Three days after starting the lodge on fire, the explosions—that Troy still felt from the other side of the lake—stopped. The first night he had been unable to sleep; the ground shuddering with clockwork regularity. His short sleep ended when the wind shifted carrying the smoke from the lodge to his small camp, and forced him to get some distance.
Luckily the blasts had thrown many supplies along with debris into the lake, and he was able to salvage a canoe, a tent, and other supplies that had washed up on the shore a safe distance away. He returned to his camp at the base of the cliff and once again began to wait.
For two days he watched the continual stream of smoke and flashes of light with a sick hollow feeling, eating little. Nothing he did in this place worked. The deal with Dean fell through. Because he told Dean about the horizon they would never be able to reach it. Destroying the lodge hadn't messed the computer up a bit.
Early in the morning on the third day the small vibrations stopped. When the sun rose the sky over the south end of the lake was clear. After crossing the lake in the canoe, Troy examined the wreckage. A pool of water filled a crater where the shed had been, filled with pyramids of of supplies. Everywhere else was covered in the reappearing supplies in various stages of burnt and burning. The stench was horrible. All signs of the lodge were gone, covered in ax heads, cooking pots, backpack frames, tent stakes, and other non-flammable supplies where piled high above the kitchen where Troy was certain a fresh bag of chips waited at the exact spot the shelf had been. Only when the dynamite had blasted its way to the lake and let the water in, the chaos stopped.
His phone rang.
“This is Troy Lombardi speaking how may I help you,” he answered, dripping with sarcasm.
“Don't worry. I haven't forgotten our deal,” said Dean on the other end of the line. “I probably should since you destroyed all the cameras.”
Troy was relieved that he only knew about the cameras.
“Yes, Mr. Lombardi, I will get you out, but I've run into a financial problem trying to arrange the details of your transportation and placement. I need you to give me access to one account that will clear up that problem in advance. Just one bank account and all the passwords to access it. I'll collect the rest later after you have your freedom.”
“I don't remember all of the passwords. That is why I made the website that has all the information.”
“I only need you to remember the password for one account. Surely you can do that.”
Troy hesitated, the situation was totally in Dean's control. The only account he could remember was one he used frequently to satisfy his expensive tastes and buy luxurious gifts. Every week the bank automatically transferred a million dollars into it; by now it was over ten million.
“After what you have done to me, how can I trust you to keep your end of the bargain after you get some money. No, you can have the money, but I come out of here first.”
“You have no choice.”
“No,” said Troy. “If you want my money, keep the deal. You have already stretched it by delaying for days. I can't trust you for a moment. I'd rather you killed me than repeatedly be fooled into giving you money. I have learned I cannot trust you and do not plan to. Every chance you get you'll swindle money out of me and never let me go.”
“I am holding a syringe with cyanide in it right now.”
Troy sat down in the ashes. His palms were sweaty. After opening his mouth a few times he finally gave up trying to respond.
“Now. Mr. Lombardi,” said Dean, “I believe we were discussing your bank account. Don't you have something you want to tell me?”
Disgusted with himself, angry at Dean, and more aware of his mortality than he had ever been before, Troy doodled with his fingers in the ash around him. For a few hours he watched the clouds, just as real, just as majestic, and just as unknowable as the real ones. The wind pulled and stretched, gathered and clumped them, slowly growing thicker and thicker. A drop of rain landed on the back of his hand. Another landed in the ash turning it to a bead gray mud. Sparse and irregular, moist spots began appearing.
Suddenly increasing in strength, the rain soaked his clothes and hair. Little rivulets appeared in the ash like the branches of a tree growing backward, many branches growing into larger trunks. Rising out of the receding ash, wire cages—the remains of cushioned furniture and mattresses—and shattered porcelain from lamps and light fixtures began to appear. The water and ash smeared against and soiled Troy as it passed him, then slowly began to clean. Clouds masked daylight. Thunder echoed around the valley walls.
With the elements raging around him, Troy felt himself washing away. All his ambition, pride, and fear gave way to the pouring rain that emptied his soul. Then, like the tangles of wire around him, he felt something stick, something he didn't know had even been there.
The water of the lake was rough, but Troy paddled on. The rain was cold now and struck his skin like nails. Visibility reduced and he would have been totally disoriented without a small plastic compass. He legs felt cold and raw. Twice he stopped to bail out water, but the second time did hardly any good. As he approached the North shore he abandoned the canoe and swam.
Water flowed down the stairs in little waterfalls, making the rock slick. Small rocks and sticks from rushing in the torrent ripped at his bare feet: he had kicked off his boots in the water. He ascended them carefully and purposefully. No longer would he wallow and fret. No longer would he let the impossibility of success torment him. He would go on. And when the end came, it would catch him chasing the horizon. Out in the world, where the businessmen still traded stocks, laborers clocked in hours, and the weatherman appeared on the news every night, no one would know. Lombardi incorporated would fall into someone else's hand, his giving up now or continuing to try wouldn't change that. Perhaps his father would know, but even that didn't matter. What matter was that he knew. He, Troy Lombardi, would never allow sorrow and fear ruin him. He would go on.
After he climbed about two thirds the way up, the wind shifted. Air from below thrust upward violently, throwing drops of water into his down turned face. He froze in his steps, then looked upward. The green tuft of grass stood over him, guarding the horizon. Unable to look down, he locked his gaze on the green grass and continued to climb.
A round pebble that he never saw, slipped underfoot and pitched him backward. His arms flung around wildly, twisting his body, trying to get a grip on anything. With his legs dangling in midair, he caught himself for a moment, but he knew his grip wouldn't hold. “I'll be back,” he told the grass, then dropped into the rain.
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