by Ivy Pochoda
So that’s it, he thought. Wake up in a hotel in the morning. Take the best shower of your life. And the next night you’re brought low, reduced to nothing, as broke and busted as the rest of the people outside.
Ren staggered down the street, sick, disoriented, waiting for what remained of his vision to return. He squinted at the street signs until he found Crocker. Halfway down the block he scored a flattened cardboard box. He dragged it up toward Fifth.
He closed his eyes, tricking himself into believing that this was a precursor to sleep. But he could feel his heart thudding in his bruised cheeks, rattling his swollen gums, pulsing in his split lip.
The first couple of months in juvie Ren was so scared that being scared became part of the everyday. It was his condition—like exhaustion or asthma, so routine that he learned to overlook it. He knew better than to let his fear show. Like the rest of the boys, he put on armor, an exoskeleton. Nothing in, nothing out. But he was scared now. It just took him a moment to realize it. He’d learned to hide his fear for so long, he forgot what fear felt like.
But he recognized it now—a live wire jacking his veins, constricting his breath, making him tense his muscles so tight he shook. He lay like that for hours—his body rigid, his heart battering his chest. Then, exhausted from the effort it took to stay scared, he drifted off. And for the first time in over a decade he slept in the same space as his mother.
7
BRITT, TWENTYNINE PALMS, 2006
The smell of the slaughter was a second skin, a dank, animal odor that crept into Britt’s hair, under her nails, and transferred to the sheets and pillow. It felt as if the gore from the chickens had been rubbed into her pores by all the sand and grit—a gruesome exfoliation. The stagnant air in her cabin didn’t help. It just made the death scent hang heavy and close.
Britt flung back the stiff sheet and held up her hands to the window. Blood ringed her cuticles. She could feel it matted in her hair. She swore she could taste it.
Grace had been right. After the first few birds, it hadn’t been so bad. Once Britt had taken over with the sledgehammer, she’d forgotten about the actual killing, focusing instead on hitting her mark. It wasn’t all that different from a service motion—backswing, knee bend, weight transfer, and follow-through. Britt had landed one hundred direct hits. None of the other interns would have posted the same score. Britt was sure of that.
She had worked hard, trying to lose herself in the endeavor, exert herself into blackout exhaustion, where the fatigue in her body overcame the awareness from her mind. With each swing of the hammer, she brought herself closer to the moment when she could cease to be in the present, become nothing more than a mindless machine, lost in the pain and unconscious of the reason she’d found herself in this desert.
Her muscles were sore from disuse. There were blisters on her too-soft palms from the hammer’s heavy, wooden handle. Her right shoulder ached. Her bicep, too. She squeezed and flexed the muscle, enjoying the brief, satisfying painful spasm. Because it had been worth it, knocking those heads off, one after another. Britt hadn’t taken her eyes off her target but she knew without looking that everyone was watching her as she swung the heavy hammer in one graceful motion. It was grotesque and exhilarating.
This high had carried over into the party. After draining a jam jar of Grace’s sweet red wine and taking a few tokes from Gideon’s seedy joint, Britt had to admit that the night sky over the ranch really was a miracle and that maybe that big, smiling moon was transmitting some kind of lunar energy into her body like Anushna, the green-eyed, bottle-blond intern with the phony name, had claimed as she twirled around the fire pit, sparks alighting on her long skirt.
Britt’s high had continued when Patrick had held out his hands, asking her to dance. It had helped her forget that in the daylight he hadn’t seemed special at all. In fact, in his cutoff khakis, his old polo, and his perma tan, he didn’t look much different from her father’s crew of Florida salty dogs who wasted the day at the marina downing Long Island iced tea and talking marlin. It had allowed her to ignore that, when she’d first laid eyes on him that morning as he’d prepped the interns for the slaughter, she’d nearly laughed out loud that this dude in his weathered piqué shirt and wraparound shades was the magnificent him Gideon and Cassidy couldn’t shut up about—the man who could pan for the hidden gold in your soul. Cassidy’s words, not Britt’s.
