"The Hand That Feeds - Part One" (Nuke/ATWT/Angels Lie)
Title: The Hand That Feeds - Part One
What It Is: Oneshot/Songfic/"Angels Lie" 'verse
Rating: M for language
Prompt: Still another sequel to “Angels Lie”!
Disclaimer: Don’t own ‘em. Don’t make no money.
link
Note: This story begins after Noah’s return, but flashes back to when he was missing.
****WARNING: BAD! BAD! TRIGGERY! BAD! I’D TURN BACK IF I WERE YOU!*****
***
The Hand That Feeds - Part One
Noah’s drowning. The dark water swirls around him, filling his lungs and tugging him down into its depths. He fights, desperate for air. But he’s blind and can’t tell which direction leads to the surface and which to the muddy river bottom. His hands are tied, his limbs leaden. He’s cold, so cold he can’t even remember what warmth feels like. He’s got a stitch in his side, a searing pain that hurts with every breath. Worst of all, he knows that no one is coming for him, no one will rescue him, because no one knows where he is. And it’s all his fault for being...
So.
Fucking.
Stupid.
Noah’s resigned now. He knows he’s dying. He can feel all the fight draining from his body, his will to live flickering out like a candle as his lungs fill up with water and he sinks to the bottom of the river. He’ll drown here, in the black depths of the Mississippi, and no one will ever find his body except the fish.
And isn’t that what he wanted, back when he started this mad enterprise? To disappear alone into the darkness?
Not like this, Noah thinks with his last flicker of awareness. Please, God, not like this.
Then, something changes.
A light flashes across the water, as if someone’s sweeping the surface with a flashlight. The beam is too bright, too close. Noah closes his eyes, but it’s insistent, intrusive.
The pain in his side grows, and the water must have left his lungs because he can breathe again, even though it hurts.
There’s something pulling at him now, tethering him, reeling him back in against the current. Just like before, except it’s not a rope this time, tugging at his bound hands. Instead, it’s voices, loud and persistent and slightly annoying.
"Noah, are you listening to me? The next time you tell someone ‘The gun went off,’ you need to specify that the bullet hit you."
Noah mumbles something, something about guns and movies, and why is he thinking about the movies when he’s drowning? He tries to focus on the voices but feels himself slipping beneath the surface again.
“Noah! Wake up!” Something strikes him in the face, startling him awake. Noah doesn’t like being hit. He tries to tell the person to stop, even though he knows it’s against the rules.
The voice ignores him. “Noah, what did you take?” It gets louder. “What kind of painkillers?”
Noah tries to answer, but the water slops over his head, making him cough. He can feel the relentless pull of the river sucking him down, the heavy mud filling his throat and nostrils.
But now someone’s helping him, holding him, pulling him toward the surface. Someone found him, Noah realizes, even down here in the darkest depths. Someone with a strong but gentle touch, someone who murmurs comforting words. Noah feels a tiny flare of hope deep inside him.
“Luke?” he whispers.
“Sorry, buddy, it’s just me.”
No, no, no.“I want Luke,” Noah cries. He can feel his heart breaking all over again, and he knows that this time it will kill him.
But the voice promises to bring him to Luke. He just has to walk a few steps. Just a little bit further, Noah. You can do it, buddy.
Noah wills his legs to move, even against the current. If he can get to shore, Luke will be waiting for him there. The voice says so.
Suddenly the light gets brighter and bigger and sharper, unbearably intense. Noah closes his eyes in protest, and his body recoils, back toward the darkness. Then there are people all around him, shouting his name and tugging at his limbs, pulling him out of the water, but it’s too late, it’s too late.
He can’t breathe
He’s gone.
***
Noah waited for his father in the park by the river. He sat on the hood of his truck in the pre-dawn darkness watching the first rays of the sun come up. It was still cool out, although the day promised to be warm. The air was thick and humid, and a thin film of mist hung over the water.
Noah knew this was the right place, knew it in his gut. He remembered being here with his father years before, although he couldn’t remember when or why. One of their many cross-country moves, probably, although he couldn’t recall which one.
For some reason his father had been in a good mood. Or perhaps for once he wasn’t in a hurry to get to the next assignment. Either way, he’d said yes when Noah asked if they could stop and fish for a while.
