The next morning, they rose early to leave the house. Only Emily was awake, feeding Aaron in his high chair.
“See you in a bit,” Brooke said to her mother, herding Robin swiftly through the kitchen.
“One o’clock,” Emily said groggily, reaching down for the cup Aaron had dropped on the floor.
Robin turned back at the threshold, but Brooke caught his hand and hauled him outside before Emily could see the sorrow in his expression.
Brooke saddled Star and they rode through the basswoods, passing beyond the Holland property without speaking. The only sounds as they wound through the hills were the thick-grown trees rustling around them, the high drone of summer insects, and Star’s shoes on the road. They had discussed whether Robin should take Star with him, but agreed that it would be difficult to stable a horse in the city and she was better off staying with Brooke. Now, Robin rubbed Star’s coat steadily as they rode, in a gesture of reassurance that Brooke suspected was as much for himself as for the horse.
They’d worked out the night before that Robin would go as far as Shaw Station with Brooke—if they arrived together, Brooke could claim to have had no knowledge of his plans—and once there, Robin would disappear. By following the river, he could move unseen to Highway 12, hitchhike to the interstate, and then carry on to the city. Brooke would be at the courthouse when the other Hollands arrived to meet Edmund. She would say Robin had gone to check the Internet, that he’d probably lost track of time, that he should be back any minute. Only later, when he was well out of reach, would she find his farewell note in her saddlebags.
It was noon when they stabled Star near the courthouse. This was where they were supposed to say goodbye, but looking at Robin standing next to Star, ghostly pale with his small backpack, Brooke relented.
“I’ve got an hour,” she said. “I’ll walk you to the river.”
They followed the streets away from downtown, through industrial blocks that deteriorated into rubble reclaim lots.
“Don’t let anyone see you,” she told him for the fifth or sixth time. “And don’t tell anyone your last name. Even in the city. Callum knows people.”
“If you change your mind—” Robin started.
“Rob.”
“If you change your mind. I’ll e-mail you where I’m staying. You could still come.”
Brooke smiled, hoping he would take this as assent.
As they neared the water, a footpath wove through late-summer grass that grew chest-high along the riverbank. They came out of the grass at a concrete boat landing. The river shone dully under a hot gray sky. The landing was empty, save for what Brooke took at first to be a sandy-colored boulder. Then the boulder rose, resolving into the texture of dirty cotton and a messy mop of hair. A boy was standing up from a crouch, holding a garter snake in his fist. He was blond, blue-eyed, younger than Robin, twelve or thirteen. The snake in his hand wriggled stiffly to be free.
“She was heading for the water,” the boy said. “Garters can’t swim, can they? It ain’t a water snake.”
“Careful,” Robin said. “They make an oil when they’re scared and it’s the worst thing I ever smelled.” Even as he said this, an acrid stink reached them, worse than bear bait and sewage combined. “You need turpentine to get that off.”
“Damn it.” The boy dropped the snake to the ground, where it uncurled and slithered into the long grass. “Go on and drown then, dumb baby.”
Brooke had been so surprised by the sudden appearance of the boy that for a moment she’d forgotten what she and Robin were doing there. It must be almost one, she thought now.
But the younger boy had set off to follow the snake, and Robin was running after him like a little kid, the bag on his back bouncing.
“Come back!” Brooke shouted, trailing after them.
“Don’t step on her,” Robin called to the boy.
“You don’t,” the boy retorted.
They chased the snake’s papery movement through the sedge, where only the swishing tips of the grass showed its passage, first parallel to the river, then bending into the reeds. Where the ground gave way to marshy shallows, Robin and the boy kicked their shoes off and hopped onto a broad rock that stood in the water beyond the reed bed.
Brooke knew she should be at the courthouse. But she found herself kicking off her sneakers and following Robin onto the rock. It was dark shale, burning hot from the sun. Brooke arched the tender middles of her feet away from the surface, the heat baking through her calluses.
“There!” the boy shouted, pointing off to the right, and they turned to see a snake swimming out from the reeds into open water, head up, body waving smoothly behind, making for the far bank.