As Patrick had spun her away from the fire, his rough hands on her back and shoulder, the weed, the wine, and the day’s kill had tricked her into thinking that yes, there was something in his touch, something electric or probing, something that slipped beneath her skin. But then that boy had shot the hawk—a thousand-to-one chance, Britt figured—and she’d snapped back to the raw reality of the ranch and the people who lived there.
Owen’s bullet had scattered the interns, like he’d been aiming at them. They’d all scurried back to their cabins. But the thick adobe walls of Britt’s room couldn’t block out the sound of the boy crying as Patrick made him pluck the hawk or the gagging sound he made as he was forced to eat it. Britt had jammed the pillow over her head, smothering herself in her own blood-and-smoke scent, and waited for sleep.
THE DESERT HAD STAYED UP ALL NIGHT AND ONLY QUIETED AS THE SUN broke bright over the mountains outside Britt’s window. The day was already bleak with heat when she stepped out of her cabin, a relentless white-hot sear that quickly dried her eyes and lifted her own scent into her nostrils.
Ash from the fire was scattered over the ground, and the sand was littered with refuse from the party that had been abandoned when Owen brought down the hawk. The bird’s bones and feathers were piled in a heap, making the place look like the sight of a ritual sacrifice. Britt wondered if the interns would scavenge these for their jewelry or if this particular bird was off-limits.
The sun shower hanging from the dead Joshua tree was empty, its plastic bag limp and heat melted. That left the pond in the oasis.
Britt dropped her clothes on a flat rock and waded in. The water was slick with a slippery film of mud that cupped her ankles. She dipped her head and tried to clean the blood from her hair. She scrubbed her nails and worked the dirt from between her toes.
The buoyancy of the water made floating easy and Britt drifted across the pond, deep into the shadows thrown by the palms. From here all the buildings of Howling Tree Ranch were invisible. There was only the silty water and the whispering trees that framed the sky, reducing it to a pristine blue oval.
There was a chance that her parents, or possibly the police, had been able to follow her movements to the desert. When she’d tried to buy a bus ticket to Palm Springs, she was told her credit card was declined and knew they’d canceled it. They would have known she’d been at the Greyhound depot and it was possible they’d even learned where she’d been headed.
But it didn’t matter. There was no way they would be able to track her to this ranch, into this pond, deep in these shadows. And in the water, if Britt closed her eyes, sank below the surface, held her breath a little bit too long, she could forget that drive down the twisted road of Laurel Canyon. She could forget how the small SUV skidded, tumbled once, then landed upside down, caught by two trees. She could forget how she’d been trapped, strapped in tight by her seat belt, the radio somehow landing on a classical music station that she couldn’t reach to switch off. Because that’s what she needed to do—forget all of that. Outrun it. Keep running.
She heard a splash and felt the water ripple against her body. She came up for air. Cassidy was swimming into the middle of the pond. She dove deep, then surfaced, kicking onto her back so her nipples popped out of the water. Her tangle of braids and dreads fanned out behind her, twisting and turning Medusa-like, letting off oil into the water.
Britt stayed in the shadowed shallows. But Cassidy had noticed. “The water is like a million miracles in your hand. Can you feel it?”
Britt tore her fingers through her tangled hair. “I’m just w
ashing off.”
Cassidy kicked backward, sending herself closer to Britt. She reached out and took a lock of Britt’s hair in her fingers. She twirled and twisted. “There’s blood in your hair,” she said, paddling to shore to retrieve a bottle of astringent castile soap she’d brought down to the pond.
She swam around behind Britt and tipped the bottle into her matted hair. Britt could feel Cassidy’s soft belly pressing into her sacrum. Her breasts at her shoulder blades. She tensed, as if her stiff muscles could form a barrier between their bodies.
“Relax.” Cassidy began to work the soap into Britt’s scalp. “Our bodies are beautiful.”
