I grab the steering wheel like a man trying to strangle an intruder.
When I pull into the long drive, I go as fast as I dare and park behind the two cars there.
For a long second-a very long second-I sit there and look at the house and then at the handgun.
What are you doing, Chris?
Then I take the gun and climb out of the car, ignoring the voice of reason and heading toward the voice that needs me.
These are the things you don't expect will happen to you when you're sixteen years old.
Stepping up to the house of the girl you love holding a heavy gun in your hand.
Thinking of knocking, then instead trying the handle and finding it open.
Walking into a house uninvited, scared of what you'll find and pumped full of fearful adrenaline.
Hearing screams from the back, screams that you know belong to Jocelyn, screams that sound midway through something gone bad.
Tearing through a living room toward a hallway and then toward a slightly opened doorway where the screams are coming from.
You would shake if you weren't so determined. You would stall if you weren't so enraged.
Your foot kicks open the door, and the scene isn't surprising, but it's shocking nevertheless.
You see a figure clutching at her chest with bare arms, her shirt open and torn, her hair wild, her eyes tear filled, hate filled.
Jocelyn is screaming. Her jeans look like they have blood splattered on them. Her neck and shoulders bear the marks of nails scraping against the flesh.
You don't need to know any more.
Inside the bedroom with its large king-sized bed, the man with his back to you is shirtless, wearing only boots and dirty jeans.
A tattoo of a black-winged vulture covers his back.
And as the door slams against the side of the wall, he turns around.
Glowing embers stare back at you. Blood is smeared under one nostril and against his cheek. His fists curl.
These are the things you don't think will happen to you when you're sixteen years old.
But age and sense and peace and love don't exist in a place like this.
"Get away from her," I say.
The voice coming out surprises me, but I don't have time to stand and evaluate it and wonder how I feel about it.
"You really gonna use that?" Wade asks, his mouth and lips sickly wet.
I'm standing maybe ten feet away from him, pointing the gun at his head. "Don't make me."
He laughs at me and curses as Jocelyn screams out at me to stop.
"Don't make me laugh, little boy."
He takes a step, and I think for a split second and decide to go for it.
I press down on the trigger.
The gun is aimed at the wall and takes out a chunk of a dresser.
Jocelyn screams again; Wade curses and holds his head.
"Jocelyn, get out of here," I say.
Her shirt is ripped, hanging open, and I feel embarrassed so I look away.
"She's not going anywhere."
I point the gun back at him. "I don't think this is the first time you've hurt her, but I swear on my life, it's the last."
"You better swear on your life because it ain't going to be around much longer."
Jocelyn moves past Wade, and he puts out an arm, sending her back into the wall. She crumbles to the floor.
I aim and fire the gun again. It roars to life. A bullet hits the edge of the bed.
I fire a third time, and this bullet finds its way to Wade's lower leg.
He howls and drops like a poached animal as Jocelyn stands up and runs out of the room.
I look at the writhing figure on the floor and want to say something brilliant, something a tough guy might say in a movie. But I have nothing. I'm scared of him attacking me, scared of him dying, scared of what's going to happen to me.
We exchange a glance. Even though I'm scared, I don't back down.
He sees it in my eyes.
He knows what I'm capable of doing.
"Did he hurt you?"
"No."
She's wearing a coat and holding her arms across her chest as if she's still cold. I'm blasting the heat as I drive down the snowy road.
"Did he ... did he rape you?" I ask.
"No!" she says, louder, but she looks at me as though she's furious with me. "I'm not some delicate little flower that you need to save, Chris."
"Jocelyn, I didn't-"
"If you want someone that's pure and untouched, you best look somewhere else."
I shove the brake and send both of us into the dashboard. The car stalls at the edge of the road.
"Why are you yelling at me?" I say, my own voice none too soft. "You called me, and it looked like I got there just before something bad happened, so don't give me any attitude."
Jocelyn closes her eyes, and a sob leaks out of her.
I hold her then while she cries, and tell her I'm sorry and that it's going to be okay.
"We're going to go back to my house. Okay? He's never going to touch you again."
"I'm just-"
"Don't, Jocelyn. You don't have to explain. You don't have to say anything."
"It's just so ..." She's gasping for breaths between her cries. "I'm-I didn't want you to see-to know-"
"It doesn't matter. Nothing matters. The only thing that matters is that we get you to a safe place and then we notify the cops."
"Chris-I-"
"Shhh."
"I'm-I didn't want to pull you into this, but I didn't know what else to do."
"You did the right thing."
I feel her haggard breathing against mine, and I know that I did the right thing too.
When we get home I'm going to tell my mother everything.
I need some help with all of this.
My mom just shakes her head.
"What?" I ask.
This is the understatement of the year.
I just took off with her car, without a license and without telling her, and ended up shooting a guy in the leg just as he was attacking Jocelyn.
Yeah, so what?
I can tell she doesn't even know where to begin. I wouldn't if I were her.
Try walking in my shoes, Mom. There's a lot more I still haven't told you.
