The Captive

by Fiona King Foster

  Then Brooke understood.

  “Mama, you didn’t.”

  “If Stephen Cawley’s anywhere inside of ten miles, he’ll see that blaze. We don’t have long to wait now.”

  “Goddamn it, Mama, there could be any number of them out there. Milo can’t shoot to save his life, and I’m still hurt.”

  “There ain’t any number, Brooke. There’s just one.”

  “I only saw one, but you know how they are. There’s going to be more. That’s probably where he went, to get them.”

  “No, I told you, Stephen Cawley’s the last of them. I’ve been looking for that cowardly, murdering piece of shit for years. The feds posted a warrant for him up north, so I went there to beat them to it. I’ll be damned if any Cawley’s going to live large in a city prison after what they did to us. I been waiting years for this. You want your girls to grow up safe? This is how you do it.”

  “He can’t be the only one. What about Delia?”

  “Haven’t you been listening? Anita got her after they killed Callum. Killed her at their own compound. I got Angeline, and Daddy rode the other sons down the night of the fire. All but one. That trash turned tail and ran, only reason he’s alive today.”

  “He was telling the truth,” Brooke said, backing away. Ash rained down, freckling the snow. She turned and saw Davey and Milo hurrying from the house.

  “My horses are in there!” Davey boomed, jabbing a finger at the burning drive shed.

  “I moved them, don’t worry,” Emily said dismissively. “They’re out back, under the willow.”

  “What happened?” Milo asked.

  “She lit the drive shed on fire,” Brooke said. “She’s bringing Cawley right to us.”

  At this, Davey drew out his gun, saying, “If he’s coming, none of you better get in my way.” He crossed the yard into the darkness beyond the burning building.

  “Your mother set the fire?” Milo asked, voice still thick with sleep.

  “We should never have come here,” Brooke said, pulling him toward the house. “I’ve gotten everything wrong, Milo. We have to get out of here.”

  Brooke winced as a hand came down on her bad shoulder. She twisted around to see that Emily had followed her.

  “Let me go, Mama,” Brooke said.

  “Don’t you dare,” Emily said. “Don’t you dare leave me again.”

  “Let go,” Milo said, pulling Emily’s hand off Brooke.

  “Mind your own business!” Emily spat at him.

  “You’re going to get her killed too,” Milo said. “Is that what you want?”

  Brooke caught movement at the edge of the yard. Someone was coming through the basswoods.

  “Shit,” she cursed, struggling to lift the rifle with her aching arm.

  “No!” Milo said in a strangled voice. “Don’t shoot! Look!”

  Brooke hesitated, squinting through the sparks and wavering heat thrown by the fire, trying to discern the shape emerging from the darkness of the trees. Whoever it was had their hands at their sides, no visible weapon. And they were small.

  Brooke’s heart constricted painfully as they stepped into view, lit by the fire. Holly came first, her dark eyes betraying no fear. The same serious, interrogating look she’d had since she was a baby, calling the world to account. She was holding Sal behind her as she stepped out of the trees, shielding her sister from whatever lay ahead.

  “Is that—” Emily began.

  Brooke and Milo ran. The distance closed with awful slowness, each second an eternity. Then Brooke’s hand closed around Holly’s wrist and the kids were in their arms, whole and alive. She dropped the rifle to gather Sal closer.

  “Are you okay?” Milo cried.

  Holly and Sal collapsed against their parents, both talking at once. Joy knifed through Brooke, so sharp she thought it would rip her in half. They were okay. They were here.

  A twist in Brooke’s gut told her something was wrong. She had barely registered heavy footfalls and a face materializing from the dark—bloodshot eyes, crooked scar—when Holly screamed and Brooke felt Sal being ripped from her arms.

  Holly was the first to leap after Cawley, but Milo caught her, pulling her back.

  “Let me go!” Holly railed at Milo, but he wrapped his arms around her and held on tight.

  Cawley was half carrying, half dragging Sal toward the burning drive shed. Brooke sprinted after him, leaving the rifle on the ground in her haste. Sal was shrieking, twisting in Cawley’s arms, reaching back for Brooke.

  A blast from Emily’s shotgun and Brooke ducked.

  “Don’t shoot!” she heard Milo shout. “He has Sal!”