His father showed him where they were on the map, tracing the river with his finger, pointing out how it took a little bend here, flowing east to west instead of north to south. It was the only place in the whole course of the Mississippi, his father explained, where a man looked upriver to see the sun rise and downriver to see the sun set.
Noah remembered that moment, sitting on the wall in the warm sunshine, listening to his father. They dropped their lines in the river, baited with bits of peanut butter sandwich from their lunch. Noah couldn’t remember if they caught anything, but he remembered his father teasing him about how long his legs were getting, how his feet almost touched the water. His father sounded pleased and proud, which made Noah feel warm inside; relaxed and, for once, safe.
The memory ended there, like a loop of film running out. Try as he might, Noah couldn’t recall another thing about that day.
A harsh noise interrupted his thoughts -- the sound of a car engine, throaty and deep. He turned his head and saw a white vintage Plymouth loom out of the misty darkness and pull into the tiny parking lot, its wheels crunching in the gravel.
The car door opened. Noah’s father got out.
Noah’s throat tightened, even though he hated himself for it. How could you have possibly missed this man? he scolded himself. How could you care about him after everything he’s done? What’s wrong with you?
As his father walked toward him, any thought Noah had about killing him died. Even as he told himself to get up, draw his gun, pull the trigger, just do it, he remained motionless.
He’d been a fool, Noah told himself in disgust. To imagine himself facing his father in some final showdown, like duelists in an old movie. Pistols at dawn. To think he could shoot a man he’d once loved in cold blood while looking him in the face.
His father could do it, easy, but Noah was weaker than that.
Time to go with Plan B.
Plan B meant giving in to his feelings. But Noah decided he was okay with that. He was tired of trying to make sense of them anyway. Exhausted with trying to appear normal, to carry on with life, while knowing he was irreparably damaged inside.
Besides, he knew he needed to be truthful with his father if Plan B was going to work. He’d know if Noah was lying. He’d see through his defenses in a heartbeat.
So, as his father slowly approached across the park, Noah carefully closed that part of himself -- body, mind, and spirit -- that had come alive when he’d met Luke Snyder. He buried it all and unearthed the other part: That shameful place deep inside him that was still a desperate little boy who loved his father and wanted to please him, to make him proud.
As Winston stopped a few feet away, Noah fought back his tears. “Dad.”
It was still too dark to read Winston’s expression. “Noah.”
He put his boot on the fender, hoisted himself up, and sat next to Noah. They didn’t touch, didn’t look at each other, just stared across the water to the far shore. For a few moments, it was like no time had passed. Any minute now, Noah thought, his father would take out the road map and show him where they were and how to navigate if he got lost. They'd break out the sandwiches and the fishing poles and feel the warm sun on their backs.
Instead, a sudden breeze ruffled the water and tickled Noah’s neck, making him shiver.
He closed his eyes for a second, took a deep breath, and reminded himself why he was here. Then he opened his eyes and started to talk.
***
He told his father everything.
He already knew, of course. Knew about Noah going blind, knew about Luke leaving him, knew about Reid. But Noah told him anyway, and for a few brief moments, allowed himself to confess the worst of his feelings. The rage. The hate. The raw anguish. The shame.
He allowed himself to say what he’d never allowed himself to think, that it had all been a mistake. That Luke had led Noah astray, had been the terrible influence his father feared, and that Noah had been weak and confused and had made all the wrong decisions. That he regretted everything he’d done, regretted meeting Luke, regretted betraying his father. He let himself brokenly beg for his father’s forgiveness, plead for a second chance, promise to go anywhere, swear to do anything -- it didn’t matter as long as it was far away from here, and his father loved him again.
It was a gamble. His father would know if he was lying. But if Noah only told part of the truth and it was close enough to what his father wanted to hear...maybe, just maybe, he would take the bait.
When he finished speaking, Winston was silent for a long moment. “I want to believe you, son,” he said at last. “But how can I trust you after last year? You turned me in.”
Without speaking, Noah took the gun from where it rested warm and solid against the small of his back and presented it to his father. Presented it to him properly, with the safety on and the barrel pointed away and an extra cartridge held in his open palm.
