A day went by. Harry avoided speaking with his wife, finding excuses to be away from her. That was not how their marriage had survived for so long. True, Harry might sometimes be a reluctant participant in conversations about feelings, hurt or otherwise, but he had come to accept their value. While Erin could not know the direction of his thoughts, she understood him well enough to guess them.
Father, if thou be willing, remove this cup from me …
He sometimes quoted that particular piece of scripture – Luke 22:42, if she remembered correctly – in times of mild difficulty, like when she asked him to take out the trash if it was raining or, occasionally – and annoyingly – when they were about to make love. Her husband had his weaknesses. She had no illusions about them, just as, she assumed, he was aware of her own in turn, although she liked to think that hers were venal, and of less consequence. Harry disliked confrontation, and was poor at making serious decisions. He preferred to have the responsibility for the latter taken from him by circumstance, for then he would not be to blame if the consequences were negative. Erin had never said it aloud, but some of their financial problems might have been avoided had her husband demonstrated a little more backbone, a pinch more ruthlessness.
But would she have loved him as much if he had? Ah, there was the rub.
Like her husband, she attended church every Sunday. Most of the people of Prosperous did. They were Baptists and Methodists and Catholics. Some had even embraced roadside churches whose denominations were unclear even to their adherents. They believed, and yet did not believe. They understood the difference between the distant and the immanent, between the creator and what was created. But Erin derived more consolation from the rituals than her husband. She could feel him zoning out during services, for he had little or no interest in organized religion. Sunday worship was a form of escape for him, but only in the sense that it gave him some peace and quiet in which to think, daydream or, occasionally, nap. But Erin listened. She didn’t agree with all that she heard, but so much of it was unarguable. Live decently, or else what was the point in living at all?
And the people of Prosperous did live decently, and in most matters they behaved well. They gave to charity. They cherished the environment. They tolerated – no, embraced – gays and lesbians. Entrenched conservatives and radical liberals all found their place in Prosperous. In return, the town was blessed with good fortune.
It was just that, sometimes, the town needed to give fortune a push.
But had her husband listened a little more attentively to what was being said at services, and perhaps read the Bible instead of just picking up random quotations from it, he might have recalled the second part of that verse he so loved to throw her way as she began to nuzzle his neck late at night.
nevertheless not my will, but thine, be done.
It was the town’s will that had to be done.
‘We need to talk about it,’ said Erin as they sat at the table to eat an early dinner. She had made a pot roast, but so far neither of them had done more than pick at it.
‘There’s nothing to talk about,’ said Harry.
‘What?’ She stared at her husband with absolute incredulity. ‘Are you out of your mind? They want us to abduct a girl. If we don’t, they’ll kill us.’
‘Something will turn up,’ said Harry. He forced himself to eat some of the pot roast. It was strange – or maybe it wasn’t strange at all – but ever since he and Chief Morland had buried the girl, Harry had experienced something of a turn against meat. He was consuming a lot of cheese, and bread smeared with peanut butter. The pot roast tasted so strong that he had to force himself not to spit it back on the plate. Somehow he managed to chew it for long enough to enable him to swallow. He separated the meat from the vegetables and potatoes, and proceeded to eat them instead.
‘They won’t kill us,’ he said. ‘They can’t. The town has survived by not hurting its own. The board knows that. If they kill us, then others will start to fear that it might be their turn next. The board will lose control.’
Or they’ll tighten it, thought Erin. Sometimes it was necessary to make an example, just to keep the rest in line, and most of those in town – the ones who knew, the ones who participated – would have little time for anyone who put the present and future of Prosperous at risk. Any townsfolk who might have some sympathy for the Dixons’ predicament were those most like themselves, the ones who were secretly struggling. But there was no chance of them turning against Prosperous once the Dixons were gone, not as long as Chief Morland and Hayley Conyer didn’t show up at their door and demand that they go hunting for a young woman. Young men didn’t work as well. Prosperous had learned that a long time ago.
‘You’re wrong,’ said Erin. ‘You know you are.’
He wouldn’t look up at her. He speared half a potato with his fork and stuffed it into his mouth.
‘What would you have me do?’ he asked.
‘We have to tell someone.’
‘No.’
‘Listen to—’
‘No!’
She shrank back from him. Harry rarely ever raised his voice – not in joy, and certainly not in anger. That was one of the reasons she had been so attracted to him. Harry was like a strong tree: he could be buffeted by storms, but he always remained rooted. The downside of his disposition was that tendency not to act but to react, and then only when no other option presented itself. Now he found himself in a situation that he had always hoped to avoid, and since he did not know how to extricate himself from it he had responded with inertia, combined with a peculiar misplaced faith in a combination of good luck and the possibility of a change of mind on the part of the board.
‘I’m dealing with it,’ said Harry.
His voice had returned to its usual volume. That brief flash of anger, of energy, was gone, and Erin regretted its passing. Anything was better than this lassitude.
Before she could continue, there was a knock on their door. They had heard no car approaching, and had seen no lights.
Harry got up. He tried not to think of who might be out there: Morland, asking to look at their basement again, querying further the manner of the girl’s escape; or Hayley Conyer, come to check on their progress, to see if they’d started trawling the streets yet.
But it was neither of them. On the doorstep stood Luke Joblin’s son, Bryan. He had a bag at his feet. Bryan was twenty-six or twenty-seven, if Harry remembered correctly. He did some lifting work for his father, and was good with his hands. Harry had seen some furniture that Bryan had made, and was impressed by it. The boy had no real discipline, though. He didn’t work at developing his gifts. He didn’t want to be a joiner, or a carpenter or a furniture maker. Mostly he just liked hunting, in season and out: anything from a crow to a moose, Bryan Joblin was happy to try and kill it.
‘Bryan?’ said Harry. ‘What are you doing out here?’
‘My dad heard that you might need some help,’ said Bryan, and Harry didn’t like the gleam in his eye. He didn’t like it one little bit. ‘He suggested I ought to stay with you for a week or two. You know, just until you get back on top of things again.’
It was only then that Harry saw the rife case. A Remington 700 in .30–06. He’d seen Bryan with it often enough.