“Did you see?” Robin asked Brooke, excited.
“I never knew they could do that,” she said.
A sudden piercing wail came from the direction of downtown. It took Brooke a moment to identify Shaw Station’s civil defense siren. She hadn’t heard it since her school days, the drills against an armed federal incursion that had never come. These days, the siren was used mainly to call the volunteers to fires and other emergencies.
Brooke saw her alarm reflected in the boys’ expressions, and then all three of them were hurrying back to the shore.
“Go.” Brooke threw Robin’s shoes at him, waving him away from her, in the direction of the highway.
“But what’s happening?” he asked. “I can’t leave now.”
“Yes, you can.”
The other boy had vanished. Robin didn’t move. The siren wailed.
“They need me,” Brooke said. “Please go, Rob. Please.”
She turned and ran toward downtown, trying to forget the look of blank despair on Robin’s face as she left him.
The defense siren was still howling as Brooke approached the courthouse, a broad gray stone building in the old downtown. Emily had parked Callum’s truck right on the sidewalk, at the base of the courthouse steps. She sat on the passenger side with her arm hanging out the window, leaving the driver’s seat free for Edmund. Callum and Anita stood lordly in the truck bed, ankle-deep in what looked like Robin’s last run of cottage junk: a plaster garden nymph, a patio umbrella, a jumble of old-timey Western gear. Jay and several of their other dealers were there too, forming a small guard between the truck and the dozen volunteers who were circling, all camo pants and beefy arms, guns in the open.
As Brooke had feared, the Hollands weren’t the only ones who’d come. Up the block was a huddle of teenagers—runners for the Cawleys, including two of Frank Jr.’s older sons. She stepped into the doorway of a building, out of sight. In the next moment, an e-bike cruised silently from behind the teenagers: Frank Jr., with his wife, Angeline. They glided to the curb and Frank Jr. propped the bike up on its stand.
With a hand shielding his eyes from the sun, Frank Jr. looked up the street, past the Hollands and the courthouse steps. Brooke followed his gaze and saw Delia coming from the other end of the block. She wore a fiberglass brace around one knee, and bandages were plastered down one arm from the collarbone to the wrist. The other arm, which wasn’t bandaged, was maroon and leathery with healing burns.
“Shit, shit, shit,” Brooke said. The others hadn’t seen any of it yet. “Anita!” she shouted from her hiding place in the doorway.
Anita twisted around in the truck bed at the sound of her name. As she took in the Cawleys—Frank Jr. on one side, nearing the courthouse steps with a reluctant-looking Angeline, and Delia approaching from the other side—her mouth twisted in what could have been fury or excitement. Brooke knew it was both. She watched Anita’s hand move to hover over a suspicious bulky protrusion under her shirt.
At that moment, the courthouse door opened and Edmund stepped out, alone. Brooke was struck by the sheer immensity of him. After being separated from her father for weeks, there was deep comfort, despite everything, in the promise of his protection.
Frank Jr. took advantage of the momentary distraction to make a
rush up the steps. Before anyone had a chance to react, he was within striking distance of Edmund, and Brooke saw that he had a six-inch knife in his hand. Frank Jr. darted in, feinted, and darted again. Edmund must have been caught off guard, because there was a small red stain on his shirt when Frank Jr. jumped back.
Anita let out a snarl of hatred and pulled the gun from under her shirt. Callum bent in through the truck window, emerging with an M4. The volunteers, red and puffy with indignation, moved in closer, shouting warnings that were drowned out by the defense siren.
Brooke needed to get to the truck. She swept the block for the rest of the Cawleys. Angeline was moving haltingly nearer to her husband, looking frequently behind her, as if waiting for someone. Delia had almost reached the ring of volunteers. She made no effort to conceal the chest holster worn over her T-shirt. Her hand was already on her gun. The Cawley sons and their other dealers had spread out along the street. Brooke, concealed in her doorway, had no way through.
The volunteers swung around, unsure who to target. Anita was aiming at Frank Jr., Callum at Delia. Emily was halfway out of the truck, eyes fixed on her husband.
