by E. M. Kokie
I reach over to touch her. “Are you —?”
“What the hell were you thinking?” She slaps me away. “You could have gotten us both . . .”
“What? Gotten us both what?”
“I don’t know,” she yells, throwing her hands into the air. “But he said to —”
“He had his hands on you. Screw staying in the car.”
“What were you going to do? Jump him? Fight him?”
“Not with him armed. And twice my size. But I was going to draw him away so you could get out of there. I was just —”
She starts laughing hysterically. She’s hysterical. When I try to touch her, she flings my hands away like she should have done with him.
“Don’t touch me! What the hell is wrong with you?”
What the hell is wrong with me? She’s the one who let him touch her and flirted and whatever with that asshole. But I’m the wrong one, again.
I can see the goose bumps popping out on her arms. The adrenaline leaving her.
“Bex . . .”
I wave away whatever she was going to say.
“I want to go home.” She sounds like a little girl.
“Okay. Are your grandparents home?”
“Where do you want me to drop you off?”
I look at her face. At the streaks and dirt and fear. At how scared she still is.
I should get out and walk back.
“Bex?”
I don’t want to be in this car for one more minute. But I can’t. I’m so tired, and my legs are like jelly. It would be miles, and I can’t call anyone to come get me. But I don’t want her anywhere near the access road. He might double back.
“Home. We’ll go the long way. Pull back out and go through town. We’ll pick up one of the county roads on the other side. Takes us far out of Deputy Creep’s way.”
I don’t talk except to give directions. She doesn’t talk at all.
“This is close enough,” I say when we near the turnoff.
“I don’t mind.”
I do. But she’s already turning down the drive, and then I see Dad’s truck.
“Here’s close enough. Really. Stop.”
She finally stops and then notices the truck. She knows I don’t want her to be seen.
I don’t even look at her. But I don’t get out, either.
I’m sorry, I think, but I don’t say it. I’m not really sure what I should be sorry for.
“Grandpa wants me to help him with some things around the house. And then my parents are coming and . . .” She scrambles for something to say. “I’ve got college stuff to get ready, so, so I’m not going to be around as much. And I think I’m going to head to Chicago early, to check out —”
“It’s fine.” We both know that whatever this was is over.
“I’ll give you a call when things calm down.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Sure.”
She won’t. And I won’t. But it’s better than saying good-bye.
“Go home the long way,” I say. “If that guy tries to pull you over, call —”
“He won’t. He thought I was in trouble.”
From me.
I can hear her say my name when I open the door, but it’s just for show. She doesn’t really want me to stay.
The walk to the house feels longer and dustier than ever. I fight the urge to look back.
I can’t tell if I’m devastated or relieved. Or if any of this even happened. I can barely feel my body. Not my feet walking step-by-step up the drive. Not my arms or legs. Nothing.
The hood of Dad’s truck is still warm, so he hasn’t been home that long. I try to keep my face calm. I just want to escape upstairs and lie in the dark and think. If I seem tense, he’ll know something’s up. He might decide to care.
“Dad?” I call from the kitchen. There’s a partially empty can of beer on the counter, a puddle of condensation under it. I can hear footsteps upstairs but not in Mom and Dad’s room. Overhead, then toward the stairs, then on the stairs.
That’s not Dad.
Mark bounds off the bottom step, stalking through the living room. He’s trying to look casual, but his face is giving him away.
The hairs on my neck stand up. Goose bumps break out along my arms. Everything in me is saying run. It’s like yesterday but worse. Like he’s on something. The look in his eyes. It’s even worse than with the deputy. But my feet are rooted to the floor, firmer with every step he takes toward the kitchen. Too late to move. If I run, he will chase me. I know he will.
He shoulders me aside on his way to the fridge. I wait for Dad.
There’s no sound upstairs. I strain to hear. Nothing.
“Where’s Dad?”
“Shut up, freak.”
Dad’s not here.
“Why do you have Dad’s truck?”
