by Arlene Hunt
The first time he’d hunted another human, something in Caleb had shifted, some internal spring had been sprung. After that he shot animals only to keep the freezer full and over time his interest in this other sport consumed him completely.
Caleb liked to think of her ‒ his first. Though five years had passed he could recall every detail.
Her name was Angie. She had been hitchhiking illegally just outside Ashville when he stopped and offered her a ride. She told him she’d hitchhiked all over America, that she’d been on her own since she was fifteen. She offered him some weed and laughed when he told her he had never done it. She was vibrant and flirty. She asked him if it was cool to turn on the radio and then she sang along to every song at the top of her lungs.
He had not intended to kill her.
Not at first.
Ten miles before they reached Hickory, he’d pulled off the road, aiming to get to know her better, thinking he might try a kiss and if she refused he’d just dump her and leave her to walk to civilization. But something had triggered her alarm bells. Maybe she had been too streetsmart for him; maybe hiking had its own rules. All Caleb knew was that when the truck slowed, she leaped out, hit the ground and took off running.
At first Caleb thought he ought to drive away. He told himself he hadn’t actually done anything wrong. But then he panicked. She might recognise the truck and report him for kidnapping or attempted assault. Kidnapping was a hard cloud to shake. Caleb had already spent time inside for petty larceny and one case of ABH, and had nearly gone stark raving mad with the confinement. He vowed never, ever to let that happen to him again. He wasted almost five minutes in this state of panic until it occurred to him that he had other options.
Once the decision was made, Caleb’s nerves settled rapidly. Streetsmart or not, she was in his domain now. He grabbed his bow from behind his seat and set off after her, embarking on a path that would change the course of his life forever.
Caleb located Marcie as she grabbed a cab outside her home and trailed her northwest to a motel, Brookshire Boulevard on Interstate 85. She went inside and did not appear again until after midnight. Caleb waited, watching the parking lot. He noted the steady trickle of single male drivers who came and went with perfectly timed regularity.
Blatant.
Her shift over, Caleb trailed Marcie back across town. This time the cab dropped her outside a 7-Eleven half a block from her home. She went inside and bought a few things. When she came out, she put a cigarette in her mouth, lit it and started walking, blowing twin streams of smoke into the air from her nostrils.
Caleb put the car into drive and pulled onto the street. She quickened her pace as he drew alongside her, without making it obvious she had noticed him. Caleb rolled down the window. ‘Marcie!’
She slowed, glanced at him using a side eye, and stopped.
‘I know you,’ she said bending into window. ‘What do you want?’
‘To talk.’
She looked up the street, her hand resting on the door. Her fingernails were coated in metallic green nail varnish, some of them chipped.
‘I’m sorry about what happened with your friend. I felt bad.’
‘Yeah?’ Her head dropped into view again. ‘How’d you know where I was at?’
‘I asked around.’
‘Asked who?’
‘Someone at the clinic told me you lived near here.’
Marcie looked at him again, suspiciously. ‘So you’re feeling kind of … sorry.’
‘I could see your friend was hurting. It’s just that Dorothy—’
‘That big-mouthed bitch.’
‘—warned me about you; she said not to help.’
‘She was sufferin’ bad, man, real bad. Nearly flipped her switch.’
Caleb said nothing. He wasn’t sure what there was to say to that. Marcie looked at him, licked her lips and took another drag from her cigarette. ‘Sorry don’t come cheap.’
‘Can I buy you a drink?’
Marcie hesitated again, mulling him over. Caleb smiled at her goofily. After a moment, she pitched her cigarette away and opened the door. She slid into the front seat and turned to him.
‘You got a place we can go?’
‘I do,’ Caleb said.
15
Darla Levine watched the news headlines slumped in her chair, her bare legs crossed at the ankle.
‘Lee was right. The story is not even top quarter of the hour.’
Chippy shrugged. ‘They ain’t gonna wait forever, the dead are buried. What more do they got to say?’
‘This story was my chance, you dumb shit. You think Rockville’s going to throw up another like this?’
‘I hope not, man. I could live without that kind of thing.’
Darla rested her chin on her hand. ‘There’s got to be something I’m not seeing, some angle I can use to fan the embers a little longer. If I could put together some … something kind of special…’
Chippy yawned and rubbed his jaw. ‘So what you wanna do?’
‘I don’t know yet. Find a new angle.’
‘I’m gonna go get some coffee. You want?’
‘Sure. Make sure it’s decaf would you, I have a splitting headache.’
‘What time we gotta go see that woman about the – what you call it – swige? The shit that’s killin’ her pond.’
‘You had it right with shit.’
‘What time?’
‘What does it matter? Time we have at our disposal, don’t we Chippy?’
Chippy looked confused, but he knew better than to push her, so he left her office. Darla remained in her chair, brooding, her fingers drumming on her desk.
Sewage … yep, just like her career.