Now, Edmund held a hand up peaceably, waving his children’s guns down. Reluctantly, Anita and Callum obeyed. The blood on Edmund’s shirt leached slowly outward, though he didn’t seem to notice. He turned to Frank Jr. and, with startling velocity for someone so big, launched himself, catching Frank Jr.’s knife hand and slamming it into the steps. The knife skittered to the sidewalk, near the truck. As Frank Jr. scrambled to his feet, cradling a clearly broken wrist, Edmund aimed a short, sharp kick at his temple. Angeline cried out as Frank Jr. fell on his face.
For a moment, nothing happened. Edmund watched his fallen rival casually, as if waiting for him to stand up. Then he raised his boot high and brought it down with all his weight onto Frank Jr.’s skull. Brooke saw one arm jerk and fall limp. A dark stain spread over the seat of Frank Jr.’s pants. When Edmund stepped away, Brooke saw the side of Frank Jr.’s face crushed against the concrete step, blood and jelly running out of the place where his eye and nose should have been.
After that, everything happened at once. Anita and Callum jumped from the back of the truck, and Brooke saw Anita firing on Delia, who shot back from the cover of a statue in front of the courthouse. Emily and Callum abandoned the truck to chase down Frank Jr.’s sons. Edmund, still unarmed, charged the retreating volunteers, roaring like a bull. The siren wailed on.
From her doorway, Brooke saw Angeline Cawley standing still amid the chaos, staring at her husband’s form on the steps. She wasn’t alone now. At her side, clutching her arm, was the boy from the river, in his sand-colored T-shirt, his eyes wide. Snot and tears ran down his face as his mouth formed the word Papa over and over again.
Brooke stepped toward him involuntarily.
Angeline caught the movement and looked up. She screamed Delia’s name, pointing at Brooke on the opposite sidewalk. Exposed, Brooke dashed across the street to crouch behind the truck with Anita.
Anita had her gun in one hand and Frank Jr.’s fallen knife in the other.
“You need something?” Anita shouted over the siren. “Here.” She thrust Frank Jr.’s knife at Brooke.
Brooke had used a knife hunting, but never to fight. She pulled at the webbing the truck had in place of a tailgate, thinking there might be a cargo box, guns. Her hands were trembling and the webbing wouldn’t undo. In frustration, she slashed it with the knife and the nylon straps fell down in ragged shreds. No cargo box, only Robin’s unsold cottage stuff. Then Brooke’s eye fell on the heap of Western memorabilia; under a billy can and a set of cowboy boot beer cozies, there was a coiled leather bullwhip that must have hung on someone’s cottage wall.
“Oh, shit,” Anita said. “Delia’s running. Come on.” She darted around to the truck’s cab.
Brooke heard a scream on the other side of the truck. A boy’s scream.
“Come on!” Anita shouted, honking impatiently.
The boy screamed again, in terror, or pain, or both.
Brooke pulled the bullwhip from the back of the truck and stepped out onto the sidewalk.
Edmund had the boy from the river by the neck and was punching him so hard it looked as if he intended to kill him. The boy’s lip was torn clear down to his chin.
Before Brooke could think better of it, she drew the whip back and struck her father full in the face, striping his skin from cheek to cheek. Surprised, Edmund dropped his victim in the street. Brooke was peripherally aware of the boy scrambling away. She kept her eyes on her father.
“What did you do?” Edmund asked Brooke, touching his cheek. He sounded almost amused.
“You can’t kill a child, Daddy. It don’t matter who they are.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Edmund corrected her. “Don’t make yourself sound ignorant.” Then he lifted her by the throat and she felt her head caught in his grip like a nail in a hammer claw, the weight of her body pulling her down.
An engine roared. In the corner of her eye, Brooke saw Callum’s truck skid forward, the torn tailgate webbing dragging in the street behind it. Anita was driving with her gun out the window, her eyes on Delia, who was getting away up the block. As the truck made a wide U-turn in the street, Edmund threw Brooke hard, straight into its path.
