Little Crew of Butchers

by Francine Pascal

  Larry looks first at Lucy and her parents, then he sweeps the near-empty field until he alights on Luke. He stops dead, staring at the impossible.

  Luke, his prisoner, alive and free. Standing upright, all six feet of him. Standing as a man.

  Luke watches shock and stunned horror freeze Larry’s face. Luke looks at the boy standing above him, but he doesn’t see a boy. He sees only his hated tormentor. All the pain and humiliation of his days as a prisoner wash over him, and he regurgitates fury, a rage so deep, black, and visceral that it rips from his gut with the roar of a wild animal. All control and restraints fall away, and Luke rises, arms clawing the air, and charges at his enemy with enough ferocity to rip Larry apart.

  Another fifty feet and he’ll be upon him.

  Somewhere in Luke’s head, the sight of the gun registers, but the message doesn’t move to conscious thought until he hears the shots.

  One.

  Two.

  He feels the odd whack of something landing like a punch on the fleshy part of his thigh; there’s no pain, just surprise. The force of the hit smacks one leg up against the other. Luke looks down in time to see blood splotching the surface of his pants, and he doesn’t care.

  He looks up at Larry and, savoring the kill, resumes his charge. Larry screams for help, voice high and shrill with terror, but Luke is unstoppable.

  * * *

  “No! No!” Larry screams, the gun dangling from his hand, his head shaking back and forth as he tries to force it all away.

  This is all wrong, wrong! He shot him! But it didn’t stop him. He hit him, Larry knows he hit him, but the guy keeps coming. It’s the guy from the sewer and he’s big, really big, so much bigger standing up! Big like Larry’s father. And angry like Larry’s father.

  Larry can already feel the blows. The guy’s gonna whack him in the head first, he knows that. Always on the right side. And hard, hard enough to send that ball of air pounding against his eardrum. Then he’ll punch him in the stomach and kick him and hit him in the face. And all the while he’ll be screaming, “Fuckin’ moron! Fuckin’ moron!”

  He’s coming at him like an animal. He’s gonna rip him apart. He’s got to stop him!

  Mommy!

  Larry closes his hand tight around the gun and lifts it up. And as he does, all sound, even his own screams, stops. The air turns pins-and-needles numb with a thick silence.

  * * *

  Luke’s eyes never leave Larry as his legs devour the distance between them. Nothing can stop him, he thinks, savoring the power, the freedom—

  And then something does.

  It stops him with a power so great that it forces Luke back on his heels, skids him to a stop so precipitous that it brings him to his knees.

  That something is the sight of a twelve-year-old boy standing on the top of a hillside pointing a gun at his own head.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  Daisy, frantically plowing her way forward against the panicked movement of the crowd, breaks through into the open area below the hillside. The first people she sees are the Adlers. Ned is holding Lucy while Leddy, leaning close, comforts her daughter.

  Thank God she’s alive.

  Fifty feet to the side, Lucy sees Luke’s back. He’s on his knees, one hand holding his leg, his face turned up toward the top of the hillside.

  Before she can follow his line of sight, Charley Adler comes running from the direction of the parking lot, racing across the grass. Though Luke is almost in his path, Charley doesn’t seem to see him. Daisy watches as Charley runs into his mother’s arms.

  Now Daisy’s eyes move to the top of the hillside. She gasps. There he stands, that miserable boy, Larry, facing straight forward in the direction of no one, pressing a gun to the side of his head.

  She’s stunned, motionless. From the corner of her eye, she sees the Adlers and the Duncan twins become aware of Larry. They, too, stop moving.

  The enormity of the threat freezes everyone, a bizarre still life, a tranquil hillside caught in the horror of an unspeakable moment.

  Though Luke hasn’t moved, Daisy can see he’s hurt just from the way his upper body hovers over his leg. Affecting as calm and level a carriage as she can, she starts toward him, her eyes fixed on Larry, who remains still.

  As she closes the distance, Luke, unaware of her presence, rises and begins to walk slowly toward Larry.

  Daisy stops and watches.

  Larry moves his head slightly toward Luke. Luke stops.