Her thoughts inevitably returned to Jessie Conway. The teacher confused and confounded her. She’d learned from a number of sources that the bigger networks had offered Jessie a literal fortune for her story and that she had turned them down. Who did that? Who ran from fame and money like that? No one – at least no one she had ever met. Darla simply could not fathom the teacher’s position. It didn’t make any sense. None of it did. Darla did not believe in pure altruism and she sure as hell did not swallow the reluctant hero act. So why was Jessie Conway so reluctant to talk to the press? Why duck glory? It was almost as though she was ashamed to be a hero. But why? What was she afraid of?
Darla chewed the inside of her cheek. Then she grabbed her phone and dialled. Her call was answered on the second ring and an irritated voice said, ‘Whut?’
‘Hey Dallas. It’s Darla, I need to speak to him.’
‘He ain’t here.’
‘Where is he?’
‘How should I know where he’s at? I ain’t his fucking keeper.’
‘Okay.’
‘You do see the gutless coward, you tell him to come collect his shit before I burn the lot of it out in the front yard.’
Darla disconnected and dialled a different number. If Billy and Dallas were on the outs it stood to reason he had gone back to his second wife, again.
A gruff forty-a-day voice answered after a number of rings. ‘Yeah?’
‘Sally, it’s Darla. Billy around?’
‘Hold on.’
She heard the phone being lowered and few moments later a voice said, ‘Yo.’
‘That is one complicated life you lead, Billy. How on earth do you find the time?’
‘Darla! How nice to hear from a little ray of sunshine on an otherwise shitty day. How you doing, doll?’
‘Doing good, Big B. I’ve got a job for you if you’re interested.’
‘What kind of job?’
‘Digging.’
‘Usual fee?’
‘Sure.’
‘Then I’m interested. But I’m going to be tied up here for a couple of hours. Want to come by the office later?’
‘Sure. I’ll swing by, say about six.’
‘What’s the gig?’
‘I want you to chase up a woman for me.�
��
‘She good-looking?’
‘She’s married.’
Billy laughed. ‘Can’t say that ever dissuaded me none. Swing by, we’ll talk.’
16
‘How is Jessie holding up?’
Mike accepted the coffee Fay offered him and carried it to the breakfast bar. Fay’s kitchen was bright and sun-filled. It smelled of cinnamon and apples from the pie she had baked earlier, and her ancient labrador, Ollie, lay sleeping soundly in the doorway leading to the internal courtyard. It was a beautiful day. Everything was as it should be. Yet nothing was.
‘Well?’
Mike sipped his coffee, stalling for an answer. It was hot and burned his lip. He winced and put it down. ‘To tell you the truth I don’t know. I can’t really say how she is.’ He thought of Jessie as he had left her that morning, curled up with their dog Rudy on the end of the sofa in the living room. She had been sitting there, staring into space. The television had been on, but she was not watching it, and when he spoke to her she had barely acknowledged him.
‘Well,’ Fay said, turning her cup. ‘Tough times never last, tough people do.’
‘Has that reporter called again?’
‘She called the other day, but not since then.’
‘What did you tell her?’
‘The same thing I told her the last time she called, I asked her to stop pestering my family. I complained to the paper too. For all the good that will do. I think Rosemary Keel from Keel Furnishings has some sway with their advertising department. I’m going to give her a call. They might sit up and take notice then.’
‘I hope so. That Levine woman is like a dog with a bone.’
Fay wiped her immaculate countertop with a clean cloth. ‘Truthfully, Mike, I understand her interest.’
‘Do you? Those people are vultures. Jessie gave her statement to the relevant authorities and she issued a press release – that ought to be the end of it.’
‘Folk are hurting, Mike. They are trying to make sense of what happened. Like it or not, Jessie is a part of that.’
‘Jessie can’t fix them,’ he said. ‘She can’t even fix herself.’
‘You know I’ve been thinking about that.’ Fay put down her cloth and looked squarely at him. ‘Might be good to get her out of the house, bring her out of herself a little.’
‘She doesn’t want to go anywhere. I don’t know what else to do about that. I don’t … I can’t make her go places.’ Mike looked at the sleeping dog for a while. When he spoke again he sounded tired and defeated, even to his own ears. ‘I don’t want to keep pushing her either, Mom. She’s real fragile right now.’
‘I could ask Pastor Williams to speak with her?’
‘I don’t think that would be a good idea right now.’
‘Oh, she’s not still mad about that little old talk he did, is she? My Lord, the man was asked his opinion. He had to say something.’
‘She’s not mad about that,’ Mike lied, ‘she’s not up for visitors.’
Fay laid her hand on his and patted it. ‘You look worn out. How have you been doing?’
‘I’m doing fine.’ It was a lie and they both knew it, but they were family and what passed between them didn’t always need to be spoken aloud.
‘Tell you what,’ Fay said, brightening, ‘why don’t we have a barbeque here on Saturday afternoon – nothing too formal. Food and family.’
Mike hesitated. The way Jessie was feeling, he figured a barbeque would not be high on the agenda. On the other hand, Fay was right, Jessie needed to start interacting with people again. ‘I’ll run it by her.’ Mike finished his coffee and kissed his mother goodbye.