  Brooke kept running, getting closer. Cawley was slowed by his injuries and Sal’s struggling. Halfway to the drive shed, Brooke reached out with her good arm and caught Sal’s hand; now she was running with them, Sal’s hand clasped tight in hers. Brooke kicked for Cawley’s ankle, but he sensed it coming and skipped over her foot. They were close to the fire now. Heat blew in Brooke’s eyes.

  “Mom!” Sal cried.

  Brooke kicked again, higher this time, and Cawley tripped and fell, Sal still pinned to his side. Brooke’s right arm was useless, and the rifle was back where she’d dropped it, but she still had Sal’s hand. She kicked Cawley in the back, the ribs. The heat was baking. A flying ember caught Brooke’s hair and she reached instinctively to bat the flame, letting go of Sal’s hand for an instant—long enough for Cawley to get back on his feet. He looked around him, eyes wild, and then spun sharply, heaving Sal through the open door of the drive shed.

  “No!” Brooke screamed.

  A shrill cry from inside. Sparks rained down as the roof beam elbowed deeper.

  Brooke’s mind flooded with fear as she squinted into the flames, desperately seeking a way through. Cawley was between her and the building, barring the way. His mouth chewing nothing, his eyes blurry slits. Wherever he’d been, he’d found more chalk—a lot more. He was muttering, laughing jerkily to himself. He reached for the revolver shoved in the waist of his pants, but before he had it, another shotgun blast sent him diving for cover behind a long pile of rusted oil drums.

  The roof of the drive shed was going to let go any second. A massive side beam split and fell in a billow of smoke, blocking half the door. Another cry from inside. Brooke pulled her shirt up over her face, preparing to launch herself through the half-collapsed door. But before she could move, Emily flew past, shoving her shotgun into Brooke’s hand and disappearing into the flaming hole.

  “Sal!” Brooke cried. She could see nothing in the fire. Then a bullet slammed into the front of the shed, splintering a burning board. Brooke hesitated. If she went after Emily and Sal, Cawley could still shoot any of them. Milo was back where he’d tackled Holly, still struggling to hold her. It had all happened so fast. Where the fuck was Davey when she needed him?

  “Get her out of here,” Brooke shouted to Milo. “The horses are behind the house. Take the rifle! Run!”

  Brooke aimed Emily’s heavy shotgun at the oil drums. She was afraid of making the shot with her right arm, but she didn’t trust her aim on the left. She gripped her bad shoulder with her good hand, bracing for the recoil, and squeezed the trigger, shooting into the empty barrels. Half the pile toppled: Cawley wasn’t there.

  She turned back to the drive shed. There was movement inside, behind the broken beam—something lumbering toward her through the wavering heat.

  Emily came out, half falling through the flames, hunched over the bundle in her arms. Sal didn’t look burned, though she was wheezing and coughing, eyes shut tight. Emily’s face, by contrast, was scorched, her brows and lashes gone, her eyes yellow and thick from the heat. She must be blind, or nearly.

  “I’m here,” Brooke said, running to them and reaching for Sal with her good arm. Sal, feeling Brooke close, climbed onto her instantly, clinging so tight it hurt. “I’m here, Salamander. I’m here.”

  “Where’s Cawley?” Emily rasped. Her eyes roam
ed, sightless.

  “We’ve got to go, Mama,” Brooke said. “Can you follow my voice?”

  “Cowards kill children, Cawley!” Emily called in a voice like sandpaper.

  “Mama.” Brooke was holding Sal against her with her left arm, the shotgun loose on her right. She tried to reach Emily’s sleeve, but the gun was heavy; her shoulder quivered on the edge of slipping out of the socket. She dropped the gun and caught her mother’s arm.

  Emily’s damaged gaze had finally landed on something, a burning object close to her feet—it was the pitchfork, Brooke saw, the fallen body of the scarecrow. Emily shook free of Brooke’s grasp and reached down to hoist the blazing handle like a torch.

  “I know you’re out there!” she cried into the darkness. “Trash like the rest of them!”

  “Mama, let’s go,” Brooke tried again. She backed toward the house, holding Sal tightly to her.