  What has changed this bully, this cruel, brutal boy, into a victim? The very boy that he is. Unquestionably cruel, brutal, and a bully, but a boy nonetheless. And a man must save a boy if he is any kind of man.

  With that resolve, Luke begins to speak to Larry. His words start so softly that they seem to float on the air, leaving only a smooth, gentle hum of unintelligible sound. When it reaches the boy, it feels like kindness. Larry can’t make out what Luke is saying, but he’s mesmerized by the unfamiliar tone and watches him approach without moving.

  Now Luke is just five feet from Larry. Still very far for life or death.

  Their eyes lock, but the boy doesn’t move. Another couple of feet, and Luke will be close enough to reach him. To take the gun from Larry’s hand.

  The ear-splitting screech of a microphone cuts the silence. “You do what I say, boy! You put that gun down. Right now!” Larry’s eyes open wide in horror at the sound of his father’s voice.

  The reflex of fright tightens his hand on the gun. Luke grabs that nanosecond of distraction to cover the distance separating them. In one leaping motion, he knocks the gun from Larry’s hand, and before the boy can respond, Luke wraps his arms around Larry and hugs him to his chest.

  Big as he is for his age, Larry feels like a child in Luke’s arms. His head only reaches the middle of Luke’s chest. Somehow Luke remembered him being so much bigger. Luke can feel the heat and softness of the boy’s body and the thumping of his racing heart, a pounding that reverberates into Luke’s own.

  What was an almost empty field moments before is now covered with police and people. Storming out of a clot of blue comes John O’Neill, his face flaming red, fists clenched, fury rasping his voice.

  “Get over here, you crazy moron! You goddamn fuckin’ lunatic!” Larry’s body quakes, burrowing deeper against Luke. Little whimpers of terror escape his lips and sobs shake his head. In response, Luke tightens his grip and turns slightly so that the boy is still sheltered. Now he’s fully facing the enraged John O’Neill, who stomps across the grass swinging his arms with an assurance that leaves no doubt as to who has taken over.

  Luke watches him but doesn’t let go of Larry.

  “Get over here! Right now!” O’Neill shouts, slicing the air with his forefinger to mark each word.

  Still, Luke holds the boy, who only clings tighter. Here, in front of him, he sees true brutality. He knows it’s not the boy. What can a boy of twelve be but a poor imitation? Yet if left unattended, unchanged, the atypical cells of this vicious childhood will turn cancerous with maturity.

  Never before in his life has Luke had to take the position of guardian, to be a protector of someone. Not that he is cowardly, or even remarkably selfish, but like so many young men growing up, he was simply never called upon to give more help than heavy lifting. Additionally, the special tightness of his life with only his mother—just the two of them making their own separate ways, people who asked nothing and never noticed that they gave nothing—was not conducive to the bloom of benevolence. A bloom he never knew he didn’t have.

  And now he is cast as father, protector, judge—and from the looks of the man bearing down on them, warrior. He feels the challenge expanding his heart, and he knows he is finally where he was always meant to be. Never has he felt so right in his own skin.

  “Stop right there!” Luke doesn’t shout, but his vo
ice is loud and strong. He shoves his hand up, palm out, to accent his words. And O’Neill stops.

  But only for an instant, and mostly from surprise. Men like O’Neill are used to orders taken from the outside world and dutifully eaten, only to be regurgitated in brutal strikes against his weaker family members, his wife and son.

  In that brief hesitation, O’Neill has time to appraise his opponent. He finds the command belies the physical threat and Luke’s bizarrely ragged appearance. He resumes his charge. Luke shoves the boy behind him, and with both feet planted squarely on the ground, forms a wall of defense with his body.

  “You’re not laying a hand on this kid.”

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  Luke doesn’t move.

  “Get out of my way!” O’Neill is close enough to spit the words into Luke’s face.

  Luke doesn’t move.

  Now O’Neill is upon him, trying to shove him aside. Luke knocks O’Neill’s hand out of the way. He has the impression there are people moving in. He waits for the next attack—two hands thud into his chest, momentarily knocking the wind out of him, but Luke stands his ground.