Winston turned the gun over in his hands, expertly assessing the weight and action. “This is a military weapon. Where did you get it?”
“Black market,” Noah explained. “I’ve been tending bar. One of the customers, Big Ted, has connections. He sold it to me. I figured...” his voice wavered, and he forced himself to speak more calmly. “I figured, if you were going to get away, you might need it. There’s more brass,” he added, nodding back toward the cab of the truck. “I have cash, too. I’ve been saving my tips in case of an emergency.”
Winston held up the gun and pointed it at the river, squinting as he sighted along the barrel. “How much money?” he asked finally.
“Five hundred dollars.”
Winston nodded and slowly lowered the gun. “Good job, son.”
Noah let out the breath he’d been holding. “Really?”
“Really.” Winston tucked the gun in the small of his back, climbed off the hood of the truck, and finally looked at Noah. The rising sun illuminated the grey tips in his hair, the new lines on his face, but left his eyes in shadow. “You ready to get out of here?”
Noah slid off the truck and straightened his spine. “Yes, sir.”
***
It was too easy. Noah knew it was too easy. But his only thought was to get moving, to draw his father as far away from Oakdale and Luke as he could. So he agreed.
They scuttled the truck, drove the Plymouth to the marina, and stole the boat. They eased it out into the current, although there was little need for secrecy -- at this hour, the shoreline was virtually deserted.
When they got out far enough, Winston started the engine. He turned the boat upriver instead of down, then nodded at the controls. “Take the wheel, son.”
Surprised, Noah complied. As he did so, Winston gave Noah a hearty slap on the shoulder, and it took everything in Noah’s power not to jump in alarm.
“Just like old times, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
Winston pulled out a cigar and lit it. Then he leaned back, put his face to the rising sun, and exhaled a long stream of smoke. “Don’t worry,” he said.
Startled, Noah glanced at him. “What?”
Winston tapped the side of his head. “I can see you thinking, Noah. Worrying.”
Noah’s palms were sweating. “It’s just...Dad, the cops. They’re looking for you.”
“Don’t worry,” Winston said again. “Your old man’s got a plan.
“Okay, but why are we going upriver?” Noah asked.
Winston grinned at him around his cigar. “To watch the sun rise.”
***
After several miles, there were no more houses or towns along the shore, just scrub and trees. Eventually, there was a break -- a strip of clear shoreline and a long dock leading out into the water. A tall figure stood there.
“Pull over,” Winston ordered. “We’re picking up a passenger.”
Noah’s unease grew. “Who is that?” he asked.
"A friend.” Winston waved, and the figure on the dock waved back.
The sun was fully up now, and the bright rays slicing the water dazzled Noah’s eyes, making it impossible to make out the man’s features. As the boat drew near, Noah cut the engine. Winston threw a rope to the man, who caught it and pulled them in. They didn’t tie up, though; as the boat bumped against the dock, the man leapt onboard and tossed the rope back to Winston. They both pushed against the dock, shoving the boat away from shore and back into the current.
Noah had the sudden, crazy urge to jump, like he had once done in pursuit of his father. Only this time he wanted to jump off the boat, not on. Off the boat, onto the dock, and then run, run as fast and as far away as he could and never stop running.
“Noah,” Winston snapped. “Quit dreaming. Go.”
The moment was gone, the boat too far away from the dock to make the leap. With shaking hands, Noah re-started the engine and turned the boat back to the river. As he did so, he saw that the Plymouth they had abandoned in the marina lot was now parked under a stand of trees.
“Everything go according to plan?” Winston asked the man.
“By the book,” he replied. Now that he was on the boat, Noah could see him clearly. He was taller than Noah by a head, and more solidly built. He had reddish hair, slightly curled, and pale eyes of indeterminate color. He was good-looking, although his nose was crooked, probably from a break.
“Noah, I’d like you to meet a friend of mine,” Winston said, clapping the man on the shoulder. “This is Jimmy Moloney. Jimmy, this is my son Noah.”
“Hey, Noah.” Jimmy grinned easily and held out his hand. His teeth were a bit crooked, too, giving him a slightly feral appearance. “Your dad’s told me a lot about you.”