Britt had grown up in girls’ locker rooms, suffering through her own body’s transformation in front of strangers and competitors. So she was pretty familiar with the female body and the lies told about it. Not that she was ashamed. She hadn’t been one of those girls who’d cowered in the toilets, changing their clothes hidden out of sight, elbows banging against the walls and sanitary napkin disposal. Nor had she ever learned to contort her limbs to remove her bra and underwear without exposing her privates. But that didn’t mean she wanted someone coming as close as Cassidy was.
Cassidy was taking her time, combing her fingers through Britt’s hair, twirling the ends and spreading the strands through the water. “You must be haunted by all those dead birds.”
“Not really.”
“No?” Britt could feel Cassidy begin to twist her hair into a braid. “Owen didn’t understand either. It should always bother you to take life.”
“It sounded like he was taught his lesson,” Britt said.
Cassidy finished the braid and tugged on it once. “You think Patrick’s punishment was unfair.”
“It was kind of harsh.”
“We’ve all danced with him,” Cassidy said. “It doesn’t mean you know him.” She swam out from behind Britt’s back. “He belongs to all of us.” Then she pressed her lips onto Britt’s forehead. “Together we are abundant.”
Britt could smell Cassidy’s greasy sage scent and the bitter aftertaste of last night’s weed and wine on her breath.
Cassidy pulled back at the sound of someone crashing over the desiccated ground cover beneath the palms.
“Where is he?”
Grace was standing at the water’s edge. Her brittle gray-blond hair was wilder than yesterday. Her breasts swung loose underneath one of Patrick’s faded polos. She was barefoot.
“Where is he?”
“Who?” Cassidy swam toward the middle of the pond. She dipped her head, turning her face into the full force of the sun.
“You know who,” Grace said.
“Patrick?”
“Patrick?” Grace gave a short, bitter laugh, like a twig snapping. “Patrick. Patrick, always Patrick. Cassidy, look at me.”
Cassidy went under and emerged in the shallows close to Grace. She stood, water dripping from her buttocks and breasts, and wound her hair into a knot.
From across the pond, Britt could see the whites of Grace’s wild eyes. “Not Patrick. Owen.”
“I haven’t seen him,” Cassidy said.
“What about you?” Grace stared over the water to Britt. “Do you know where he is?”
A water bug skimmed the surface in front of Britt’s nose. “I have no idea.”
“What did you say to him?” Grace said. “Did you tell him that it’s okay to follow his own path? That he’s on some sort of cosmic trip and he needs to lose himself before he can be found?”
“Grace—” Cassidy held out her hands.
Grace swatted her away. “You might live on my ranch. You might worship my husband. But if you come near my son, there isn’t enough universal goodness or spiritual beauty to save you.”
Britt stared at Cassidy’s back, watching the water slide down her shoulders and pool above her hip bones.
“You think I don’t know what goes on around here,” Grace said. “You think that I’m just some dumb woman blinded by my husband and his magical powers. But I know.”
“Maybe he was just pissed off,” Britt said. Because that’s how she would have felt if her father had shamed her into eating roasted hawk. “That was messed up last night.”
Grace glared at her. “You just got here,” she said, “and you’re judging us.” She stared Cassidy down until her concentration was broken by the sound of wheels coming up the driveway as a cruiser from the sheriff’s station rolled into view.
Cassidy flopped back into the pond as Grace went to meet the deputies. She swam over to Britt and laced their fingers together. “We need to be the ones to find Owen,” she said. “We need to be the ones to bring him home.” Then she started pulling Britt to shore.
“I’ll wait here,” Britt said.
She didn’t want anything to do with those cops or sheriffs or whoever they were.
“Patrick needs us,” Cassidy said. “Together we are never alone.”
Britt pulled her hand away. “I’m fine.”
“Hiding something?” Cassidy said, grasping for Britt’s hand again. “Do you have a secret you’re not telling?”
Britt could see the rest of the interns shuffling over to the cruiser. It would be worse for the cops to have to come find her if they wanted to talk to her. It would be worse to stand out. “Of course not,” she said and allowed Cassidy to lead her out of the pond.