"Chris ..." she says, then stops.
She looks tired.
"I didn't want you to know-I didn't want to involve you, Mom. But sooner or later-I don't know."
It's a little past seven, and Jocelyn is sleeping in the next room, knocked out by some pills my mom gave her. When we first got home my mom started to launch into me till she saw Jocelyn by my side and I explained what happened.
Her first response, after taking Jocelyn in her arms, was to tell me to get the phone so she could call the police. But Jocelyn convinced her not to.
I'm not sure if it's because she's humiliated or trying to protect herself. Or trying to protect us.
I didn't tell Mom about the other stuff. I'm not sure how to begin.
"Where did you find the gun again?" she asks.
"In the closet upstairs."
"This is the second incident involving a gun, Chris."
"I had nothing to do with the one at school."
"And yet you shot a man tonight."
"What was I supposed to do?"
"You tell me, that's what you do." I can hear the desperation and anger in her voice. "You need to tell me things."
"She was in trouble, and I didn't know else what to do."
"You come to me. Now you're in trouble."
"He was going to hurt her, Mom. ... He would have raped her."
Mom shakes her head, then rubs her temple. Her hair is messy, bits of gray showing in the dirty blonde locks. The bags under her eyes seem dark and heavy.
"I should call your father."
"What?"
"He'd know what to do."
"Mom, you can't."
"Who else should I call?"
; "Don't. Don't involve him. It's none of his business."
She shakes her head again. "What'd you do with the gun?"
"I tossed it in the woods on the way home."
She nods, believing the lie.
"We have to tell somebody," she says.
"What's Wade going to do? Go to the cops and say he got shot while trying to rape his girlfriend's niece?"
"Her aunt needs to know."
"Her aunt is gone until Sunday."
"She needs to know. I would want to know."
"Let Jocelyn tell her," I say. "Tomorrow."
Mom sighs. "Why does all of this keep happening to us?"
"I don't know."
"I just keep thinking-keep hoping-but it just keeps getting worse."
"Things could've been a lot worse today."
"I'm not angry with you, Chris. But you have to tell me what's going on. Especially now that your father is out of the picture."
"It needs to stay that way, too."
"Chris."
"We can take care of ourselves."
Mom smiles, but I know that she doesn't believe my statement.
I don't think I do either.
An hour later, feeling restless and nervous and curious, I slip into my mom's bedroom and hear Jocelyn's gentle breaths as she sleeps.
I kneel on the edge of the bed. A fraction of light from the family room slips in, allowing me to just make out the profile of her head on its pillow.
Is it all random, how people meet and befriend one another and fall in love?
Is life completely random, or is there some big, fat purpose behind it all?
If God does exist, how can we explain all the truly horrific things that happen day after day after day?
Jocelyn stirs, and I wish I could hold her.
I dream of a time when I can be close to her.
I'm thankful nothing worse happened to her today. Thankful she called. Thankful that she allowed me in her life to help her.
I'm never going to let anything happen to you, Jocelyn. I'll die before I let anybody hurt you.
I lay a hand on the shoulder underneath the blanket. I hear her stir and say something, but I can't make it out.
Maybe my life and this move and the way things turned out with my parents were all meant for me to come across Jocelyn's path and help her. Maybe it was all meant to save her.
So who's going to save me?
I hear the restless wind outside and can't help shivering.
I think of the little puppy Midnight tucked away in the barn and think that maybe, just maybe, it's better to be hidden and secure in an unknown place rather than trapped by the eyes and ears of strangers who watch.
Strangers who wait.
Strangers who surely know what's happening.
It'd be nice to think that waking up in the same house as Jocelyn was romantic. But after a night of restless tossing, I come downstairs to find my mother and Jocelyn already awake.
So much for bringing her breakfast in bed.
It feels like summer camp, having Jocelyn here, seeing her raw beauty this early in the morning. It also feels natural, like she belongs here with us, like she is safe and secure and happy.
For a while this morning we believe it.
But that's before the cops come knocking on our door.
Jocelyn had to call her aunt. There was never a question about that. What she told her I didn't ask, but I got the feeling that she didn't mention anything about the shooting.
Yet she told her aunt enough.
About two o'clock Sunday afternoon we hear a car come up our drive. Mom opens the door to find a dark-haired woman wearing a strange combination of clothes-a long flowery dress and black leather boots and an overcoat that looks like it came from an apocalyptic movie-and Sheriff Wells standing behind her. When I see the sheriff I start to panic.
I'm going to go to jail and will never see Jocelyn or my mom again.
Mom doesn't sound like she's panicking. At least not on the outside. "Can I help you?"
"Where is she?" the woman says in an accent that seems to want to cover up her Southern roots.
"Are you Jocelyn's aunt?"
"Where is she?" the woman demands.
"Helen-it's fine, I'm in here."
My mother lets them in and closes the door behind them. I might as well hold out my hands and let the sheriff cuff me.