Noah shook his hand. Jimmy’s grip was ferociously strong. “Really? Because he hasn’t told me anything about you.”
Winston laughed. He kept one hand on Jimmy’s shoulder and placed the other on Noah’s. “We’ll all have plenty of time to get acquainted.” He nodded toward the center of the river. “Pull up there, Noah, and drop anchor.”
“Dad,” Noah protested. “It’s not safe. We need to get you out of here.”
“We’ll be on our way soon enough, I promise,” Winston said.
“But why are we stopping?”
Winston winked. “I don’t know about you, but I’d kill for a cup of coffee.”
***
The galley was tiny but well-stocked, with plenty of bottled water. Noah managed to brew coffee in a small aluminum pot, an old-fashioned one that percolated.
“Just like camping, huh, Noah? Remember how we used to make our coffee cowboy-style?”
“Yes, sir.” It was a good memory, Noah realized. His father had shown him how to tie the rope to the handle of the coffee pot and then whirl it overhead like a lasso, letting the centrifugal force separate out the grounds.
Winston turned to Jimmy. “Noah and I used to go camping all the time. Fishing, too. Your father ever take you fishing, Jimmy?”
Jimmy’s eyes were narrow over the rim of his cup. “No, sir.”
“That’s too bad.” Winston shook his head. “A man should spend time with his son. Sit down, Noah.”
Noah startled, and the hot coffee splashed on his fingers, burning them. “What?”
“Sit down.” Winston set a chair in the center of the cabin. “We need to talk.”
“Do as your father says, Noah,” Jimmy said quietly. Noah heard a click and he didn’t need to turn around to know the man was holding a gun to his head.
Noah sat in the chair. Winston pulled his gun, the one Noah had given him, and pointed it at him. “Tie him up, Jimmy.”
“Dad, you don’t need to--”
“Be quiet.” Winston’s voice was cold and precise.
Noah obeyed. As Jimmy bound him to the chair, hands and feet, Winston spoke again. “We have a problem, Noah. The problem is that I don’t know if I can trust you.”
"You can, Dad. I swear I’m telling the truth--"
Winston cocked the pistol, and Noah fell silent again. Jimmy crouched in front of Noah, tested the knots on his ankles, and pulled off his shoes and socks.
“Here’s how this is going to work,” Winston continued, as casually if they were still discussing boyhood camping trips. “Jimmy is going to ask you some questions and you are going to answer them truthfully. Do you understand?’
Noah swallowed. “Yes.”
Jimmy slapped him across the face, hard. “Say ‘Yes, sir.’”
“Yes, sir,” Noah said. He could feel his lip bleeding.
“That’s better.” Jimmy rose.
Winston put away his gun and sipped his coffee. “Jimmy’s pretty good at this. He learned his trade in the Army. As a matter of fact, he was a little too good at his job. Got into some trouble, isn’t that right, Jimmy?”
Jimmy snickered. While Winston had been speaking, he’d been wandering the cabin, picking up random objects. Now he set them on the tiny table in the galley, laying them in a row with surgical precision: An empty beer bottle. A fishing pole. A cigarette lighter. A knife.
Then he pulled a blindfold out of his pocket.
Noah felt panic choke him. “No!” He looked at his father. “Dad, please!”
“I’m sorry, son.” Winston shook his head sadly. He drained his coffee cup and set it on the table, then pulled out the other chair and sat across from Noah. “I want to be able to trust you. But you’re going to have to prove yourself to me.”
Winston looked mournful, as if this was just another way Noah had disappointed him as a son. “I hate that you’ve made this necessary, Noah, but you have to admit, after you turned me in last year...” His voice trailed off, and he shrugged. “I don’t really have another choice.”
“Dad,” Noah whispered. “Please.”
Winston lit a cigar, sucking the flame into life. He exhaled, the smoke pungent in the small, claustrophobic cabin, and studied the burning ember at the tip. “One more thing, Noah. If you ask Jimmy to stop, I’ll know you’re lying.”
He nodded at Jimmy, who advanced, blindfold in hand. His lopsided smile was the last thing Noah saw for days.
***
He’d been right about one thing, Noah reflected a short while later. His father really, really hated the tattoos.
***
To be continued...
