Aric Davis - The Fort

“I think we’re almost there,” said Stan, who was using the side of a level to measure the distance between the top of the gravel and the edge of the hole. “We want to leave about an inch gap, then we compress that down to two and a quarter inches and start putting in pavers. When you come back around, grab the tamper, would you?”

“What’s a tamper?”

“It’s the metal square with a handle sticking up from it. You’ll know it when you see it. Bring it on back so we can start packing this gravel. At this rate I’ll be calling to get some pavers delivered this afternoon.”

Tim grabbed the now-empty wheelbarrow and brought it back around to the front of the house. He hadn’t really noticed before, but he’d made a massive dent in the gravel this morning. The pile had at most three or four more loads to go. He set the wheelbarrow down, went into the garage, then walked around to the backyard with what he thought was the tamper.

“Is this it?” he asked, holding the tamper up. It weighed about twenty pounds or so, and Tim felt sure that some new and horrible labor was to be done with it.

“That would be the one. Go ahead and bring it on over. We can learn how not to screw this up together.” Tim crossed the sea of loose gravel and handed the thing to his dad. It felt more like a crude club than something from the hardware store, like a modern-day mace or war hammer.

“Now, I think the basic gist of it,” Stan said, “is that we use the flat end to compress the gravel.”

Tim rolled his eyes. “I kind of figured that much, Dad.”

Stan walked to the southernmost corner of the hole, close to the hose, and drove the tamper into the gravel five or six times, all in the same general area. “Grab that level, Tim,” he said as he pushed his glasses up on his nose. Tim did, then handed it to his dad, who stuck it in the gravel and against the edge of the hole. “That just dropped it three-quarters of an inch. That’s pretty crazy.”

“We have to do that to all of it?” Tim asked, incredulous. Every step of building a patio seemed to be worse than the one before. As angry as he was with his dad, he couldn’t help but feel bad for the guy, as well as for himself.

“Yep, that’s what we have to do. Even worse, it all has to be level when we’re done. You want to give it a try?”

Tim took the tamper from his dad, gave himself some space, and started pounding the pea gravel into submission.

Stan measured when Tim was done. “Not bad, another quarter inch and we’re there.”

“Yeah, for this spot,” said Tim. “There’s going to be a whole lot of ‘we’re theres’ before we’re finished.”

Stan’s grin at this rolled into a frown. “Tim, I was thinking about something you said in front of the house earlier. I’m not sure it’s going to make a bit of difference, but I was curious. You said you were sorry for leaving the rake out back. It’s a good thing about you. You always say sorry about stuff like that. In fact, I can’t remember you ever not saying sorry after doing something wrong, or forgetting something, ever since you first learned your manners. You want to know what’s weird about that?”

“Sure, what?” Tim said, before pounding the tamper into the gravel, imagining he had a jackhammer or some other piece of heavy machinery, instead of some modern version of what was almost undoubtedly a centuries-old tool.

“You never said sorry for lying at the police station. It never occurred to me until right now.”

“I know I didn’t,” said Tim, speaking in between blasts of tamping the gravel down. “And I’m not going to. You and Mom can punish me as much as you want, but I’m not going to apologize for trying to help a kidnapped girl.” Tim kept working, letting his anger power him and turn his upper body into a piston.

Tim didn’t know it, but his dad was staring at him, looking as though he had just realized he might have made a horrible mistake.

39

Hooper lay on his stomach. Sweat was pouring off of his face and pooling on the cold concrete, and the revolver was in his hand. She had the forceps in his leg again, and in a reversal of how things had been, the ball gag was in his mouth now, though it remained unfastened. He grunted against the ball, the sounds coming from him foreign-sounding even to Hooper’s own ears.

He checked the clock. They’d been at it for only five minutes.

After Hooper had brought her the water, Amy had sipped it slowly. At first he’d been frustrated—he really wanted to get this over with—but then he understood. She’d been dehydrated, perhaps even dangerously so, and she was likely scared of getting sick by drinking it too fast.

She set the glass down before it was empty and said, “So how do I do this?”

“Well, first off, I’m going to have a couple swallows from that bottle of high-test that I brought down,” said Hooper. “Then you’re going to pour some of it on my leg, and after the pain fades, you’re going to use the knife and those fly-tying forceps to try and get that bullet out of my leg.” He watched her stare at the tools on the plate for a minute and then continued. “I know what you’re thinking, and don’t for a minute believe I haven’t considered you might try something. That’s why I brought this heater down with me. You start fucking around or thinking this is a chance to escape, I will not hesitate to put a hundred-fifty-grain hollow point into your skull. Get it?”

She nodded, and he took some clean towels from atop the dryer. He set the towels on the floor next to her and then sat heavily. “Look, I know you’re mad as hell and you don’t want to help me. But as much as I don’t want you to be the one to pull that bullet out of me, you’re the only person who can. Hell, it’d be one thing if I could reach it properly, but there’s no way I can do some garage surgery on myself when I can’t even see what I need to be digging around in. So you got to be the one to do it, and I got to let you.

“I figure if you do a good enough job we’ll both be fine, and if not, you get one in your dome and I wind up figuring out some story to tell while I’m waiting on an ambulance. I don’t know if I’m a good enough liar to pull that off, but I sure as shit know you’re not good enough with that little blade to stop me from shooting you if I get to thinking I need to.”

Amy nodded at him. She looked onboard, as though she respected the situation and knew that doing a good job would benefit her just as much as it would him. It was sort of like dangling a carrot in front of a mule, Hooper thought. It was a good trick, but not a fair one. The only thing that was going to be happening for little old Amy once he got put back together was a whole lot of fucking. Maybe she’d come to see that was what would keep her alive, and maybe she wouldn’t, but just like with extracting the bullet, it was going to happen.

He drank two quick swallows of the grain alcohol, shivering both times as the shitty-tasting liquid scorched his palate. Hooper didn’t care for strong drink. Life could be difficult enough without going around cutting your wits in half with booze, and it had been years since he’d had so much as a beer. Still, it seemed to be a necessary evil to dull if not completely shut off his senses.

He handed Amy the bottle and said, “Pour some on the wound, then dry it with one of those towels.” She took the bottle, Hooper took a deep breath, and then fire was racing up his leg all over again.

“It’s really swollen,” said Amy. “Are you sure you want to do this? I don’t want you to shoot me just because it hurts.”

She was gingerly wiping off his leg while she spoke, and when she was done, Hooper emptied his lungs and said, “You’ll be fine, girl. Just don’t go getting cute. I figure what you ought to do is open that hole back up with the knife and then go digging for the bullet with those forceps. If you stick to that plan, we’ll be doing just fine.”