He doesn’t answer. He stands in front of the open fridge like he’s taking an inventory of the contents, like he didn’t already do that. Like he didn’t already eat. The beer has been there a while.
“Why do you have Dad’s truck?” I ask again.
“Mine crapped out. Again. Skip’s work is for shit.”
There’s sweat on his forehead and the back of his neck. It’s not that hot in here, and he’s standing in front of the open fridge.
He closes the fridge and then turns to face me. He cracks his neck, leaning back against the counter, all pretense gone.
“What do you want?” My voice gives me away, my nerves. He smiles.
“To see you, Sister,” he says with an even bigger fake smile. “What did you say to Riggs?”
What?
“You said you two had a little chat. What did you say?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?” He squints at me, like he’s trying to decide where to strike. “You had to have said something.”
Leave. I should leave. Now. “He asked how you were, and if you got a job or . . . because you haven’t been around, or not working with Darnell, or . . .” I need to leave. “I didn’t know what to say, so I said you got a good job, and . . .”
That fight-or-flight thing is still sounding in my head and shooting down my spine.
“Had to be more than that.”
His voice is weird, like it’s not even him.
I look at the clock. I don’t know where Uncle Skip is or when he’ll be home. Or Dad.
“One more time. What. Did. You. Tell. Him? He said you told him ‘everything.’ That I could trust him.” He steps toward the table, cracking his knuckles. “Kept saying I needed to talk to him.”
“Nothing, I swear.” Even I can hear the panic in my voice.
I edge around the table with tiny steps. As if I’m distracted, or still waiting. Anything to keep the table between us. He mirrors me. Breaking for outside won’t help. It’s too long across the coverless lawn to the trees, and there’s nowhere safe in the workshop. The locks won’t keep him out.
Stall. I need to stall. “What’s going on? I can help, if you’re in trouble, or . . . I can help.”
“I don’t need your help.” He stops the cat-and-mouse around the table. He smiles. I need to run.
My only chance is upstairs. Bedroom. Good lock. Shove the bureau in front of the door. Or I might be able to climb out and around on the roof. Buy enough time for Uncle Skip or Dad to come home.
“Then let’s try something else. What did Riggs say to you?”
I’ll only get one chance. “Nothing. I told you, about the job and . . .” I break left and he matches me, jerks me off my feet, tries for a hold, but I don’t let him get his arm around my head.
I feint left, and when he moves, I duck and move the other way. He’s stronger and faster than the last time we wrestled. I deflect and slap and try to maneuver my back to the living room door.
“Your girlfriend’s cute, for a dyke.” Shit. “Stupid to park somewhere people might see you, though.” He smirks. “I got some good pictures.” One e-mail and it would be everywhere by mornin
g.
His phone rings. I jump, and he jumps at me. Lunges around the table. I get him in the nose with the heel of my hand, but not a sharp enough hit.
“Dad would love to know about the stealing, the beer,” I gasp, kicking his leg and shoving him off balance, get the table between us again. “Uncle Skip would be more interested to know about Zach’s truck parked behind the station after hours. That you’ve all been going there, and here. That you were here. I’ll tell, I swear I’ll tell if you don’t —”
He shoves the table into me, knocking me into the wall. He’s there, hitting the wall next to my head. I almost get away, but his forearm is against my throat, pushing, pressure. His eyes. He’s not stopping. I try to talk, to reason, grab at his arm, but I can’t. I can’t breathe!
“If you don’t tell me . . .” he says, pressing harder, his eyes bulging.
I kick, scratch, claw. I aim for his eyes until he lets go. But he grabs me again. I twist, break the hold, slam my hand into his shoulder, turn, and drop him to the floor, stomp at his balls. He wails but grabs my leg, and I kick, kick until I’m free. Knocking chairs down behind me. Take the stairs as fast as I can.
