Catherine Steadman - Something in the Water - A Novel

“The crash coordinates,” the older man replies. He watches Mark expectantly.

Mark doesn’t know the coordinates. He wrote them down originally, but I was the one who memorized them, in case we ever needed to go back. It had seemed important at the time, in case someone cared for those people. I burned that information the day I burned everything in connection with the Swiss account in our fire pit. I am the only person in the world who knows where that plane is, where those dead passengers lie.

Mark’s made a mistake. He doesn’t know what to say now, so he’ll fake it, he’ll bluff, I know it. I know him.

The silence lengthens. The tall man is beginning to realize something is not quite right. Mark has created a problem.

I hold my breath. Even now, after everything, my heart wants me to shout out and help, but my head screams, Shut the fuck up .

“The plane coordinates. I asked you for the coordinates of the plane. Where did you find this drive? Where is the plane fuselage? We want the location, you understand?”

The situation has shifted up a gear. There’s a sense in the air that things are about to go bad. Very bad.

Mark has no other hand to play. He doesn’t know where the plane is. He must bluff or fold.

He tries doing both.

“I don’t have the coordinates. I don’t have them anymore. But I can give you a rough idea of the—”

“Stop,” the man barks. “Stop talking.”

Mark obeys.

“In your message you said you had the coordinates, and now you don’t. Please explain to me why? Unless you plan to sell the coordinates elsewhere? I hope you understand that this money is for the flash drive and the plane location. You don’t get to pick and choose, I’m afraid. You give me the location or we are going to have a very serious problem.” He holds Mark’s gaze. He’s called his bluff.

They stand in silence, the tension building toward something inevitable.

In the blink of an eye the older man’s hand dips into his pocket and pulls out a gun. That’s not a surprise; I think we all knew it was there. The surprise is how swiftly things have escalated. He levels it squarely at Mark. Mark stands frozen, bewildered by this ugly turn of events.

With all my heart, I wish for my gun. But I have no gun. Patrick has it. Wherever Patrick is.

Instinctively I glance behind me but there’s no one there. When I look back at the scene, Mark has moved. His body has turned sideways, and in his hand now is a gun. My gun. I see the silver duct tape. Somehow, he’s got my Glock from Patrick. Oh my God. Mark sent Patrick. That’s how Mark took care of me. That’s why I wouldn’t be a problem: he sent Patrick to take care of me. A small wood pigeon suddenly bursts up into the air behind them. And then a lot of things happen all at once.

Mark jolts at the unexpected movement. He must have slid his finger into the trigger bed of the gun, because as he jerks in surprise it discharges, sending a thunderous crack of recoil echoing through the woods. I told you: Glocks don’t have safeties.

The tall man fires almost instantaneously. What he will no doubt later regard as self-defense. As far as he is concerned, Mark’s bullet barely missed him and he fired to protect himself.

A red bloom opens in Mark’s chest. It happens so fast and I try to tell myself I didn’t see it. Mark stumbles, one arm flailing out, grasping at a tree. He leans his whole weight into it but his knees buckle. In a heartbeat Mark is on the ground. The two gunshots still echoing in my ears.

The tall man scans the trees around the clearing before approaching Mark’s hand, which now lies outstretched on the mud of the clearing floor. The man bends. Mark is groaning, his breath rasping in and out, frosting in the cold air.

The man pockets the Glock. My Glock. I have to clench every muscle in my body as hard as I can to stop myself from screaming.

He takes a moment to stare down at Mark. He fires one more time, down into Mark’s body. It jerks awkwardly against the leaves.

I have stopped breathing. I can’t remember when I stopped breathing. Next to me a dribble of fresh blood trails down my wrist from my balled-up fist. My nails have dug in so hard they’ve broken my skin. I stay as still as I can. I will not cry. I will not call out. I will not die for Mark.

He wouldn’t have died for me.

I let myself sink down farther into the leaves, squeeze my eyes shut and pray for this to be over.

I hear rustling in the clearing as the man wanders about collecting his things. I press my cheek into the musky earth. And then I hear the slow recession of his footsteps, away through the woods, over dead leaves and broken twigs. And then silence.

I lie there unmoving for minutes that stretch like decades, but no one comes. After a time I raise myself slowly. There he lies, in the mud and crumpled leaves, in his best suit and coat. My Mark. Near his motionless body is my rucksack. The rucksack Patrick took. I hadn’t noticed it till now. I guess Mark had it all along. I stumble toward him.

It’s a strange feeling. I’m not sure I can describe it. The love I feel for him is still there. I would do anything to go back in time, but we can’t. I approach warily, timidly. If he’s still alive he may try to kill me. Finish what he started. But as I near him, he doesn’t stir. And somehow that’s worse.

I crouch beside him, and look at him. The same handsome face, the same hair, lips, eyes. The same warm skin.

I gently touch his arm. He doesn’t respond. I become braver, lowering my head toward his. My cheek toward his mouth, the reversal of a gesture we’ve made a thousand times. But instead of being kissed by him now, I try to feel his warm breath on my cheek; I try to hear it. I bend my head to his chest, careful to avoid the hot pooling puddle of blood. I hear a gently muffled beat. He’s still here. He’s still alive.

I push his hair tenderly back, away from his forehead.

“Mark? Mark, can you hear me?” I whisper. Nothing.

I lean closer.

“Mark. Mark? It’s Erin. Can you—” and then his eyes flutter open. He gazes up at me, slow and dazed. He coughs hard and winces deeply at the pain. He’s going to die. We only have a moment.

His eyes meet mine and for an instant, like the flashing recognition of an Alzheimer’s patient, there’s my Mark. And then it fades. Another look passes like a cloud across his eyes. He looks at me in a way I’ll never forget. I see it now. How he really feels about me. It’s fleeting but irrefutable. And then he is gone.

A bird screeches deep in the forest and I flinch. I scan the trees again; there’s no one there. I stumble to my feet and stand there. Lost, broken, unmoving.

And then I grab my rucksack and I run.

At first I don’t know where I’m running to, but as I move, the plan forms. Self-preservation kicks in. I need to find a pay phone. A phone that can’t be traced. Halfway back to the road, I nearly stumble over Patrick’s body. He’s crumpled to the ground, arms outflung. His throat cut. I run on.

Eventually I reach the road, exhausted, trembling. I tidy myself up. Pull my wool hat down low over my injured forehead. Wipe Mark’s blood from my cheek and head toward the little village pay phone.

The time is 6:53. He picks up after eight rings.

“Eddie? It’s Erin. I’m on a pay phone. Er, it went wrong. Um, the, um, it went wrong.” The wobble in my voice makes my eyes fill with tears. I sound like someone on the news, like a refugee, like a bombing victim. I’m in shock, I guess. Shaky, reedy, breathless. Trying desperately to cling to some semblance of normality even after my entire life has been torn apart. I notice my hand vibrating, poised over the slot, clenching the next coin and Eddie’s crumpled phone number between trembling fingers. What the fuck just happened?