped the next set of motion detectors yet,” he says. “But we need to move now, before it gets light.” He rises, goes to a closet, and takes out a backpack. Whatever the pack contains gives a metallic clank. “Olena,” he says, and nudges her with his boot. She stirs and looks at him. “Time to go,” he says. “If you want to live.”
    He does not take us out the front door. Instead he pulls up floorboards, and the smell of damp earth rises from the shadows below. He backs down the ladder and calls up to us: “Let’s go, ladies.”
    I hand him the Mother’s tote bag, then scramble down after him. He has turned on a flashlight, and in the gloom I catch glimpses of crates stacked up against stone walls.
    “In Vietnam, the villagers had tunnels under their houses, just like this one,” he says as he leads the way down a low passage. “Mostly, it was just to store food. But sometimes, it saved their lives.” He comes to a stop, unlocks a padlock, then turns off his flashlight. He lifts up a wooden hatch above his head.
    We climb out of the tunnel, into dark woods. The trees cloak us as he leads us away from the house. We do not say a word; we don’t dare to. Once again, I am blindly following, always the foot soldier, never the general. But this time I trust the person leading me. Joe walks quietly, moving with the confidence of someone who knows exactly where he’s going. I walk right behind him, and as dawn begins to lighten the sky, I see that he has a limp. He is dragging his left leg a little, and once, when he glances back, I see his grimace of pain. But he pushes on into the gray light of morning.
    Finally, through the trees ahead, I see a tumbledown farm. As we draw closer, I can tell that no one lives here. The windows are broken, and one end of the roof has caved inward. But Joe does not go to the house; he heads instead to the barn, which appears to be at equal risk of collapse. He opens a padlock and slides the barn door open.
    Inside is a car.
    “Always wondered if I’d ever really need it,” he says as he slides into the driver’s seat.
    I climb in back. There is a blanket and pillow on the seat, and at my feet are cans of food. Enough to eat for several days.
    Joe turns the ignition; the engine coughs reluctantly to life. “Hate to leave that place behind,” he says. “But maybe it’s time to go away for a while.”
    “You are doing this for us?” I ask him.
    He glances at me over his shoulder. “I’m doing this to stay out of trouble. You two