Since Hurley seems to have a handle on the cooking duties, I lean against the counter and watch him for a few minutes. The sight of him being so domestic triggers an emotional response in me, followed by sadness and a sense of loss when I recall our discussion from the night before.
“So I’ve been thinking about your situation,” I say, hoping to redirect my thoughts. “And I keep coming back to Mike Ackerman. I think it would be worthwhile for me to meet and speak with his wife.”
“To what end?” Hurley asks, turning the bacon.
“To get a better feel for what she knows. If Ackerman was having an affair with Callie, she might know about it. Even if she doesn’t, if we can put a seed of doubt in her mind and make her look at her husband a little more closely, it might put more pressure on him and make him do something desperate. Hell hath no fury and all that.”
“Maybe,” Hurley says, sounding unconvinced. “But it could be dangerous. I don’t want to involve you any more than I already have. If we do it, I should be the one to talk to her.”
I shake my head. “You need to lay low. There are too many people looking for you. Besides, I think Ackerman’s wife will be more likely to open up to another woman.”
“Let me think about it,” he says.
Half an hour later we are seated at the small folding table finishing up a hearty breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, coffee, and toast that Hurley made by placing slices of bread inside a foldable grill with a long handle on it and holding the whole thing over the fire. The toast is unevenly browned and still soft in spots, but a little strawberry jam covers it up nicely. I discover I’m ravenously hungry and make quick work of the food, which tastes surprisingly good.
Feeling sated and full, I lean back in my chair and sip my coffee.
“How does a person shower around here?” I ask, worried I might be getting a bit ripe.
“There’s soap, washcloths, and towels in the cabinet over there,” Hurley says, gesturing over his shoulder. “Heat up some water on the stove and then do the best you can. You’re a nurse, so I’m sure you know how to do a sponge bath. I’ve got some spare clothes in my bag you can wear if you want.”
I look around the cabin with a skeptical eye. “And where, exactly, am I supposed to give myself this bath? The outhouse?”
“I’ll go outside for a bit and you can have the cabin to yourself.”
“You won’t peek in the windows?”
“Tempting,” Hurley says with a wink. “But I promise to be a good boy. I’ll knock before I come back in.”
“What are you going to do in the meantime?”
“I’m going to go outside and get ready for our hunting expedition.”
“Hunting expedition?”
“Yep, since tomorrow is Thanksgiving, you and I are going to shoot us a turkey.”
An hour later I am as clean as I’m going to get. I’ve used soap and water to wash out my undies, which are hanging from the mantel to dry, and I’m wearing a long-sleeved pullover shirt with a mock turtleneck and a pair of sweatpants from Hurley’s bag. The shirt collar covers the Taser mark on my neck and the ribbing in it rubs against the spot, making it sting. But it’s the only shirt Hurley had in his bag so it will have to do. After debating on how to brush my teeth, I borrow some of Hurley’s toothpaste and scrub them with a washcloth, following it up with a mouthwash gargle.
I’d like to wash my hair, too, but I decide I can let it slide for another day. I’m curious about what Hurley’s up to since he headed outside with a hammer, a couple of nails, some paper, and a Magic Marker. I’m not a hunter and have no desire to become one, but I know enough about it to know that the supplies Hurley took aren’t the usual tools of the trade.
I put on my jacket and my Frankenstein shoe and hobble outside. The day has dawned cool but sunny and I take a moment to close my eyes and tip my face toward the sky. I can hear the sounds of the woods around me: tree limbs knocking together in the breeze, birds chirping, the occasional rustle of ground leaves . . . and hammering.
This last sound makes me look around in confusion. I follow it toward the back of the house until I see the source of the noise. There is a small clearing behind the house and along the edge of the woods on the other side of it, about fifteen feet from the house, I see Hurley hammering something onto a tree. When he steps away I see that it’s the piece of paper he took from the cabin and he’s drawn a turkey in the center of it.
He comes back to me and says, “Ever shoot a gun?”
“Nope, never. I don’t much like guns. As a nurse I’ve seen what they do to people.”
“Well, you’re going to learn how to shoot one today.”
I shake my head and back away from him. “I don’t think so.”
“You dislike guns because you don’t understand them. I’m going to teach you what you need to know to handle them safely.”
“Why?”
“Because you may need to know it someday,” he says, handing me a gun. “And because I may need you to know it someday.”
“I don’t know, Hurley,” I say, looking at the gun he’s offering. I realize it’s a second one because he’s wearing his usual gun in his shoulder holster. “I think I’d rather just leave the gun stuff up to you.”
“Trust me on this, Mattie, would you? Please?”
Damn it. The man sure knows how to get past my best defenses: those big blue eyes, that sexy, pleading voice, and as a final touch, a hand set gently on my shoulder. “Fine,” I say in a way that lets him know how annoyed I am. “But don’t expect me to shoot at anything other than that tree.”
“Hopefully you’ll never have to.”
For the next half hour, Hurley goes over the basics of the handgun, which I learn is a Glock 9mm. First he tells me that every gun is assumed to be loaded until proven otherwise and should be handled based on that assumption.
“Never, ever point a gun at anyone unless you want to shoot them,” he says. “And for heaven’s sake, ignore all that crap you see on TV when it comes to holding a gun. You hold it in front of you with the barrel pointed down to the ground or straight ahead if there’s nothing there. Never hold it with the barrel pointed up.” He holds it in both hands under his chin, fairly close to his chest with the barrel pointed toward the sky. “Hold it like this and you run the risk of turning yourself into a jack-o’-lantern.”
Having seen someone who did just that, I shudder and freeze the image in my mind to remind me.
Next he points out the various parts of the gun and tells me what they’re called: the sights, the barrel, the slide, the hammer, the tang, the magazine release button, the slide stop, the trigger and trigger guard, and the disassembly latch. As he does this, he shows me how to remove the ammo clip, how to open the slide, and how to check to see if there is a bullet in the chamber.
Then he takes the gun apart, removing the slide, the recoil spring, and the barrel. Once he has it all put back together with the exception of the clip, he hands it to me with the slide open and helps me position my hand properly, with my palm on the grip and my index finger down the side of the barrel, taking care not to touch the trigger. Though I’m reluctant to take ahold of the gun, once I have it in hand it feels heavier than I thought it would, but also strangely reassuring.
Or maybe it’s Hurley’s hand touching mine that I find reassuring.
He lectures me on barrel and bullet sizes and the importance of using the right size bullet for any gun. “This number here,” he says, pointing to the side of the barrel, “tells you the size of the gun. And bullets all have their size stamped on the rim around the primer here.” He pops a bullet out of the clip and shows me the stamped number on the rim surrounding the primer. Then he proceeds to remove all the other bullets.