Gun Shy

by Lili St. Germain

  Speaking of. I wanted to come out by myself, but I’m not allowed to drive, a condition of my early release. Guess that’s fair when you almost kill somebody.

  Eventually, we get to the garage attached to Dana’s Grill. I’ve come to beg for my old job back. I expect my former boss to chase me out of the place with his old sawn-off, but when Lawrence sees me he drops everything and shakes my hand.

  “You’re back,” the old man says as if I didn’t almost kill somebody last time I saw him. As if I’ve been gone the weekend, instead of almost a decade. “I’ve got a sticky one for you….”

  And he shows me Mrs. Lassiter’s old Buick on the hoist, pointing out bits of rust and parts that need replacing, and eventually I have to stop him talking so I can get the kids home before they freeze to death in the car outside. He won’t let me go until I promise to come back and start work on Monday morning.

  While Pike is getting bread in the store, Sheriff King passes right by our car. He stops dead when he sees me, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone look so full of hate.

  I can’t say I blame him. Pike does odd shifts as a patient care assistant at the hospital sometimes, with Amanda. Apparently she’s the night nurse for Teresa King, and she told Pike once that Cassie’s mom is the saddest patient she has ever had to deal with.

  I CAN’T HELP MYSELF.

  After Pike drives us all home, the kids set up in front of the TV and watch cartoons. Pike leaves, for what I don’t ask. The less I know about the shit he’s up to, the better.

  In the time I’ve spent at home, I’m going crazy. Crazier than when I was locked up. And now that I’ve seen Damon, I want to see Cassie. It’s like seeing him has confirmed that she exists. I go full psycho, or at least full armchair stalker, camped out in an old rocking chair by the window, binoculars in hand. I don’t think about Jennifer, about what I did to her, and that’s a terrible thing, isn’t it? I should be sorry for what I did to her, but I’m just… not. Maybe the feelings will come later. Maybe the image of the way I left her will stop making my balls ache, and instead make me feel guilty.

  Binoculars in hand, I search all day for Cassie. I cast my magnified gaze along the windows that line the front of her house on the hill, but I don’t see anything. She keeps the blinds drawn. Almost like she’s afraid of catching a glimpse of this old place and remembering me. But in the evening, just as I hear Pike’s car in the driveway, I finally glimpse her.

  It’s just for a second, and it’s so fleeting I’m not even sure she’s real, but there she is: curtains flung open, looking out into the orangey dusk as it rapidly turns black. My chest hurts when I see her. I think about going up there, to her place, breaking in, taking her away. She’d struggle, but Jennifer struggled, piece of cake. I’m stronger than Cassie. I’m stronger than ever. I could have her in the back of Pike’s car in under a minute, some rope around her wrists, duct tape to seal her protests away. I could drive her somewhere far away, somewhere out in the mountains where nobody would ever find us. Keep her there until I could make her understand how much I still love her. Keep her there until she loved me back.

  Rage courses through me. I ball up a fist and slam it into the side of my skull, hard enough that I see stars for a second. Don’t you ever think about hurting her, the good part of me commands. I hit myself again, in the fleshy part of my temple. Don’t you ever show your face to that poor girl again.

  I won’t. I will stay away from Cassandra Carlino, even if it kills me. Even if I have to kill myself to keep my greedy heart from trying to have her.

  She will not be my vice. She will not be my forgiver. She will not be my redemption.

  These are the promises I make to myself. These are the lies I cannot bear to admit.

  * * *

  OLD HABITS DIE HARD; old addictions, even harder. Because they just won’t fucking die. Like a moth to a fucking flame, I find myself standing in front of the refrigerator, the door flung open, my mouth watering as I look for my favorite poison. My eyes light up as I spy a six-pack of Budweiser, my tongue already wet and bursting with the flavor of something I haven’t tasted in nearly a decade. I grab at the glass bottles feverishly, the balm that will ease my suffering, the thing that will wipe away the scent of Jennifer, the memory of Cassie, the taste of Karen and the well. I put the six-pack onto the counter and rip a bottle from the rest, the twist-top popping away neatly in my palm like a sharp blade in butter, like a shovel in wet soil. It’s that easy, clink, and then I’m lifting the bottle to my lips, ready for froth and hops and cold relief.