  “That’s my kid, and I’ll do what I want! No son-of-a-bitch fuckin’ homeless bum is gonna stop me!” O’Neill reaches around Luke and grabs Larry’s arm. “C’mere, you little bastard!”

  Luke breaks O’Neill’s grip with a quick karate-chop knock to the arm and pushes the boy safely out of the way.

  O’Neill turns on Luke with wild swings hardened by a lifetime of heavy work. He lands bruising punches every which way, all the while kicking at Luke’s legs with his steel-tipped work boots, driving him backward into a tree. With Luke’s body trapped against the trunk, O’Neill pounds Luke ferociously.

  There are people around, police, but no one stops him.

  “Watch out!” Luke shouts. For a split second O’Neill throws a look to the side, time enough for Luke to ram his fist with all his might into the soft, beer-grown girth of his assailant. The blow doubles O’Neill over, leaving his jaw perfectly positioned for the uppercut that Luke delivers with his fist.

  Two life-and-death fights in a couple of weeks—and Luke has never been a fighter. He’s athletic, but he’s never had enough of a killer instinct to be outstanding.

  But now he’s fighting, not just for the boy, but for his own life—and not only the physical one.

  Nobody’s going to let O’Neill kill him, they’ll stop it long before that, but Luke knows in his soul that if he doesn’t triumph, he is as good as dead. The sewer was his nadir. Saving this boy is his salvation.

  Here, now, he can show the world—show Daisy—that he is a man of substance. Not a hero. If you think you’re a hero, you’re automatically not. Instinctively, Luke has found a way to be better than that.

  The powerful two-fisted blow to O’Neill’s jaw knocks the man’s head up high enough to put him in line for the perfect coup de grâce. And Luke is ready. He slams his right arm forward, aiming straight for O’Neill’s head. His fist rushes through the air even with his target, but then the target slumps to his knees, arms cradling his head, and Luke’s fist hits empty air. The strong response from an equal has reduced O’Neill to the natural cowardice of a bully.

  When Luke looks up, the police are close by, close enough to grab him. But no one does. Behind him, Larry cowers in terror. There’s no one he’s not afraid of now, and that includes his savior.

  “I’m charging this man with physical abuse of a child. And you people damn well better do something about it.”

  There’s less surprise than one would think. John O’Neill’s reputation is well-known in Shorelane. But it has taken a stranger, a no-account nobody, to shove it in their faces and not leave them any room to wiggle away.

  “Who the hell are you?” someone blurts.

  “What difference does that make?” Daisy says, pushing her way to Luke. “You all know it’s true. If he doesn’t make the complaint, I will.”

  “We will too,” the Adlers say.

  Worms are turning all over the place.

  By now, John O’Neill is on his feet. Unless he can get Larry and get out fast, he’s got big trouble. Trouble he can’t handle. He pulls his son up from the ground with an unnecessarily hard jerk. His frustration and anger are too deep to hide.

  “We’re outta here. C’mon.”

  “Just a minute, John.” Danny Dasto, minus his uniform but still exuding police-style calmness, steps up to O’Neill. He gently takes Larry’s hand out of his father’s. “This has to be settled and it can’t be done here. Why don’t you just go on home? I’ll bring Larry over to Judge Cookson’s with me. We’ll work it out. And this, too,” he says, bending down to pick up the gun.

  Larry docilely backs toward the officer, moving more like a six-year-old than a twelve-year-old.

  “You can’t do that! I got a license …” O’Neill starts, but he senses quickly that this is not the time and place to make his stand. When he looks around, he can see no discernible sympathy in the crowd.

  “Go on home now. We’ll work it out,” Dasto repeats.

  O’Neill turns reluctantly, muttering pieces of phrases in an attempt to engage the crowd, “They got no right to do this … He’s my kid … How would you like it if somebody came and told you what to do with your kids?”

  But the crowd backs off. Nothing more disgusting to people than a child abuser, even an unproven one. And guns and kids, that time is over.

  Now the interest turns back to Luke.

  “Just who the hell are you?” Dasto asks Luke.