I don’t hear him following, but I’m not taking any chances. I lock the door, push the bureau, using my hip to get it started and then the adrenaline to shove it a few inches in front of the door. In the closet, I push my duffel and stuff out of the way. The loose boards aren’t right. Shit. The Bobcat is gone. And the cash I had there. And some of the ammo. I move to the other side and pull up another board. The lockbox is still there with the rest of my cash, and next to it Grandad’s revolver. I grab a box of bullets with shaking hands as I hear his feet on the stairs. Slow. He’s walking.
I settle against the wall in the far corner away from the door, behind the bed. Grandad’s revolver. I pop the cylinder out and load it with shaking fingers. Bullets fall around me, but I just keep loading.
I hear his steps in the hall. They stop outside the door. Too quiet. He’s listening. I force myself to breathe slowly, try to calm my shaking hands. Snap the cylinder in and ready myself.
“I was just messing with you,” he says through the door. “You hear me?”
Does he think he can pretend that was, what, good times? Kidding around?
“You hear me?”
I aim for the door. First shot has to count. If I miss, I’ll only have maybe one more shot before he’s on me, if he’s crazed. If the first doesn’t stop him.
He rattles the doorknob. It won’t hold. If he wants in, it won’t hold.
I crawl closer to the bed for more cover, up on my knees, steady my arms on the bed. Wait for my shot.
He pushes against the door, not hard, not with force, just testing. He’s testing it.
“Go away,” I shout. I can hear the tears thick in my throat. I wipe my face, clear my throat, and try again. “I have Grandad’s revolver.” I can’t hear him. Creak of the door again. “I swear to God,” I yell. “I’ll shoot you. I will.”
Creaking floorboards, but he’s still there.
I steady myself, breathe, ready.
He backs away from the door, down the hall toward the bathroom. I track him through the wall. He must realize it because he moves fast in the other direction, away from me.
“Get out!” I yell. “Go! Go away!”
I strain to hear him.
His phone rings. Too close. He’s right there!
“Yeah. No, not yet.” He’s moving away across the hall. “She won’t. She won’t! Because I’m handling it. No, my dad or uncle could be home anytime. I said I’m handling it. We don’t need Glenn. We don’t need Glenn! Just . . .”
He stops midsentence, curses, and then kicks the wall. He’s down near Mom and Dad’s room.
Cursing. He’s cursing and muttering, “Not now. Not now. Stay cool.” More cursing. Footsteps, coming back, but not like before. He’s not going to try to break the door down.
“Sorry. I’m sorry,” he says. “But . . . keep your mouth shut. Or else Dad hears about everything.” My pulse thuds in my ears. “Bex . . .”
“Go away!”
“I’m hanging on to the Bobcat and your cash. Consider them hostages. If you keep your mouth shut, you get them back. If not, I give them to Dad. And after that, I tell them about all your lies, the skank you’ve been diddling. They’d never believe you anyway. Especially now that Dad thinks I’m making good money and being all responsible. You’re the liar, the one who likes to blow stuff up and has guns she’s not supposed to have. The defective one. So do us both a favor and keep your mouth shut.”
I try to steady my shaking hands. If he comes through that door . . .
“You hear me? Not a fucking word. You say a word to Dad, to anyone . . . you’ll wish you were never born.”
I wait until I hear his feet retreating down the stairs. Wait until I hear the truck start. Wait until it has faded away. Wait until I stop shaking. I wait with the gun in my lap.
I wait.
Maybe he was lying about having pictures of Lucy and me. Then it would be his word against mine. When the shaking stops, I dig my phone out of my pocket and delete every reference to Lucy — her number, our texts and e-mails. Anything that could give me away if Mom or Dad takes my phone.
But he’s right. They won’t believe me. They never do. They just believe everything he says. They’ll listen to me even less if he tells them about the Bobcat. And even if they listen, what can I tell them? They’ve seen us fight. They’ll think it’s like all the other times, or I’ll sound out of control. He’ll tell them I threatened to shoot him. Mom will go crazy.
He was scared. That I would tell, or something else? He was angry when I got here. Who was on the phone? Were they afraid I would tell something? Who’s Glenn?