  I’m excited, but I’m afraid, as well. My hand shakes from the anticipation, from the knowing of what comes next.

  “Leo.”

  I’m so deeply entranced by the beer in my hand, I almost have a fucking heart attack and die, on the floor of the kitchen in my mother’s shitty trailer. I startle violently, spilling beer all down my shirt, my jeans, onto the floor, the hypnotic spell broken. Now, I just feel embarrassed. And sticky. And cold.

  “Hannah.” She’s standing in the doorway that separates the living space from the bedrooms, and she looks like she’s been crying. I set the beer down, worry for my sister eclipsing my dirty drink cravings — for now, at least. I reach out to her, noticing the way she’s holding her swollen stomach, the fear in her eyes. “What’s wrong, kiddo?”

  “I can feel something,” she says. “Here.” She takes my hand and places it on her stomach. Something inside my sister’s stomach hits me square in the palm and I jerk my hand away, staring at her.

  “See?” she says, starting to cry again. “What’s happening to me?”

  I put my hand back on the same spot, a smile just for my sister. “Hannah, that’s your baby. Your baby’s kicking. It’s saying hello.”

  I guide her hand back to the spot where her baby is currently holding a boxing match for one. She’s awestruck, and I can understand why. I remember so many times, when I was tiny, Leo, give me your hand. When Ma had good days. When she was pregnant with Hannah, and she’d take my little-boy hand and place it on her stomach and say, Leo, your sister is saying hello. Can you feel her saying hello? And I’d always marvel at the way you could love somebody before they existed, when they didn’t even know the world yet. I’d always marvel at the way my mother was so cruel, so kind, so in love with her children from the moment she learned she was pregnant; and yet so determined to destroy us all at once.

  “It’s okay?” Hannah asks uncertainly, her big eyes searching mine for reassurance. I nod, swallowing back the lump in my throat. Because she’s fourteen. And she’s my sister. And this shouldn’t have happened to her.

  “Get some sleep, kiddo,” I say, giving her shoulders an affectionate squeeze.

  “Thanks, Leo,” she replies, wandering off. That’s the beautiful thing about Hannah — you tell her something and she accepts it. I know she won’t worry now. She’ll probably spend the rest of her pregnancy poking her stomach, saying hello back.

  I turn back to the beer. My sweet poison, the destroyer of worlds. Whatever runs through my veins, it calls out to the alcohol cells suspended inside the wheat-liquid brew, begging. Come back to me. Disgust holds me tight and slams me down, again and again. You are pathetic. I open the other five bottles and up-end all of them at once, watching blankly as beer froths up and pours down the sink.

  I hear movement behind me and look over my shoulder. It’s Pike. “Hey,” he says.

  I make a sound in the back of my throat. I would say hey back, but my eyes are burning and that lump’s in my throat and I can’t speak, so I just stare into the sink instead. The smell of the beer makes me want to vomit.

  “Glad you’re back,” Pike says, edging closer. “You okay?”

  I gulp down a breath. Nod.

  “You’ve always had this way of looking after everybody,” Pike says. “You know? I never had that.”

  I brace myself over the sink. I nod again.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CASSIE
>
  It storms on Friday.

  Damon has to work during the day, and when he finally comes home, he disappears upstairs without so much as a hello. I don’t try to find him.

  Sometimes he likes to be with people, and other times, he demands to be left alone.

  I hear him shower and close his bedroom door around eleven. Once I know he’s asleep, I double-check all the locks in the house and turn in for the night.

  Thunder wakes me. Thunder and frantic barking. I throw the covers off and reach for my thick robe and boots, slipping them on before I hurry downstairs.

  I unlock the back door, expecting Rox to barrel past me into the house, but she doesn’t. “Rox!” I hiss. “Hey!”

  The wind is fierce. It’s raining, cold little ice pellets that remind me of the night of the accident. I feel sick thinking about it.