  Daisy answers, looking at Luke. “He’s my friend. My very good friend.” Turning to the police officer, she says, “Did you see the way he saved that boy’s life? And believe me, that’s one kid that almost didn’t deserve it.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Ask Larry.”

  But Larry shrugs, muttering, “I don’t know nothin’.” He has escaped the most dangerous threat; with his father gone, he reverts to his usual tricks. Besides, he sees the twins in the crowd. His twins, his lackeys and a source of guaranteed support.

  “We don’t know nothin’, right?” He looks to them for confirmation; of course they give it, shaking their heads and repeating, “We don’t know nothin’.”

  To the crowd, Larry is still a sympathetic character. They take him at his word and turn with just a hint of hostility to the stranger for an explanation.

  Luke looks at Larry, but it’s hopeless. There’s no way that this boy, conditioned by life to lie to save his skin, is going to admit what they did to Luke. Luke will have to forgo revenge and get his satisfaction from saving his tormentor’s life.

  And his own in the bargain.

  “The hell with it,” Luke says. Now that the adrenaline has receded, his leg is beginning to throb. “Let’s get out of here, Daisy.”

  But Luke is wrong. He might get some justice after all. “Hey, mister? Mister?”

  It’s Lucy and she’s talking to the cop. Larry freezes.

  “What is it, honey?” Dasto knows Lucy well enough to listen, even though she’s only seven.

  “Larry tried to shoot me.”

  “Did not. It was an accident. The gun went off accidentally. Right?” From habit, Larry looks at the twins for confirmation. They weren’t there. Still they nod their heads, yes.

  But Lucy’s not going to be stopped. “Yeah, well, it wasn’t an accident what he did to that man.” She points at Luke. “We did something bad to him, especially Larry.”

  “She’s lying. I never did nothin’ to that guy.”

  “He got stuck in the sewer and Larry wouldn’t let him out.”

  “That’s a lie. We tried to help him, right?” Again, the look to his collaborators, who nod. “He attacked Charley, right, Charley?”

  All eyes turn to Cha
rley. He’s been there all the time, standing quietly. Now it’s his turn to agree, and he can’t meet Lucy’s eyes.

  Yes, Luke did grab his foot like he was going to hurt him. Yes, he has to say that Luke attacked him.

  He knows it’s not a good answer. It’s not the answer Lucy would give. But Charley has to live in a world of Larrys—not just today when everyone is around but every day, when he’s alone walking home from school or going on an errand or riding his bike around the neighborhood. This guy’s gonna leave, and who cares anyway? He’s alive; it’s not like Larry killed him. If Larry killed him, Charley would tell. He knows he would.

  “Tell ’em, Charley,” Lucy looks at her big brother, sure he will tell the truth. But Charley doesn’t answer. He keeps his eyes on the ground.

  Lucy spares him and starts to tell what happened. Everyone listens. She doesn’t tell it all, just the worst things—hitting Luke with rods and Larry not letting them tell. About the rain and how Luke was drowning.

  Luke can’t listen. He’s disgusted by the picture of his weakness and the pitying looks people are giving him. His moment of glory is over. He has to get away.

  And he knows where he’s going.

  “Daisy.” He puts out his hand and she takes it. They start to walk through the crowd, which parts respectfully. He hears the children behind him.

  “She’s lying,” he hears Larry say. “I swear to God.”

  And then he hears the twins back him up. “She’s lying,” they say. Then he and Daisy are out of earshot. In fact, they’re farther than that; the two of them are out of the reach of anyone in the town of Shorelane. Forever.

  At last, Luke knows where he’s going. Back to Los Angeles.

  Hopefully with Daisy.

  EPILOGUE

  Even if Luke and Daisy had been closer, they couldn’t have heard what Charley said because Charley never spoke.

  He didn’t lie and he didn’t tell the truth, and for the rest of his life, he’ll replay this scene over and over again. He’ll play it where he tells the truth, and thanks to him, Larry is punished, or he plays it as it was. Whichever way he remembers that moment, the truth of it always stands as the shame of his childhood.