He was looking for my cash. Because he needs money? Or was he looking because he wanted to shut me up? And what does he think I know? Or Riggs knows? What does Riggs think he knows? Is this all about who’s in charge? There’s money involved, and Zach and his dad could have been rallying people to their side. But . . . could all of this be about ousting Riggs?
My throat hurts where Mark had his arm. No, this isn’t about who leads Clearview. This has to be about more.
I should already know what’s going on. Especially if they’ve been coming here.
But I’ve been distracted.
That ends tonight.
No more distractions.
No more vulnerabilities.
I can’t say anything to anyone until I have some kind of proof. Something to make whatever he tells them irrelevant.
Until I know what the hell is going on, what has him so freaked out, freaked out enough to choke me. Until I know, I can’t let my guard down again.
I won’t let my guard down.
I look at Grandad’s revolver. Feel it in my hand.
So he has the Bobcat.
I have the revolver.
“I’m not going,” I say, pretending I can’t hear Mom’s response and that we haven’t had this argument three times since yesterday. She showed up at dinnertime with grand plans for me and her to go to Hannah’s play together tonight and then stay over in the city. We can do some shopping on Saturday. Go to brunch on Sunday, and then . . . Never mind that I have training Saturday and would rather poke myself with sharp objects than go to Hannah’s play or go shopping with Mom.
I haven’t seen or heard from Mark. I have no idea where Dad and Mom think he is, but I doubt he’s wherever he told them he’d be. His truck, however, is at the station. It was towed there yesterday. I have to get a look inside before he comes and cleans it out.
Thank God Uncle Skip had conscripted me into an extra-early-morning run to pick up a car or I’d probably already be in Mom’s car on the way to Aunt Lorraine’s.
“I’ll be there to pick you up at twelve thirty sharp,” Mom says louder, following me out onto the porch. “Do you hear me?”
“No. Let’s go.” Uncle Skip and Mike will
get to work, and then I’ll pull Mark’s truck apart, see if there’s anything in it to point to what the hell’s going on.
“You haven’t seen your cousin in ages,” Mom says, coming across the porch so she’s right next to Uncle Skip’s truck.
“Fine with me.”
“Rebecca Ann Mullin.” Crap. I turn around and face her. “Twelve thirty sharp. End of discussion.”
“Come on, Bex,” Uncle Skip says, distant through the closed truck door.
“Fine,” I say to Mom. I yank the passenger door open, and I’m hit with a mix of coffee, aftershave, and the whiff of oil that always clings to the inside of Uncle Skip’s truck.
“I’ll bring you a change of clothes,” she says, like she’s doing me a favor. Like I plan to be there for her to collect at twelve thirty sharp. I don’t.
“Buckle up,” Uncle Skip says, already in gear as soon as my door is closed.
By Thursday midday, Mark had already talked to Dad and given Dad some cash he said he earned for his insurance and to “help out.” Dad made a big deal about telling Mom at dinner last night, as if it proved that Clearview was paying off. Except that Mark hasn’t been working for Darnell, so that was probably my cash, or he got it some other way. Some way he’s not telling Dad. There has to be something in his mess of a truck that will give me a clue. Something to explain why he was so crazed. I could have shot him. I would have, if he’d tried to break down the door. Normal Mark would never have done any of that. Something, or someone, has him out of control. I need to know what, or who. I need at that truck before he cleans it out.
“Why are we doing this again?” Uncle Skip ignores the question. “Forty-five minutes in the wrong direction, and then back, on a Friday morning, so that . . . why?”
“Courtesy for a longtime customer.”
“And why are you wearing aftershave?” As soon as I say it, I realize why we’re going to pick up a customer’s car. As I watch, Uncle Skip’s face turns red, and then redder. “Hot damn. Why didn’t you say so?”
“Shuddup.”
I fiddle with the radio to find something other than Johnny Cash.
“Is she the one with the hair?” I use my hands to map the imaginary pile of hair on my head. “Or the blonde with the kickass boots?” His jaw tightens. “Those are some very nice boots.”