“Daddy!” Brooke screamed as she hit the ground, rolling out of the truck’s path just in time. Before she could stand, she was jerked backwards, one arm caught in the trailing webbing. She dropped the whip and tried to free herself, shouting, but Anita couldn’t hear her. The truck accelerated. Brooke couldn’t get hold of anything. In seconds, the pavement had shredded her T-shirt and peeled her raw up one side.
Brooke grabbed the grate of a sewer cover as it swept by underneath, but her other arm was still entangled, and she felt her shoulder twist too far, pulling out of its socket with a crunch. Pain exploded down her right side. She released the sewer grate and let herself be dragged up the block until, finally, the violent bouncing of the truck knocked her loose.
She lay still in the street, her vision sparking white with every pulse of the pain in her arm.
Edmund walked up to her, ignoring the gunshots around him as though he were bulletproof. Brooke thought he was coming to help her.
“You hit me,” he said.
“My arm,” Brooke said. The siren, still shrieking, swallowed her words.
“To protect that trash?” Edmund bent toward her.
Brooke gasped, barely able to breathe for the pain.
“I didn’t raise any goddamn traitors. You ever try that again, you will live to regret it. Do you hear me? You’re better than that bleeding-heart bullshit.”
“Daddy,” she said, summoning her voice. “I think you broke my arm.”
“You broke your own fucking arm,” he spat, and turned back to the fight, grabbing the fallen whip from the street as he went.
Brooke sat up, her dislocated shoulder hanging low from the socket. Anita and the truck had disappeared. There was shooting from several directions now as the fight expanded into side streets.
Brooke sat in the street, the siren splitting the air around her.
For protecting a child, her father had nearly killed her. She’d been Edmund’s tool, his weapon, but one false step, and he’d dropped her like a broken thing. Traitor. She felt the slap of the word with bitter pleasure. The burden of her loyalty finally dissolved under his hand.
Movement across the street caught Brooke’s eye. She looked up and saw Robin peeking from behind a dumpster. He had come back. As she spotted him, he emerged, flinching with every gunshot in the distance, running straight for Brooke.
Brooke struggled to her knees, nearly blinded by pain. “What are you doing here?” she panted. “You’re supposed to be gone.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I couldn’t.”
“Never mind. It’s fine. I’ll go with you.”
“Are you okay?” he asked.
The ef
fort of getting to her feet increased Brooke’s pain so much she couldn’t speak. She nodded toward a narrow passage between buildings. With Robin supporting her, they made their way as quickly as Brooke could bear with her loose, dangling arm.
In the shadow of the alley, Brooke paused for breath. She looked Robin up and down. He was wearing his backpack. She reached out and felt his shirt. He still had his money.
“Good,” she said. “We’re leaving, Rob.”
“Really?” Robin asked. “You’ll come?”
“Yeah. Let’s get Star and go.”
The darkness between the buildings suddenly deepened. Brooke turned to see a form blocking the alley: Delia, standing crooked with her knee brace. Her gun was up, her eyes searching the gloom of the alley. Still dazzled by the glare of daylight from the street, she couldn’t make them out, but in a few more seconds she would see them.
Brooke backed quietly away, pushing Robin behind her with her good arm. “Get Star,” she whispered.
Delia moved to aim. Her gaze was focused squarely on them now. Robin froze, looking from Delia to Brooke and back again.
“Run!” Brooke screamed.
She lurched to the side, trying to shield Robin with her body, but in the same instant, he dove the other way. Delia fired. The force of the bullet knocked Robin into the air, and he fell on his back in the dust, a still heap.
Brooke reached out for him through the haze of pain from her shoulder.
A second shot startled her and she stumbled and fell. An explosion of pain as her shoulder hit hard pavement, and then nothing.
When she came to, it was eerily quiet.
Brooke looked around her. Robin was gone. Painfully, she crawled to the place where he’d fallen. There was blood, but not much. It was possible he had survived. Brooke got to her feet and hobbled from the alley. Her road rash was as bad as the shoulder now, burning and prickling, the cuts packed with dust and tiny rocks.
The Captive Page 14