VII.
The car rumbled to a halt as Eugene regained consciousness. Every part of him hurt, muscles seized up from lying crumpled on the car floor—for how long, minutes or hours, he didn’t know. Monnet put the thing in park as he pushed himself to hands and knees. Out the window, he saw only shadows. No sun, no sky, just a weird twilit darkness and dust drifting lazily through the air.
“Are you going to kill me?” he asked. His throat was dry and torn. Had he been screaming, back at the bank, after the shots began and his mind went underwater? He didn’t know that, either.
“Not unless we have to,” Monnet replied, and pushed the door open to disembark.
Walker stayed where he was a moment longer. Eugene pulled himself up to the seat, so weak he was shaking, from nerves or exhaustion or dehydration—it all felt the same.
“I’m sorry,” Walker said. “We weren't planning to take a hostage. Come on out.”
He opened his door to step outside, his gun balanced easily on his shoulder, and got the rear door for Eugene. Not trusting himself to stand, Eugene slipped from the car in increments until Walker caught him by the arm and steadied him.
They were parked inside a crumbling barn; the doors at the front stood open, wide enough to drive through and let the sunlight slant in, but still shielding the car from sight. Old farm equipment lay heaped in the corners, untouched for years and gone to rust. Walker helped him to the doors and onto the gravel drive, which led to an old farmhouse in a state of distinguished neglect. The fence was in need of repair and the yard in need of weeding. The chestnut trees branched wide, interrupted by spires of cypress, casting shadows over the lawn. Ivy crawled up the house’s face, threatening to throttle the life from it, if only the day weren’t so hot and slow. Walker’s hand remained on Eugene’s arm like it belonged there.
“You don’t look so steady. Come inside; we’ll get you sat down, and get you a drink of water.”
“Who lives here?”
By the looks of things, they weren’t far outside Chanlarivyè; he hadn’t been unconscious for so long after all. Just long enough for Walker and Monnet to lose the police. No one could see the car from the road.
“Friends of ours.”
Monnet had disappeared around the back of the house and they followed, the grass lush and tangled underfoot, halfway to reclaiming the house and dragging it back to nature. The soil was moist beneath the weeds, and the air was wet. They were close to the bayou, almost on its front step. It was the sort of place where one might drown on dry land if he lingered too long.
The back door creaked open at Monnet’s tap, and they slunk inside like animals to their lair. It was cooler inside, sheltered from the swampy sun, and Eugene inhaled deeply. He was still trembling, wracked by shivers. It could be heat exhaustion; he'd suffered from that once in his early twenties, and this felt similar. He might die regardless of his captors’ intent. It wouldn’t take much to kill him.