**Title from "The Hand That Feeds" by Nine Inch Nails.
What It Is: Oneshot/Songfic/"Angels Lie" 'verse
Rating: M for language
Prompt: Still another sequel to “Angels Lie”!
Disclaimer: Don’t own ‘em. Don’t make no money.
link
Note: This story begins after Noah’s return, but flashes back to when he was missing.
****WARNING: BAD! BAD! TRIGGERY! BAD! I’D TURN BACK IF I WERE YOU!*****
***
The Hand That Feeds - Part One
Noah’s drowning. The dark water swirls around him, filling his lungs and tugging him down into its depths. He fights, desperate for air. But he’s blind and can’t tell which direction leads to the surface and which to the muddy river bottom. His hands are tied, his limbs leaden. He’s cold, so cold he can’t even remember what warmth feels like. He’s got a stitch in his side, a searing pain that hurts with every breath. Worst of all, he knows that no one is coming for him, no one will rescue him, because no one knows where he is. And it’s all his fault for being...
So.
Fucking.
Stupid.
Noah’s resigned now. He knows he’s dying. He can feel all the fight draining from his body, his will to live flickering out like a candle as his lungs fill up with water and he sinks to the bottom of the river. He’ll drown here, in the black depths of the Mississippi, and no one will ever find his body except the fish.
And isn’t that what he wanted, back when he started this mad enterprise? To disappear alone into the darkness?
Not like this, Noah thinks with his last flicker of awareness. Please, God, not like this.
Then, something changes.
A light flashes across the water, as if someone’s sweeping the surface with a flashlight. The beam is too bright, too close. Noah closes his eyes, but it’s insistent, intrusive.
The pain in his side grows, and the water must have left his lungs because he can breathe again, even though it hurts.
There’s something pulling at him now, tethering him, reeling him back in against the current. Just like before, except it’s not a rope this time, tugging at his bound hands. Instead, it’s voices, loud and persistent and slightly annoying.
"Noah, are you listening to me? The next time you tell someone ‘The gun went off,’ you need to specify that the bullet hit you."
Noah mumbles something, something about guns and movies, and why is he thinking about the movies when he’s drowning? He tries to focus on the voices but feels himself slipping beneath the surface again.
“Noah! Wake up!” Something strikes him in the face, startling him awake. Noah doesn’t like being hit. He tries to tell the person to stop, even though he knows it’s against the rules.
The voice ignores him. “Noah, what did you take?” It gets louder. “What kind of painkillers?”
Noah tries to answer, but the water slops over his head, making him cough. He can feel the relentless pull of the river sucking him down, the heavy mud filling his throat and nostrils.
But now someone’s helping him, holding him, pulling him toward the surface. Someone found him, Noah realizes, even down here in the darkest depths. Someone with a strong but gentle touch, someone who murmurs comforting words. Noah feels a tiny flare of hope deep inside him.
“Luke?” he whispers.
“Sorry, buddy, it’s just me.”
No, no, no.“I want Luke,” Noah cries. He can feel his heart breaking all over again, and he knows that this time it will kill him.
But the voice promises to bring him to Luke. He just has to walk a few steps. Just a little bit further, Noah. You can do it, buddy.
Noah wills his legs to move, even against the current. If he can get to shore, Luke will be waiting for him there. The voice says so.
Suddenly the light gets brighter and bigger and sharper, unbearably intense. Noah closes his eyes in protest, and his body recoils, back toward the darkness. Then there are people all around him, shouting his name and tugging at his limbs, pulling him out of the water, but it’s too late, it’s too late.
He can’t breathe
He’s gone.
***
Noah waited for his father in the park by the river. He sat on the hood of his truck in the pre-dawn darkness watching the first rays of the sun come up. It was still cool out, although the day promised to be warm. The air was thick and humid, and a thin film of mist hung over the water.
Noah knew this was the right place, knew it in his gut. He remembered being here with his father years before, although he couldn’t remember when or why. One of their many cross-country moves, probably, although he couldn’t recall which one.
For some reason his father had been in a good mood. Or perhaps for once he wasn’t in a hurry to get to the next assignment. Either way, he’d said yes when Noah asked if they could stop and fish for a while.