  I hear movement upstairs, a door opening. Shit. If Damon has to come downstairs, he’ll be pissed. He hates the dog. He loves other dogs, but this one used to belong to Leo. A painful reminder of what happened to Mom. But she’s my dog now, and she’s one thing I won’t let him take away from me. I don’t have any real friends anymore, apart from Rox, and I think that’s the only reason he lets me keep her around.

  I call the dog’s name a few more times, but she totally ignores me. Jesus. I go outside, holding on to the railing as lighting flashes close by. Stupid dog. “Come here!” I yell at the dog. She’s not even looking at me, transfixed on the house. It’s like she’s barking directly into the bedrooms to get our attention.

  I’m halfway to the dog when I feel someone behind me. Damon’s on the top step.

  “Get inside,” he snaps at me, over the noise of the weather.

  I ignore him, approaching Rox.

  “Cassie! Jesus Christ, girl.” He follows me.

  “She doesn’t like the weather,” I say. “She’s old and senile, Damon.”

  He shrugs. “And?”

  “Let me bring her inside.”

  He shakes his head. He hates her. “No.”

  “The garage.”

  He opens his mouth as if he’s going to say something, but changes his mind halfway. “One night,” he says. “One goddamn night and then I’m taking that mutt back down to their property. She’s not even yours.”

  He’s threatened that countless times before; I don’t even argue. He won’t take her back. Or he will, and she’ll bound back up here to me before he’s even driven his car back to the road from Leo’s property.

  Can’t keep a dog like that chained up or tell her where to stay. She’s a free spirit, probably why I like her so much.

  Damon reaches down to grab her collar, and Rox, poor old cataract-riddled Rox, jumps in fright, latching her teeth on to the bit of flesh between Damon’s thumb and index finger.

  He doesn’t even hesitate. Almost like he knew this was going to happen. Like he was prepared.

  Damon takes his gun out of his waistband and shoots Rox right between the eyes.

  I scream.

  She’s dead before she hits the ground.

  Everything around me dulls, slows down. I feel like I’m in one of those carnival rides that spins so fast it actually feels like you’re moving in slow-motion.

  “Shit,” Damon says, as I sink to my knees, one hand on the last piece of Leo that I could touch. I can’t form words. I can’t even think. He shot my dog. My dog is dead. How am I going to tell Leo?

  And then: Oh, right. I’m not going to tell him. Anything. Ever again.

  “Y-you shot her.”

  He looks around with an air of impatience, and his casual manner terrifies me.

  “I better not get rabies from that cunt dog,” he says, studying the bite on his hand like his arm’s been amputated or something. The killing of an innocent animal doesn’t bother him. Not in the slightest. I never would’ve picked him as the kid who burned ants in the magnifying glass, the boy who threw a sack of kittens in a lake. The man who shot a dog for barking.

  “Get up,” he says. “Now.”

  My shock gives way to panic, coupled with disbelief. I start to cry. I’m shaking all over, from the cold and from the adrenaline.

  “Why?” I whisper. “Why did you do that?”

  He makes a noise in the back of his throat, something akin to annoyance. Fuck him. I’m not leaving my dead dog out here to the elements. My chest hurts as I watch dark blood pool on the frozen ground beneath her still body.

  “Fuck you,” I say. “I hate you!”

  “For Christ’s sake, Cassandra,” he says, fisting a hand into my hair and yanking me to my feet. “Come inside.”

  He drags me into the kitchen, despite my protests, despite my tears.

  I break away from him; seeking comfort, seeking numbness and warmth. My eyes land on a bottle of vodka, my absolution in a bottle of Absolut. I twist the cap off, taking a slug of the good stuff and biting the inside of my cheeks as it burns all the way down. My eyes sting; my stomach reacts angrily, but I swallow it down. I drink as much as I can, onetwothree, and then Damon tugs the bottle from my grasp.

  We stare at each other as I grip the metal Absolut lid in my palm, hard enough so it cuts into my skin and blood springs forth.

  “Cassie,” he says, and his gun is still in his hand. “That bitch bit me. I’m sorry. Okay?” And he really does look sorry.