He drove into town to the hardware store on Granard Street and parked out front. He bought a roll of chicken wire and some heavy-duty clips to mend a tear in the perimeter fence around the property. At the desk, he paid his money and politely answered enquires after Jessie’s wellbeing from the well-meaning proprietor. He left the store, loaded his purchases into the back of the truck, climbed into the cab and drove towards home.
Halfway to the house, he turned left instead of right and found himself heading out of town to where his brother lived, fifteen miles north of Rockville in a shabby trailer park near the county line. When he got there Ace’s truck was nowhere to be seen and the trailer, dusty and sagging in the sunlight, was empty. Captain, Ace’s dog, came out from under the trailer to the end of his chain and gave a few unenthusiastic barks to let Mike know he was aware of his presence. Captain hated to be left behind, and Ace rarely did so unless he had plans of various shades on the go.
Mike checked there was water in Captain’s bowl and then sat on the wooden steps, rubbing the dog’s head. He had no idea why he was there. It was not like Ace would offer him advice, even if he had any; that wasn’t his brother’s way. Hell, Ace could barely take care of himself. Or maybe Ace had the right idea. Maybe being unfettered and beholden to no one was how the game ought to be played.
Two little kids with dirty knees and deeply tanned faces pedalled past the trailer, making sure they got themselves a good look at the stranger in their midst. They rode to the end of the street and back. The bigger of the two pulled up, popped his bike stand and dropped one foot to the ground.
‘You looking for Ace, mister?’
‘I was.’
‘He ain’t here.’
‘I see that.’
‘He went off this mornin’.’
‘I see.’
‘With his friend with the wonky eye.’
‘Right.’
The boys glanced at each other. Clearly, they expected this information to be enough to get Mike moving.
‘Why’re you waitin’, mister?’
Mike shrugged. ‘Seems the thing to do.’
‘You say so.’
They pedalled away.
Mike listened to the breeze move through the branches of the trees behind Ace’s trailer. He rubbed Captain’s ears and noticed a fine dusting of grey on the hound’s snout. He thought of how fleeting life could be. He thought of Alan Edwards and Tracy Flowers, people he had not known well, but liked and respected. Finally, he thought of Jessie, of how her eyes drifted whenever he tried to talk to her, of how she flinched at sounds, of how she moved away from him if he touched her at night and cried silently when she thought he was asleep. He thought of all that she had lost – her friends, her dignity, her peace of mind – and he felt angered and guilty. He thought about the future, and for the first time in his life, Mike Conway could not see where it might lie. Everything had been blown apart the day two boys decided it might be something to show the world the power of their savagery. Now, the wrongs they had felt rested on everyone, on the lives of the families trying to cope with the deaths of their loved ones, the survivors, the wounded. Everyone had lost something irretrievable.
Mike watched as a bank of clouds moved across the sun, briefly darkening the valley. He stood up and walked to the truck, and felt as he walked, his own heart fall into shadow.
17
Jessie stared at the television screen but neither saw nor heard what was playing. She was dazed from exhaustion and felt hollow and wrung out. The night before had been another in a growing chain of sleepless hours. The air was still, her bed comfortable, but whenever she reached a point where she might fall asleep an image would rise up from her memory and jolt her into wakefulness again. In the end, she had got up, preferring to wander the house than lie there listening to Mike breathing steadily and deeply beside her.
Hector Diaz. She did not know why his face haunted her dreams, but every night he was there, waiting for her. Every night she saw him raise his arm, watched him fall and saw the bright bubbles of blood and his stained teeth. Every night he smiled at her until the light went from his eyes and she sat up feeling hot tears on her face.
‘Hey.’
Mike stood in the doorway of the living room in his boxer shorts, hair tousled, still puffy-faced from sleep.
‘Hey.’
‘How long you been up?’
‘A while?’
‘You sleep at all?’
‘A little.’
Mike crossed his arms and studied her. She knew he wasn’t buying what she was selling.
‘There’s coffee made.’
‘How’s your head?’
‘Oh,’ she lifted her hand to her temple, ‘better I think.’
Mike looked as though he might say something else, but instead turned and headed for the kitchen.
Jessie attempted small talk until Mike was ready for work, but she was glad when he backed out of his parking space and drove up the lane out of view. She had something in mind and could not bear to have him scrutinise her. After he had gone, she took a shower, got dressed, climbed into her car and drove towards town. She knew where she was going, even if she had no idea what she would do once she got there.
She turned into a small dusty street that backed onto the old railway line. She counted houses, then pulled over and switched off the engine. Jessie looked at the house through her windscreen, drinking in the details. She had never been there in person, but had seen it many times on the television. It was a squat, flat-roofed building with a plastic corrugated porch. There was a racing bike double-chained to the railings that led to the front door. It was rusty and the saddle was torn so badly that much of the yellow foam stuffing was visible. The windows were closed tight, the curtains drawn. The woodwork was in need of fresh paint and the garden, little more than patchwork scrub, was littered with broken glass and dried dog faeces the colour of cedar ash.
Someone had spray painted ‘killer’ across the front of the house. It had been whitewashed over, but the outline of the words remained visible.