Page 40 of So Far Gone

But her dad’s apology had caught her off guard, and she’d allowed herself to go deeper, into the past, melting into his arms

the way she did when she was nine or ten, even as she’d puzzled over his last question: Why had she sent the kids to be with him?

He’d shown almost no interest in them, or her, for so much of her life.

Was she sending him a message? Or was she just so desperate for help that she’d had nowhere else to turn? She wished again she

hadn’t lost her health insurance, so that she could see her therapist, Peggy, and ask those questions (and have Peggy repeat

them back to her). But then, immediately after crying in Rhys’s arms, predictably, Bethany had thought of a hundred things

her father’s apology had not covered, a thousand things to still be angry at him about, a million things he’d missed over the last seven years, over the

last eighteen years. But something he’d said— I’d like to start now— had given her pause. When she thought about all that her father had missed in the last seven years, since his retreat to the

woods, she reflected on how hard those years had been—losing her job, losing her mother, the pandemic, the kids having to

leave their school, and, in the center of it all, like a tornado, Shane’s deepening drift into this end-times theology. My

God, she was tired. She had needed...something... and it clearly wasn’t running off to a music festival in Canada.

So, maybe it was letting her dad “start”? And her, too, maybe she could allow herself to begin forgiving Rhys, allow him to

try to help—without entirely relying on him, of course, after all, he’d only had one job: watch her kids for a few days, while

she went to see Doug’s band play. And look how that had turned out.

She glanced over at her father now, in the driver’s seat of his friend’s Subaru.

What exactly did she expect he could do?

The man didn’t even have a running car. As a kid, she’d always seen him as so reliable and knowledgeable, a series of squares: square jawline, square shoulders, square hair, a man of perfect right angles, a paragon of rational thought, like he was a book himself—but the edges had long ago worn off.

She used to dread his harsh judgments, the way his lips would set, and his eyes would narrow, the way he’d say, “You did what , now?” But here was a softer, more introspective old man, seemingly humbled by life. An old, battered book, its pages faint

and yellowed.

“Anything?” He looked over at her.

Right. Her phone. Bethany looked down at the screen (as if she wouldn’t have felt the vibration or heard the ringtone). “Nothing.”

She had tried calling Shane again before they left the apartment, but it had gone directly to voicemail. And Pastor Gallen

hadn’t answered his phone, either.

And so, she and Rhys and the freshly showered Asher had piled in Brian and Joanie’s Subaru and started back through the streets

of Spokane, headed east, toward Idaho, and eventually, to the Rampart. To Shane. To the end of days. Or maybe the end of her

marriage. So many borders they’d end up crossing this week.

“I’m not exactly excited to go back to that place,” her father said.

“Yeah. Me neither.” Best case: Cross looks from Shane and Pastor Gallen. A stern lecture that she submit to her man. Daughter

married at sixteen. Worst case: the Blessed Fire congregation stoning Shane’s wayward wife to death.

Kinnick asked if they could make a quick stop. “I need to check on a friend. It will only take a minute. And it’s on the way.”

He parked in front of a blue duplex and ran up to the unit on the right.

Bethany watched him ring the doorbell and bounce nervously on the balls of his feet.

He looked back once and held up a finger: just a minute.

Finally, a short, pretty Asian American woman came out onto the porch in a robe, a cup of coffee in her hand.

She came all the way outside, easing the front door closed behind her.

She and Rhys launched into what looked like a spirited discussion, Bethany wondering if this was the same woman she’d seen on her parents’ porch when she was fifteen.

So long ago—it was impossible to tell. Maybe her dad had a type.

She opened her car door slightly and caught her father midsentence: “—can’t believe he’s here. ”

“Oh, he’s here,” the woman answered. “The doctors said he could go home anytime—if he had someone to look after him. He practically

sprinted out of that hospital and into my fucking car.”

“Oh, Lucy,” her dad said, “I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry? Right. And I’m a fucking nursemaid thanks to you—”

“I’ll come back and help,” he said, “I promise.”

“Whose house is this?” asked Asher from the backseat.

Bethany eased her door closed. “Grandpa’s shack-job,” she muttered.

“What?”

“Grandpa’s friend.”

“Oh.”

The woman went back inside and Kinnick walked back to the car, head down, looking chastened. He climbed into the driver’s

seat and blew out air, like a tire going flat. “Sorry about that.” He had just reached down to start the car when the door

to the blue duplex opened again.

Out onto the porch stepped a well-built middle-aged man, a few years younger than her father, with lightly graying hair and

a well-trimmed beard. He was wearing a sweatshirt, baggy basketball shorts, and what looked like hospital slippers.