  Cawley emerged from behind the drums that were still standing. He must have been watching, because he approached unconcerned, as if he knew that Emily couldn’t see him, and that Brooke had dropped the shotgun. He walked straight up to Emily, the revolver in his hand.

  “He’s in front of you!” Brooke shouted.

  Emily swung the pitchfork, missing Cawley by a few feet.

  “Come on, you coward,” Emily wheezed. In her singed face, fury and exhaustion.

  “Thinks she’s better,” Cawley said, glancing at Brooke, addressing her as if they were compatriots. He had been feral, crazed, when he reeled out of the darkness and grabbed Sal, but this was different. His words were still gummy with chalk, but there was purpose behind them. Brooke thought she glimpsed the boy she and Robin had met fifteen years before. He shoved the revolver back in his waistband. “You know she knifed my mom in a public bathroom and left her to die? Took three hours for someone to find her. My mom never hurt anyone. Only thing she did was marry an asshole.”

  Emily snarled and raised her pitchfork to lunge again. Cawley caught the handle and wrested it from her with one hard yank. Then he lifted the pitchfork in a slow, elegant arc and drove it down, straight through Emily’s chest.

  Brooke felt the shock in her own body and stumbled backwards with Sal. Emily sank to her knees, a look of disapproval on her face.

  A gunshot cracked. Brooke and Cawley both ducked instinctively.

  Across the yard, Brooke saw Davey coming, gun raised.

  The first shot had missed. Now Davey fired again and Cawley dodged sideways behind a toppled oil drum. The revolver fell from his waistband, skidding toward the door of the flaming drive shed.

  He could have run then. If he’d made straight for the woods, he might have escaped. But he made a dash to retrieve his gun. Davey fired a third time and Cawley’s body flew into the wall of fire.

  Davey was still bearing down on the spot where Cawley had landed, when the shed’s main roof beam screeched and folded, and the building fell in on itself in an explosion of sparks and smoke, devouring everything inside.

  Davey turned around, fist up in triumph. “I got him!” he shouted. “I got him.”

  Brooke stood speechless, holding Sal. Emily was leaning forward on her knees in the garden, held up by the burning pitchfork, but Davey couldn’t see her. The toppled pile of diesel drums hid her from view.

  “Didn’t you see I got him?” Davey asked, indignant.

  “Go,” Brooke said. “Find Milo and the horses.”

  Davey snorted in disbelief. “They better all be accounted for,” he muttered, striding off toward the house.

  Sal whimpered, still holding tight to Brooke. Had she seen any of it, or had she kept her eyes closed?

  “Don’t look, Salamander,” Brooke said, tucking her daughter’s face against her neck. “It’s just a bad dream.” She kneeled next to her mother. The pitchfork’s wooden handle was driven into the snow, still ablaze, as fire crept closer to the four metal teeth that pierced Emily’s chest. The pressure must be excruciating, Brooke thought.

  “I can take it out, Mama,” she said. “Do you want me to take it out?”

  Emily tried to speak. Her voice was garbled, full of holes. She coughed and dark blood sprayed Brooke’s face, Sal’s hair.

  “Should I take it out?” Brooke asked again. “I don’t know what to do.”

  Emily’s eyes were unfocused, closing.

  “Mama, don’t—”

  She was still. Brooke watched for breath. There was none. Brooke waited, holding Sal against her. The seconds passed. No breath.

  Brooke struggled to her feet, numb with shock. She didn’t know what to do. She carried Sal away from the fire, past the house, toward the willow. She found Milo pacing anxiously and Holly perched on the angled door that led down to the root cellar from outside.

  “Sal!” Milo cried, rushing to take her from Brooke. “Is she okay? Is she hurt?”

  “She breathed in a lot of smoke,” Brooke said in a daze.

  “Davey said Cawley’s dead.”

  “Yes,” Brooke said. “Is he gone?”

  “Looking for the horses,” Milo said. “They must have bolted. Where’s Emily?”

  Brooke shook her head, dropping her eyes.

  “Oh, no,” Milo said.

  “Who’s Emily?” Holly asked.

  “I need you to wait for me in the house,” Brooke said, noting absently how calm she sounded, as if all this was normal. Maybe it was.

  “Brooke, I’m so sorry,” Milo said. “I’ll come with you.”