His father showed him where they were on the map, tracing the river with his finger, pointing out how it took a little bend here, flowing east to west instead of north to south. It was the only place in the whole course of the Mississippi, his father explained, where a man looked upriver to see the sun rise and downriver to see the sun set.
Noah remembered that moment, sitting on the wall in the warm sunshine, listening to his father. They dropped their lines in the river, baited with bits of peanut butter sandwich from their lunch. Noah couldn’t remember if they caught anything, but he remembered his father teasing him about how long his legs were getting, how his feet almost touched the water. His father sounded pleased and proud, which made Noah feel warm inside; relaxed and, for once, safe.
The memory ended there, like a loop of film running out. Try as he might, Noah couldn’t recall another thing about that day.
A harsh noise interrupted his thoughts -- the sound of a car engine, throaty and deep. He turned his head and saw a white vintage Plymouth loom out of the misty darkness and pull into the tiny parking lot, its wheels crunching in the gravel.
The car door opened. Noah’s father got out.
Noah’s throat tightened, even though he hated himself for it. How could you have possibly missed this man? he scolded himself. How could you care about him after everything he’s done? What’s wrong with you?
As his father walked toward him, any thought Noah had about killing him died. Even as he told himself to get up, draw his gun, pull the trigger, just do it, he remained motionless.
He’d been a fool, Noah told himself in disgust. To imagine himself facing his father in some final showdown, like duelists in an old movie. Pistols at dawn. To think he could shoot a man he’d once loved in cold blood while looking him in the face.
His father could do it, easy, but Noah was weaker than that.
Time to go with Plan B.
Plan B meant giving in to his feelings. But Noah decided he was okay with that. He was tired of trying to make sense of them anyway. Exhausted with trying to appear normal, to carry on with life, while knowing he was irreparably damaged inside.
Besides, he knew he needed to be truthful with his father if Plan B was going to work. He’d know if Noah was lying. He’d see through his defenses in a heartbeat.
So, as his father slowly approached across the park, Noah carefully closed that part of himself -- body, mind, and spirit -- that had come alive when he’d met Luke Snyder. He buried it all and unearthed the other part: That shameful place deep inside him that was still a desperate little boy who loved his father and wanted to please him, to make him proud.
As Winston stopped a few feet away, Noah fought back his tears. “Dad.”
It was still too dark to read Winston’s expression. “Noah.”
He put his boot on the fender, hoisted himself up, and sat next to Noah. They didn’t touch, didn’t look at each other, just stared across the water to the far shore. For a few moments, it was like no time had passed. Any minute now, Noah thought, his father would take out the road map and show him where they were and how to navigate if he got lost. They'd break out the sandwiches and the fishing poles and feel the warm sun on their backs.
Instead, a sudden breeze ruffled the water and tickled Noah’s neck, making him shiver.
He closed his eyes for a second, took a deep breath, and reminded himself why he was here. Then he opened his eyes and started to talk.
***
He told his father everything.
He already knew, of course. Knew about Noah going blind, knew about Luke leaving him, knew about Reid. But Noah told him anyway, and for a few brief moments, allowed himself to confess the worst of his feelings. The rage. The hate. The raw anguish. The shame.
He allowed himself to say what he’d never allowed himself to think, that it had all been a mistake. That Luke had led Noah astray, had been the terrible influence his father feared, and that Noah had been weak and confused and had made all the wrong decisions. That he regretted everything he’d done, regretted meeting Luke, regretted betraying his father. He let himself brokenly beg for his father’s forgiveness, plead for a second chance, promise to go anywhere, swear to do anything -- it didn’t matter as long as it was far away from here, and his father loved him again.
It was a gamble. His father would know if he was lying. But if Noah only told part of the truth and it was close enough to what his father wanted to hear...maybe, just maybe, he would take the bait.
When he finished speaking, Winston was silent for a long moment. “I want to believe you, son,” he said at last. “But how can I trust you after last year? You turned me in.”
Without speaking, Noah took the gun from where it rested warm and solid against the small of his back and presented it to his father. Presented it to him properly, with the safety on and the barrel pointed away and an extra cartridge held in his open palm.