But it was what he carried in his left hand that caught Bethany’s eye: a half-gallon catheter bag—like the one she recalled

Cortland having to use after his prostate surgery. A tube ran from the bag into his shorts and up his leg. A small amount

of bloody urine sloshed in the bag as he shuffled quickly down the sidewalk in his hospital slippers toward them. “Kinnick!”

the man yelled. “Wait!”

The woman came back out onto the porch to watch, followed by a skinny young man with tattooed arms, who stood behind her, both of them wearing half-smiles on their bemused faces as they watched the catheterized man hobble down the sidewalk.

“Oh, Jesus,” her dad said.

“It’s the man from the Rampart,” Asher said from the backseat.

Rhys lowered his window. “Hey, Chuck. How are you feeling?”

He arrived at Kinnick’s window, smiling. “Great! Much better! Hey, Lucy says your granddaughter has gone missing now?”

“Yeah,” Kinnick said. “We’re going to look for her.”

“You think she’s back up there? At the Rampart?”

“We’re not sure, but that’s where we’re going to start.”

Chuck glanced back at the house briefly. “Give me a minute. I’ll go with you.”

“I really don’t think—”

“You can’t go up there by yourself. Face that douchebag army alone?”

Kinnick couldn’t help himself and his eyes briefly darted down. “Chuck, you can’t possibly—”

Chuck gestured to the big plastic bag of urine in his hand. “Don’t worry. I have a smaller day bag. I’ll just strap it to

my leg, and we’ll go up there together.”

“You just had surgery!”

“It was like pulling out a splinter! Took them less than an hour. No infection, no internal damage, piece of cake. A few stitches,

a round of antibiotics, doctor says I’m good as new.”

“Chuck! You got shot two days ago!”

“Yeah, I was there, remember?”

“Look at you. You’re in no condition to—”

“What, this?” Chuck interrupted, holding up the catheter bag again. “This is nothing! I’ll be out of this in no time.” He

flicked the tube. “Get yanked around by my dickhole for a few days until my body remembers how to piss on its own again.”

“Dickhole?” Asher asked from behind them.

“Asher—” Bethany said.

“Hey, kid, good to see you again.” Chuck nodded at Asher in the backseat. “Hard to believe it, huh, that your body could forget something as simple as how to take a leak?”

“Leak?” Asher repeated.

Lucy stepped off the porch. “Chuck! Why don’t you come back inside?”

But Chuck leaned both arms onto the door of the car. “That yokel sheriff wants to charge the idiot who shot me with unlawful

discharge of a firearm. You believe that? A misdemeanor! I said ‘Why not just charge him with speeding?’ Says I could face

misdemeanor endangerment charges, too! For what? Second-degree tire assault? Oh, and he still wants to talk to you, by the

way. Asshole kept my Glock as evidence, but I’ve got my service piece at home. You and I could go get it—” He suddenly looked

across at Bethany. “Hey, is this your daughter? You found her? Nice work!”

“Oh. Yeah. Bethany, this is Chuck. Chuck... this is my daughter, Bethany.”

“Thank you for”—Bethany hesitated—“your service?”

“Just doing my job,” Chuck said.

“Not your fucking job,” the woman said as she arrived at Chuck’s side.

“We have to go,” Kinnick said. “But I appreciate your help, Chuck. More than you know. And I’ll be back soon. We’ll get this

squared away and I’ll come see you.”

But Chuck still looked concerned. “You don’t want to at least borrow my other piece?”

“No,” Kinnick said. “No more guns.”

Lucy put her arm around the big ex-cop. “Come on,” she said gently. “Let’s get you back inside. You’re supposed to be resting.”

“Okay.” Chuck reached through the open window and patted Kinnick once more on the arm.

“You go easy up there, partner. Stay out of trouble.” Then he backed away, leaned on Lucy, and allowed himself to be guided away, her hand firmly on his back.

As they walked toward the house, though, Lucy glanced back at Kinnick and used the hand on Chuck’s back to flip him off.

“Sorry, Lucy!” Kinnick said, in a tone that seemed to indicate that much of their relationship involved his apologizing. He

turned back to Bethany. “So. Those are my friends, Lucy and Chuck—”

In her lap, Bethany’s phone vibrated. She looked down at the screen, then held it up for her father to read the name. Pastor

Gallen.

***

Bethany cleared her throat and answered the call. “Hello.”

“Sister Bethany? It’s David Gallen. How are you?”