I can see a very faint resemblance between Jocelyn and her aunt-the long, dark hair, though Jocelyn's looks like a model's and her aunt's looks like a dwelling for a pack of wild birds. The eyes, too, though Aunt Helen has a hardened look about her, a look that's also missing something.
She looks kinda crazy.
I'd never say this out loud or to Jocelyn, but it's the truth.
I guess anybody willing to shack up with good ole Wade must be a little crazy.
"I called the law immediately," Helen says, making me slightly pause on her usage of the word law. "We went to the house right away."
"And?" Jocelyn asks for all of us.
"Place was deserted," Sheriff Wells says. "Looks like your uncle-"
"Step-uncle, though not technically," Helen asserts quickly.
"Well, whatever he is, looks like he's gone. Want to tell us exactly what happened?" the sheriff says.
"My aunt was gone on one of her excursions-"
"I collect antiques, dear."
"Yeah. And she left me with Wade. He was drinking all night and day. Kept talking about how cozy it was, just the two of us there alone. It's not ... not the first time he's come after me."
Her aunt looked as though she wanted to argue, but Jocelyn wasn't finished. "He took the keys to my Jeep so I couldn't leave. But when he went outside to his truck for something, I called Chris, and he came to my rescue."
Sheriff Wells turned to me. "And what did you do, son?"
"I got there and just-I just told him to stop."
Both the sheriff and Aunt Helen stare at me, waiting for more.
"I told him I'd called the cops and they'd be coming any second. That freaked him out."
"And that was all?"
For some reason Wells looks at me like I'm lying. Which, of course, I am.
"Yeah, that was it."
"So mind me asking where the two bullets came from? Along with the blood in the bedroom?"
"It was me," Jocelyn shouts out. "I did it."
"No, she didn't. She didn't do anything."
"What really happened?" the sheriff asks.
I swallow and look at Jocelyn.
Then I tell them the truth. Everything.
Well, almost everything.
"And you just tossed the gun out the car window?"
"Yeah," I say.
"Where?"
"I don't know. Somewhere in the woods-somewhere between there and here."
Wells stares at my mother for a while and seems to be thinking.
"That fool of a man-I told him to stop it-I told him he better get his mind back in the right place." Aunt Helen sits next to Jocelyn and looks her over. "He's gone, now, and he's probably gone for good."
"Look, why don't you ladies go out while I talk to Chris and his mother, okay?"
Jocelyn looks at me with a fearful glance, one that seems to say, Don't leave me. Don't let me go.
"Can I-" I start to ask.
"I just need a few moments," the sheriff says.
I nod as Jocelyn follows her aunt outside.
I hear the sheriff sigh and watch as he rubs his hand through thinning hair.
"Look. I know Wade-he's up to no good. He's had some run-ins with the police before. I know his kind. I wouldn't shed a tear if you'd killed the guy. He's probably already down to Florida by now, drunk out of his mind and probably needing a change of pants after you almost killed him. I doubt he'll be back."
I'm waiting to hear the verdict, waiting to hear the trouble I'm in.
"You keep your original story and that'll be the end of it. I'll have Jocely
n file an official complaint and that will be it. No gun and no shooting and no missing handgun. Got it?"
I nod.
"Thank you," Mom says.
"Listen to me. Both of you. Wade is a lowlife. And there's no guarantee he won't come back. You two are alone in this cabin, and I can't be driving by every moment of every day. You sure you got rid of that handgun?"
I nod and breathe in and don't blink, but I doubt the sheriff believes me.
"Well, if you did, if you really did, then you guys might think about getting some more protection. Mrs. Buckley, there are some dangerous people out there in this world, even around Solitary."
"You don't think that this has anything to do with what happened to me at the restaurant?"
The sheriff shakes his head. "That's what I don't like. You two are attractin' trouble, and I just-well, you might just want to think twice about Solitary."
"What about Solitary?"
"Being here."
"We're not going anywhere, Mr. Wells."
"I hear you. I know. I'm just sayin'."
"What exactly are you saying?"
I wait for a response, but the sheriff just nods. "Nothing. Except be careful."
"We're being careful. My son just happened to be called to help out a young girl in a precarious situation."
"I know. It's just-well, it seems like there are more and more of these-what'd you call 'em?-percarious situations."
"Precarious," Mom answers.
I look at the sheriff and wonder.
Can I trust him?
I wonder if I can tell him what's going on with Jocelyn. What's happening with her and what she suspects about this place.
"You folks gotta be careful, that's all I'm sayin'. I don't want to have to come back here if anything happens, got that?"
"I understand," Mom says.
The stern face looks at me, as if waiting for me to tell him more.
Don't, Chris. Not yet. Not now.
We walk outside and see Aunt Helen standing next to the police car with Jocelyn.
"I'll take them home," Sheriff Wells says. "I need to get a statement from Jocelyn."
I feel like I'm at the edge of an ocean watching Jocelyn getting into a boat heading into the stormy sea.
She hugs me and tells me it will be okay and she will call me later.
I want to ask what we do from here and where do we go and what happens next, but I know she doesn't have a clue anymore than I do.
Solitary: A Novel Page 24