SHE PULLED HER CLOTHES OVER HER WET SKIN. NO ONE KNOWS YOU’RE here, she told herself. They’re looking for Owen. Only Owen. And anyway, she didn’t know what had happened after the SUV rolled off the road in Laurel Canyon. She hadn’t stuck around.
She followed Cassidy to the driveway and faced the deputies, a man and a woman whose mirrored sunglasses reflected the distorted bubble of the distant mountains behind her back.
THE INTERNS, PATRICK, AND GRACE STOOD IN A SEMICIRCLE. THE DEPUTIES’ crisp khaki uniforms were in stark contrast to the batik, beads, and sandals of the group gathered in front of them. Patrick had his arm around Grace’s shoulder.
“So exactly what goes on around here?” the male deputy said. His slick hair glistened in the sun.
“We raise chickens,” Grace said.
“All of you?”
Grace removed Patrick’s arm from her shoulder. “What is that supposed to mean?”
The deputy removed his sunglasses and wiped sweat from the bridge of his nose. “People talk about this place.”
Anushna opened her mouth, but Patrick held up his palm.
“People say a lot of things,” Grace said. “But this is just a chicken farm, and my husband is a practitioner of alternative medicine.”
“And who are they?” The deputy put his glasses back on and looked at the interns, their faces stretched into funhouse shapes in his lenses. His partner kicked the dirt, scattering red dust over the toe of her shiny boot.
“Those are our interns,” Grace said. “They volunteer.”
“You mean you don’t pay them.”
“They’re here to learn,” Grace said.
“Jesus. Some life.” The female deputy took out a pad and flipped it open. “Now any of you interns have any idea why this kid would want to run away?”
The entire group shook their heads as one.
“Any of you care to say that out loud?” she asked.
The interns muttered and assured the deputies that Owen loved Howling Tree Ranch, that he belonged on the farm, that it was part of his spirit and he was part of its.
“His spirit,” the female deputy said. She didn’t write that down.
Only Britt remained silent. The woman faced her so Britt saw her dirt-streaked face turned bulbous in her glasses. “And you are?”
“Britt.”
“And you agree with rest of them?”
“She just got here the day before yesterday,” Grace said. “She doesn’t know anything.”
“So, Britt,” the officer said, tapping her pen on her pad, “is there any reason you can think of that Owen ran away?�
��
A million and a half, she thought. And you’re looking right at all of them. But if the deputy was too dumb to see that, she wasn’t going to help her out. “No,” she said.
“Got a last name, Britt?”
The name she gave wasn’t hers. She watched the deputy write it down, before moving on to the next intern.
But that was only a temporary fix. She knew she couldn’t leave, not while the boy was still missing. Because, fake name or not, her departure would attract attention—the girl who ran away during a crisis. Then the deputies would be sure to take a second look. Then they’d be able to put together the pieces, the girl who ran from the farm was the girl who ran from the SUV, who’d left the scene.
8
BLAKE, WONDER VALLEY, 2006
Sam’s ankle was bad. The bone protruded, and the skin around it had crusted a purplish black. The dirty floodwater that had entered the wound was going to be trouble if they didn’t get some iodine. With a warrant out on Sam for murder—albeit for one that he claimed he hadn’t meant to commit—a hospital was out of the question. There was no sense in getting locked up for having the bad luck to get your leg broken.
The men had been fixing each other up for years—sewing stab wounds with dental floss and resetting broken noses. Blake had even spent an entire day removing buckshot from Sam’s shoulder with tweezers. But this ankle was a different story.
There was no one around to hear Sam’s scream as Blake straightened the big man’s foot, drawing the bone shard back inside. He used his cleanest bandanna to wash the cut with his last sip of water, then tied it off with a scrap from a T-shirt. He’d try stitching it up when they got where they were going and hope infection wouldn’t set in. The Samoan would never walk right again, but maybe he’d walk. And that was best-case scenario.