  “No,” Brooke said. “Stay with them. Keep them inside. I can’t leave her how she is, but the kids shouldn’t see . . . Don’t let them look out the window. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  Milo nodded, gesturing for Holly to come, but she stayed crouched on the cellar door, watching Brooke with a look of naked pleading.

  “What’s going on? Who was that woman?”

  “Hol,” Milo said, reaching stiffly with his shot arm to pull her up. “Mom needs a minute, okay? Let’s get your sister inside.”

  Holly got to her feet, looking confused and defeated.

  “Are you sure you don’t want help?” Milo asked Brooke. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

  “It’s fine,” she said. “It’s better.”

  Brooke watched Milo guide the girls inside and waited until the kitchen window lit up. He would take care of them. Build up the fire, pack snow on Sal’s singed face, find clothes for them, feed them, comfort them. He would know what they needed.

  Fatigue dragged at Brooke’s legs as she returned, step by step, to the garden. Close to the fire, the mire of melt and ash made for sloppy, unsteady walking.

  Emily was on her knees, eyes closed, head bent. The flames on the pitchfork handle had shrunk to embers.

  Brooke shook her sleeve over her good hand to grab the burned handle, set a boot against her mother’s chest, and pulled. The pitchfork wrested free. Emily’s body fell lifeless on the bloody snow.

  Brooke found a shovel under the eaves of the house and chipped away at the cold garden furrows, pain radiating with every stab of the blade. Behind her, the fire fell bit by bit to a flickering pile of coals.

  By the time the night sky began to lighten, Brooke had scraped out a shallow grave.

  She wondered where the rest of them were buried. There was no one left to ask. Only Robin, lost to the anonymous city. Had anyone helped him and Emily lay their family to rest? Had anyone mourned with them?

  Brooke crouched and threaded her left arm under Emily’s ribs. Wasted thin with time, Emily was still too heavy for Brooke to carry one-armed. The best she could do was drag Emily to the hole. There, she fell to her knees and laid her mother down.

  The hole wasn’t deep enough, but Brooke’s muscles were sore and spent, and there was no way to dig around Emily without lifting her again, so Brooke piled the dirt around and over her as well as she could.

  The garden was bordered by fieldstones unearthed long ago by Brooke’s parents or grandparents, or whoever h
ad lived here before the Hollands. Brooke kicked them free from their earth beds one by one and rolled them across the melted, messy ground to cover the mound of dirt and protect it from scavengers. There was no way to mark the grave. There was no need to mark it. Anyone seeing this heap of stones would know what it was.

  17

  In the thin light of dawn, the drive shed was a black scar, ringed in mud and ash-black snow. Farther out, the snow faded to gray, and beyond the basswoods, it was white. Brooke looked out over the hills, the woods; in the distance, the silver river—so familiar, once, that it had been like looking in a mirror.

  She trudged to the house, clawed at the doorknob. Her hand, cramped from shoveling, wouldn’t grip.

  Milo opened the door, a smoking cast-iron skillet in his hand. Brooke smelled pancakes.

  “Brooke—” Milo started.

  She held up a hand, not wanting to hear whatever kind thing he had found to say about Emily, and he stood aside to let her into the kitchen.

  Holly and Sal were at the table, plates of food in front of them, wet hair combed back against their heads. They had on clean clothes, baggy and rolled up. Emily’s things.

  “Are you okay?” Brooke asked. The girls shrank from her as she approached.

  She looked down at her hands, dark and crusted. Felt the wet, matted hair hanging around her face. The stiffness of dried blood on her clothes, her skin.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, stepping back. It sounded feeble, even to her. How long had she left them while she buried her mother? Hours? She took in the aluminum washtub next to the stove, half full with cloudy, gray water. Time enough for Milo to heat pot after pot of water on the stove. To clean the soot from Sal’s red and tender face. “I had to . . . I couldn’t . . .”

  Holly and Sal waited, staring. Sal’s eyes were puffy and bloodshot. She brought her thumb to her mouth and sucked it, something she hadn’t done in over a year.

  “It’s just me, Salamander,” Brooke whispered. “It’s okay.”

  Holly let out a sharp hiss, turning away from Brooke to stare at the wall.