“Okay,” Bruce said. “Look in the index, see if you can find the airport.”
Katie thumbed through the book, going to the back pages. “Do you know the name of it?”
“It’s just called Garrett Island Airport,” Bruce said. “I mean, that’s what everyone calls it, although maybe it’s named after someone. I dunno.”
Katie looked down at the index pages. “I don’t see anything under airport. Do you know the road it’s on, like its address?”
Kyle said, “For the love of — isn’t there an overall map of the island on the first page? Just look there. Look for something with lines that look like runways. Have you never looked at a fucking map before?”
Katie glanced over the seat. “Okay, okay, good idea.” She went back to the front of the book. “Um, let’s see... Bruce, is the airport, like, in the middle of the island or the west end or east end?”
“More toward the middle,” he said, eyes forward.
Getting ready.
Katie continued to leaf through the pages. “You’d think there’d be an overall map, but I’m not finding one right.... Oh, here’s — no, that’s Nantucket. So this map has other islands in it?”
Bruce nodded. “Yeah, plus the Cape. But it doesn’t do the rest of Massachusetts. Just those parts.”
“That’s kind of confusing,” Katie said. “Doesn’t anybody just make a map of the island all by itself?”
“Yeah, sure. The tourism board does them, little fold-up ones you can tuck in your back pocket. But that book, it’s a much more thorough—”
“For fuck’s sake,” Kyle said, leaning forward. “Give me the goddamn book. I’ll find it.”
Katie turned sideways on the front seat, closed the book, then handed it back to Kyle. He snatched it from her, sat back, then opened the book, thumbing through it. Without looking up, he said, “Do they not teach you in school how to read a fucking map anymore?”
“I would have found it eventually,” Katie said, grasping the can of window cleaner.
Kyle had gone to the index. “It’s right here! Garrett Island International Airport.” He laughed. “International? Seriously? What a joke. Okay, hang on. Page... forty-one.”
Katie got her finger on the top of the spray nozzle. Slowly, holding the can against her seatback, she began to slide it upward.
“So, here we go,” Kyle said. “The airport’s on Wampa-something Drive.”
“Wampanoags,” Bruce said.
“What?”
“Wampanoags.”
“What the fuck kind of name is that?” Kyle said, still hunting for the right page.
“Native American,” Bruce said. “They were here before anyone else.”
“Yeah, well, whoop-de-doo.”
Bruce kept his head forward, but out of the corner of his eye he saw that Katie was ready. She had the top of the can just below the seat’s edge.
Katie said, “Mr. Whoever-You-Are, I’ve got a question.”
“Hmm?” he said, eyes aimed down into the map book.
“Look at me,” Katie said.
Kyle’s head snapped up quickly, looking annoyed. Katie swiftly brought up the can, extended her arm to within six inches of the man’s face, depressed the nozzle with her index finger, and held it there. A lemony-scented mist of window cleaner burst forth and engulfed Kyle’s head.
He closed his eyes within a fraction of a second of the spray’s release, but not fast enough to keep it out of his eyes. Nor did he act with enough speed to keep it out of his mouth and nose.
His hands went immediately to his eyes, covering them, and he attempted to scream, “Fuck!” but all that came out was the sound of the first letter, then coughing. He collapsed against his seat back, eyes covered, gasping for breath.
Bruce hit the brakes. Katie was ready, throwing up a steadying hand to the dashboard. But Kyle, blinded, was unable to anticipate the move, and was suddenly pitched forward, falling into the space behind the front seats.
Bruce knew they didn’t have much time. They had to get Kyle’s gun before he regained his sight — assuming the chemicals in the window cleaner had not blinded him for life. The second Bruce had the car stopped and in park, he threw open his door, folded the front seat forward, and went to grab the man.
Kyle had taken his hands from his eyes — he needed his hands to support himself on the floor as he struggled to get back onto the seat. He sensed Bruce was coming for him, and was now reaching into his jacket with his right hand.
That was when Katie, hanging over the front seat, her legs dangling up by the dash, drove a fist into the side of Kyle’s head, the punch hard enough that they both cried out in pain.
As Kyle keeled over, Bruce grabbed him by the lapels and dragged him from the Cadillac. Katie could see, by the look on his face, the effort it took. Bruce, retired English teacher, now in his seventies, was unaccustomed to roughing people up like a pumped-up twenty-something bouncer.
Bruce threw Kyle onto the road, across the center line, and then hauled back and kicked him solidly in the stomach. Kyle screamed in pain. He managed to get enough wind back to shout, “Fuck you! Fuck you!”
Katie, now out of the Caddy, stood defiantly over the man, fists on hips, arms spread out like wings, and yelled back, “Yeah, well, fuck you, too, asshole!”
Bruce dropped to his knees, sticking a hand into Kyle’s jacket, hunting for the gun. Once he had it, he fell back and away from Kyle, pushing himself along the pavement on his butt, putting distance between them. He put the gun gently on the pavement while he caught his breath.
“You okay?” Katie asked him.
He nodded several times, too winded for a verbal reply.
Kyle curled up on his side in a fetal position, moaning softly. His eyelids fluttered as he tried to clear his vision. He managed to focus on Katie as she looked down on him.
“Bitch,” he said.
She rolled her eyes. “Whoa, burn.”
Bruce picked up the gun as he got back onto two feet, took a couple of steps closer to the shoulder of the road, then threw it overhand deep into the woods. He went back to Kyle, stood over him, and said, “Your wallet.”
“What?” Kyle said.
“I want to see some ID. I want to know who you really are.”
Kyle waited a beat, realized it was pointless to refuse, and reached around to take his wallet from the back pocket of his slacks. He tossed it toward Bruce, making the older man bend over to scoop it off the pavement. He dug out a driver’s license that carried an unflattering photo.
“Brandon Kyle,” Bruce said.
Kyle said nothing.
“Why does that ring a bell?”
Kyle remained speechless.
“Oh well,” Bruce said, pocketing the license and tossing the wallet back to Kyle. As it hit the pavement, several credit cards spilled out. Kyle collected them, returned them to the wallet sleeves, and slipped it back into his pocket.
“Let’s go find your brother,” Bruce said to Katie.
“Wait, what?” said Kyle. “You’re not going to just leave me here.”
“Yeah, that’s exactly what I’m gonna do,” Bruce said. “Let me give you a word of advice. Stay off the road.”
Kyle, still sitting on the pavement, watched as Bruce got behind the wheel of the Caddy and Katie jumped in beside him.
Katie said, “Shouldn’t we call the police about him or something?”
Bruce shrugged. “We’ll report him. Got his license. When all this blows over, we’ll tell the cops about him.”
Bruce glanced in the rearview mirror and saw Kyle slowly get to his feet as they drove off. The engine roared as the car accelerated. Katie put a hand to her chest and let out a long breath.
“Wow,” she said. “I’m just starting to come down from all that.”