  I start sobbing again. Not okay. I fall to my knees. There are splinters in the wooden floor, and it hurts when they dig into my knees.

  “Come on,” he sighs, holding out a hand. “Let’s get you upstairs. I’ll run you a warm bath and get you some milk. You’ll catch a cold if you stay on the floor like that.”

  “I don’t want to go upstairs,” I say, drawing my knees to my chest.

  Damon kneels down, taking my arm and looping it over his shoulders. He pulls me to my feet, bearing most of my weight, and steers me to the hallway on reluctant legs. “I wasn’t asking,” he replies, pulling me upstairs.

  The bath is hot. The milk is warm. Outside, I imagine Rox’s body is already cold. As cold as Damon’s gaze as he watches me shiver in a cast-iron bathtub full of scalding water, as I wash bits of blood and dog fur from my skin.

  Damon’s phone rings while I’m washing blood from the ends of my hair; at the same time, I hear the crackle of his two-way radio downstairs. He looks at me as if torn between staying in the fogged-up bathroom and answering the call. He answers after three rings, his eyes trained on me.

  “Chris.”

  Chris speaks loud enough for me to hear; Damon and I hear the news at the same time. Jennifer Thomas is missing. She went to work, she left her shift right on time, texted her mother to say she’d be home late, and she hasn’t been seen since.

  That was last night.

  There’s another girl missing in Gun Creek. It’s been nine years since Karen, but the feeling in my stomach is the same as it was the moment I laid eyes on her in that well. It’s the feeling of a knife blade floating in your gut, waiting for you to move, waiting to cut you to ribbons from the inside.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CASSIE

  On Saturday, we eat breakfast in silence. I’m not hungry, but I get cereal served again anyway, Cinnamon Toast Crunch this time. I swear Damon only buys cereal so he can get the free toys. A grown man, and he collects shit from cardboard boxes and fast-food meals. They’re like trophies for him, lined up on top of the refrigerator, above the fireplace, on the windowsill that looks out from the kitchen into the yard.

  Damon’s been gone all night. Missing girls tend to demand the presence of the town sheriffs, especially when her family is high-profile like Jennifer’s. He looks exhausted, his blue eyes rimmed with red, his clothes creased. He’s only here to change his shirt and take me to the diner, fifteen minutes of calm in a case that could last days. Weeks. Months. Maybe they’ll find her today. Maybe she ran away. Maybe she’s dead in a well. Maybe she’s gone forever.

  “I’m not leaving Rox out there all day,” I
say, my words level and clear despite the panic bubbling up inside my stomach. I can’t face her body. I can’t face my fucking life anymore. I can’t face the shit show I know I’ll be walking into at the diner. I need a shot of vodka or a handful of pills, or both.

  Damon turns his bleary eyes to me. “Well then, you’ve got about three minutes to go and bury her,” he snaps.

  A small portable television sits on the kitchen counter, switched on to the local news filling the room with static-edged chatter. I hear the words missing girl and my ears prick up, something to take my attention away from this kitchen and the unbearable tension that fills it. I pick dry squares of cereal out of my bowl and crunch them between my teeth slowly, at least giving off the appearance of trying to eat something.

  The news. It draws me in, greedy moth to overhead light. MISSING GIRL. A picture of Jennifer flashes up, her bleached-white smile dazzling, dressed in her cheerleading uniform. I have a matching outfit upstairs, though I haven’t worn it in years. The reporter keeps talking about Jennifer, how she vanished after her shift at Dana’s Grill on Thursday evening, how there are no suspects. The police aren’t sure if it’s a kidnapping or a runaway teen. She’d been fighting with her parents on Thanksgiving morning, took herself off to work in the afternoon, and then she was just gone.

  “They used to put missing kids on milk cartons,” Damon says, gesturing at the television. “Now everybody’s got a TV and a cell phone.”

  He’s right. I imagine everyone in Gun Creek will be glued to their phones today, refreshing the local news websites, sending frantic messages. Did you see Jennifer on Friday? She will be revered, her cheerleading photo plastered across town. I already know this — I’ve lived it once before when Karen went missing.