Page 61 of Outsider

The boy pushes the shovel through the snow, huffing and puffing against the weight of it, his face red from the cold and the strain of his chore. He works in a straight line, piling the snow on the bank. Within minutes, he’s cleared a three-foot-wide swath that’s about twenty feet long. It’s not exactly a skating rink, but large enough that the kids will have fun.

Adam dumps the kindling from the sled next to the fire drum, and pulls the sled to a good-size fallen tree a dozen or so yards into the forest. He begins to chop branches from the trunk, the sound of the ax echoing off the treetops.

I look at Gina. “Want to help me build a fire?”

She slants me a look. “You know how to do that?”

I roll my eyes. “Stand back and learn, city slicker.”

With her arm in the sling, she’s unable to offer much in the way of help, but she manages to toss some kindling into a pile next to the drum. Since she won’t be moving around much, she’ll likely be the first to get cold. I empty snow from the drum, drag it closer to the lacing log, and set to work building a fire. The kindling and logs are nice and dry. Adam remembered to bring a section of The Budget newspaper and a pad of matches. Within minutes, the fire is hissing and popping, the pungent tang of smoke filling the air.

Despite the wind and cold, it’s a pleasant scene. While the children skate and Adam chops wood, Gina brushes snow from the lacing log and sits, her legs propped out in front of her.

“I used to think the Amish were backward,” she says. “Religious fanatics.” She shrugs. “They’re not. They just…”

“Live at a different pace.” I sit down next to her.

She nods, thoughtful. “Looking at the mess I’ve made of my life, it doesn’t seem so bad. You know, simple living. Having a family.”

I toss another log into the drum. “It’s a tough life sometimes,” I say. “A lot of work. A lot of rules. But it’s a good life, too.”

She leans forward, puts the elbow of her uninjured arm on her knee. “Maybe they’re the ones who got it right, and the rest of us are … fucked up.”

“Even Amish life can get complicated,” I tell her.

“I never understood or appreciated what you left behind. How different your life had been before you came to Columbus.” She laughs. “I was on a mission to rescue you from some weird religious cult. I get it now.”

I look at her, surprised by her pensiveness, and pleased that she’s able to appreciate the Amish lifestyle, because I know there are many people who don’t.

“For an Amish girl, I was pretty good at guzzling Jack Daniel’s,” I tell her.

She tosses her head back and laughs. “That did throw me off.”

She’s watching the children, her mind working. Snow has begun to fall. Lush, wet flakes floating down from a sky the color of ash. Aside from the sound of the ax and the chatter of the children, the forest is tranquil.

“We did all right,” I say after a moment.

“You did,” she whispers. “Me?” She shrugs. “Maybe I never was that idealistic young cop I always fancied myself.”

“It’s not too late to turn things around.”

“It feels like it’s too late.”

“We do the best we can, Gina. That’s all we can do. That’s all anyone can do.”

“That’s the thing, Kate. I haven’t done my best for a long time. I lost my way. I lost … myself. Participated in something I detest. Became part of a problem I swore I’d fix. I didn’t care about right or wrong, and now I’ve screwed up my life.”

“This is your chance to make it right,” I tell her. “Undo some of the things you did. The things you let happen. Start over.”

“My career is done. I’ll never work in law enforcement again. For God’s sake, I’ll be lucky not to end up in prison.”

I sidestep the “end up in prison” comment, and focus on the future. “With your experience, there are other things you can do. Corporate security. Private detective. Lecturing.”

“Wait tables at the local greasy spoon,” she mutters. “Make license plates.” After a moment, she turns her gaze on me. “Prison is a tough place for a cop. I’m scared.”

The urge to bolster her is powerful. But this isn’t the time for false reassurances. I know her too well to say something we both would know isn’t true.

When I say nothing, the brash façade ever present on her face flickers, and I catch a glimpse of the tangle of emotions beneath the surface: regret, the fear of the unknown, the knowledge that whatever fate doles out in the coming days and weeks won’t be easy and she will likely deserve it.