lay there for a long time, covered in glass pebbles and pine needles, sticky with his own blood. He thought of Emma and he thought of his father. The woods smelled like burning hair, and he checked his arm hair and head just in case, but he was fine. He sat in the pine needles and waited for the Pittsfield police to arrest him. Smoke drifted through the trees. It was black and oily and not too thick. It moved around the tree trunks like it was looking for someone. After a while, he realized the police might not be coming.
When he stood and looked past the mangled Essex, he couldnât see the second cruiser anywhere. He could see the first, the one that had fired the tommy gun at him; it lay on its side in the field, a good twenty yards from where heâd last seen it bounce.
His hands had been chewed up by glass or fragments flying around inside the car. His legs were fine. His ear continued to bleed. When he found the rear window along the driverâs side of the Essex intact, he looked at his reflection and saw whyâno more left earlobe. It had been removed as if by a flick of the barberâs blade. Past his reflection, Joe saw the leather satchel that held the money and the guns. The door wouldnât open right away, and he had to put both feet on the driverâs door, which was unrecognizable as a door. He pulled hard though, pulled until he felt nauseated and light-headed. Just when he was thinking he should probably go find a rock, the door opened with a loud groan.
He took the bag and walked away from the field and deeper into the woods. He came upon a small, dry tree that was aflame, its two largest branches curving toward the fireball in its center, like a man trying to pat out his own burning head. A pair of oily black tire tracks flattened the brush in front of him, and some burning leaves listed in the air. He found a second burning tree and a small bush, and the black tire tracks grew blacker and more oily. After about fifty yards, he arrived at a pond. Steam curled along its edges and wisped off the surface, and at first Joe couldnât tell what he was seeing. The police cruiser that had rammed him had entered the water on fire, and now it sat in the middle of the pond, the water up to its windowsills, the rest of it charred, a few greasy blue flames still dancing on the roof. The windows had blown out. The holes the Thompson gun had made in the rear panel looked like the butts of flattened beer cans. The driver hung halfway out his door. The only part of him that wasnât black was his eyes, all the whiter for the charring of the rest of him.
Joe walked into the pond until he was standing on the passenger side of the cruiser, the water just below his waist. There was no one else inside the car. He stuck his head in through the passenger window even though it meant getting that much closer to the body. The heat radiated off the driverâs roasted flesh in waves. He leaned back out of the car, certain heâd seen two cops in that cruiser as theyâd raced across the field. He got another whiff of cooked flesh and lowered his head.
The other cop lay in the pond at his feet. He looked up from the sandy floor, the left side of his body as blackened as his partnerâs, the flesh on the right curdled but still white. He was about Joeâs age, maybe a year older. His right arm pointed up. Heâd probably used it to pull himself out of the burning car and fell into the water on his back, and it had stayed that way when he died.
But it still looked like he was pointing at Joe, the message clear:
You did this.
You. No one else. No one living anyway.
Youâre the first termite.
Chapter Four
A Hole at the Center of Things
B ack in the city, he dumped the car heâd stolen in Lenox and replaced it with a Dodge 126 he found parked along Pleasant Street in Dorchester. He drove it to K Street in South Boston and sat down the street from the house heâd grown up in
When he stood and looked past the mangled Essex, he couldnât see the second cruiser anywhere. He could see the first, the one that had fired the tommy gun at him; it lay on its side in the field, a good twenty yards from where heâd last seen it bounce.
His hands had been chewed up by glass or fragments flying around inside the car. His legs were fine. His ear continued to bleed. When he found the rear window along the driverâs side of the Essex intact, he looked at his reflection and saw whyâno more left earlobe. It had been removed as if by a flick of the barberâs blade. Past his reflection, Joe saw the leather satchel that held the money and the guns. The door wouldnât open right away, and he had to put both feet on the driverâs door, which was unrecognizable as a door. He pulled hard though, pulled until he felt nauseated and light-headed. Just when he was thinking he should probably go find a rock, the door opened with a loud groan.
He took the bag and walked away from the field and deeper into the woods. He came upon a small, dry tree that was aflame, its two largest branches curving toward the fireball in its center, like a man trying to pat out his own burning head. A pair of oily black tire tracks flattened the brush in front of him, and some burning leaves listed in the air. He found a second burning tree and a small bush, and the black tire tracks grew blacker and more oily. After about fifty yards, he arrived at a pond. Steam curled along its edges and wisped off the surface, and at first Joe couldnât tell what he was seeing. The police cruiser that had rammed him had entered the water on fire, and now it sat in the middle of the pond, the water up to its windowsills, the rest of it charred, a few greasy blue flames still dancing on the roof. The windows had blown out. The holes the Thompson gun had made in the rear panel looked like the butts of flattened beer cans. The driver hung halfway out his door. The only part of him that wasnât black was his eyes, all the whiter for the charring of the rest of him.
Joe walked into the pond until he was standing on the passenger side of the cruiser, the water just below his waist. There was no one else inside the car. He stuck his head in through the passenger window even though it meant getting that much closer to the body. The heat radiated off the driverâs roasted flesh in waves. He leaned back out of the car, certain heâd seen two cops in that cruiser as theyâd raced across the field. He got another whiff of cooked flesh and lowered his head.
The other cop lay in the pond at his feet. He looked up from the sandy floor, the left side of his body as blackened as his partnerâs, the flesh on the right curdled but still white. He was about Joeâs age, maybe a year older. His right arm pointed up. Heâd probably used it to pull himself out of the burning car and fell into the water on his back, and it had stayed that way when he died.
But it still looked like he was pointing at Joe, the message clear:
You did this.
You. No one else. No one living anyway.
Youâre the first termite.
Chapter Four
A Hole at the Center of Things
B ack in the city, he dumped the car heâd stolen in Lenox and replaced it with a Dodge 126 he found parked along Pleasant Street in Dorchester. He drove it to K Street in South Boston and sat down the street from the house heâd grown up in
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