Winston turned the gun over in his hands, expertly assessing the weight and action. “This is a military weapon. Where did you get it?”
“Black market,” Noah explained. “I’ve been tending bar. One of the customers, Big Ted, has connections. He sold it to me. I figured...” his voice wavered, and he forced himself to speak more calmly. “I figured, if you were going to get away, you might need it. There’s more brass,” he added, nodding back toward the cab of the truck. “I have cash, too. I’ve been saving my tips in case of an emergency.”
Winston held up the gun and pointed it at the river, squinting as he sighted along the barrel. “How much money?” he asked finally.
“Five hundred dollars.”
Winston nodded and slowly lowered the gun. “Good job, son.”
Noah let out the breath he’d been holding. “Really?”
“Really.” Winston tucked the gun in the small of his back, climbed off the hood of the truck, and finally looked at Noah. The rising sun illuminated the grey tips in his hair, the new lines on his face, but left his eyes in shadow. “You ready to get out of here?”
Noah slid off the truck and straightened his spine. “Yes, sir.”
***
It was too easy. Noah knew it was too easy. But his only thought was to get moving, to draw his father as far away from Oakdale and Luke as he could. So he agreed.
They scuttled the truck, drove the Plymouth to the marina, and stole the boat. They eased it out into the current, although there was little need for secrecy -- at this hour, the shoreline was virtually deserted.
When they got out far enough, Winston started the engine. He turned the boat upriver instead of down, then nodded at the controls. “Take the wheel, son.”
Surprised, Noah complied. As he did so, Winston gave Noah a hearty slap on the shoulder, and it took everything in Noah’s power not to jump in alarm.
“Just like old times, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
Winston pulled out a cigar and lit it. Then he leaned back, put his face to the rising sun, and exhaled a long stream of smoke. “Don’t worry,” he said.
Startled, Noah glanced at him. “What?”
Winston tapped the side of his head. “I can see you thinking, Noah. Worrying.”
Noah’s palms were sweating. “It’s just...Dad, the cops. They’re looking for you.”
“Don’t worry,” Winston said again. “Your old man’s got a plan.
“Okay, but why are we going upriver?” Noah asked.
Winston grinned at him around his cigar. “To watch the sun rise.”
***
After several miles, there were no more houses or towns along the shore, just scrub and trees. Eventually, there was a break -- a strip of clear shoreline and a long dock leading out into the water. A tall figure stood there.
“Pull over,” Winston ordered. “We’re picking up a passenger.”
Noah’s unease grew. “Who is that?” he asked.
"A friend.” Winston waved, and the figure on the dock waved back.
The sun was fully up now, and the bright rays slicing the water dazzled Noah’s eyes, making it impossible to make out the man’s features. As the boat drew near, Noah cut the engine. Winston threw a rope to the man, who caught it and pulled them in. They didn’t tie up, though; as the boat bumped against the dock, the man leapt onboard and tossed the rope back to Winston. They both pushed against the dock, shoving the boat away from shore and back into the current.
Noah had the sudden, crazy urge to jump, like he had once done in pursuit of his father. Only this time he wanted to jump off the boat, not on. Off the boat, onto the dock, and then run, run as fast and as far away as he could and never stop running.
“Noah,” Winston snapped. “Quit dreaming. Go.”
The moment was gone, the boat too far away from the dock to make the leap. With shaking hands, Noah re-started the engine and turned the boat back to the river. As he did so, he saw that the Plymouth they had abandoned in the marina lot was now parked under a stand of trees.
“Everything go according to plan?” Winston asked the man.
“By the book,” he replied. Now that he was on the boat, Noah could see him clearly. He was taller than Noah by a head, and more solidly built. He had reddish hair, slightly curled, and pale eyes of indeterminate color. He was good-looking, although his nose was crooked, probably from a break.
“Noah, I’d like you to meet a friend of mine,” Winston said, clapping the man on the shoulder. “This is Jimmy Moloney. Jimmy, this is my son Noah.”
“Hey, Noah.” Jimmy grinned easily and held out his hand. His teeth were a bit crooked, too, giving him a slightly feral appearance. “Your dad’s told me a lot about you.”
Noah shook his hand. Jimmy’s grip was ferociously strong. “Really? Because he hasn’t told me anything about you.”
Winston laughed. He kept one hand on Jimmy’s shoulder and placed the other on Noah’s. “We’ll all have plenty of time to get acquainted.” He nodded toward the center of the river. “Pull up there, Noah, and drop anchor.”
“Dad,” Noah protested. “It’s not safe. We need to get you out of here.”
“We’ll be on our way soon enough, I promise,” Winston said.
“But why are we stopping?”
Winston winked. “I don’t know about you, but I’d kill for a cup of coffee.”
***
The galley was tiny but well-stocked, with plenty of bottled water. Noah managed to brew coffee in a small aluminum pot, an old-fashioned one that percolated.
“Just like camping, huh, Noah? Remember how we used to make our coffee cowboy-style?”
“Yes, sir.” It was a good memory, Noah realized. His father had shown him how to tie the rope to the handle of the coffee pot and then whirl it overhead like a lasso, letting the centrifugal force separate out the grounds.
Winston turned to Jimmy. “Noah and I used to go camping all the time. Fishing, too. Your father ever take you fishing, Jimmy?”
Jimmy’s eyes were narrow over the rim of his cup. “No, sir.”
“That’s too bad.” Winston shook his head. “A man should spend time with his son. Sit down, Noah.”
Noah startled, and the hot coffee splashed on his fingers, burning them. “What?”
“Sit down.” Winston set a chair in the center of the cabin. “We need to talk.”
“Do as your father says, Noah,” Jimmy said quietly. Noah heard a click and he didn’t need to turn around to know the man was holding a gun to his head.
Noah sat in the chair. Winston pulled his gun, the one Noah had given him, and pointed it at him. “Tie him up, Jimmy.”
“Dad, you don’t need to--”
“Be quiet.” Winston’s voice was cold and precise.
Noah obeyed. As Jimmy bound him to the chair, hands and feet, Winston spoke again. “We have a problem, Noah. The problem is that I don’t know if I can trust you.”
"You can, Dad. I swear I’m telling the truth--"
Winston cocked the pistol, and Noah fell silent again. Jimmy crouched in front of Noah, tested the knots on his ankles, and pulled off his shoes and socks.
“Here’s how this is going to work,” Winston continued, as casually if they were still discussing boyhood camping trips. “Jimmy is going to ask you some questions and you are going to answer them truthfully. Do you understand?’
Noah swallowed. “Yes.”
Jimmy slapped him across the face, hard. “Say ‘Yes, sir.’”
“Yes, sir,” Noah said. He could feel his lip bleeding.
“That’s better.” Jimmy rose.
Winston put away his gun and sipped his coffee. “Jimmy’s pretty good at this. He learned his trade in the Army. As a matter of fact, he was a little too good at his job. Got into some trouble, isn’t that right, Jimmy?”
Jimmy snickered. While Winston had been speaking, he’d been wandering the cabin, picking up random objects. Now he set them on the tiny table in the galley, laying them in a row with surgical precision: An empty beer bottle. A fishing pole. A cigarette lighter. A knife.
Then he pulled a blindfold out of his pocket.
Noah felt panic choke him. “No!” He looked at his father. “Dad, please!”
“I’m sorry, son.” Winston shook his head sadly. He drained his coffee cup and set it on the table, then pulled out the other chair and sat across from Noah. “I want to be able to trust you. But you’re going to have to prove yourself to me.”
Winston looked mournful, as if this was just another way Noah had disappointed him as a son. “I hate that you’ve made this necessary, Noah, but you have to admit, after you turned me in last year...” His voice trailed off, and he shrugged. “I don’t really have another choice.”
“Dad,” Noah whispered. “Please.”
Winston lit a cigar, sucking the flame into life. He exhaled, the smoke pungent in the small, claustrophobic cabin, and studied the burning ember at the tip. “One more thing, Noah. If you ask Jimmy to stop, I’ll know you’re lying.”
He nodded at Jimmy, who advanced, blindfold in hand. His lopsided smile was the last thing Noah saw for days.
***
He’d been right about one thing, Noah reflected a short while later. His father really, really hated the tattoos.
***
To be continued...
**Title from "The Hand That Feeds" by Nine Inch Nails.