The heartbreak in his voice brings tears to my eyes. I hide them, and my face, under the blanket. My biggest regret about my mother’s death is that my birth was the cause. The conviction of my father’s words makes me miss the possibility of a mother, but my father has always been enough for me. If not for his pain, I’m not sure I’d ever know I was missing something.
“Can I wear my jeans?” I ask. He typically makes me get gussied up for church, and each year he spends money he shouldn’t on a new suit for me. I have a collection of them in my closet, from toddler size to my now eleven-year-old size. I’ve sat through hundreds of services wearing those suits and have recently come to the conclusion that God would prefer us naked. Not because he’s a perv, but because that’s how he intended us to be. Getting dressed up in a way people think is nice isn’t going to help with the problem of sin. Pastor says that’s grace, but he dresses nice, too.
Sometimes I feel like I’m the only one really paying attention to the words, ’cause I don’t see them playing out in the congregation. When the preaching is done, the hymns have been sung, the benediction given, and the pot luck food is warming up, the women gossip. The men brag and boast. The kids fight, steal, and bully. And yet, if you walk into that white-steepled building in anything less than a suit no one in these parts can really afford, you’re destined for the fiery pits of hell.
I shake my head under the blanket, rolling my eyes. I fail to see how the people in that place, who seem to have no understanding of what Jesus taught, will help me or my father work up the courage to believe in God and see my mother again.
“You’re old enough to make that decision for yourself,” he says. “I’m not going to force clothes on to you, but as long as you live under this roof, you’ll be joining me every Sunday. Understood?”
I nod under the blanket, relieved that I don’t have to wear the suit, but horrified by the prospect of being condemned by our friends and neighbors for it.
His weight lifts off the bed. “Pancakes are on. Be ready in ten. When church lets out, we’ll hit Adel early and see if we can’t bag a deer.”
“What do you mean, early?” I ask. “Church doesn’t get out until nearly noon.”
“Forgot to tell you,” my father says. I peel the blanket back to watch him maneuver his way past my toys, toward the window. He gives the shade a yank and lets it spin up, revealing just a hint of orange light in the East. “We’re going to the early service. Now…” He stands above me, a slight grin on his rugged face that’s framed in a graying beard. “Get up!” He yanks the blankets off me and the whole house begins to shake.
I spasm into sudden and full alertness.
“Get up,” my father says, yanking me to my feet. “They’re coming back.”
“Dad,” I say, confused by the sudden transition from my bedroom—the same room I sleep in now—to the woods. “What are you—”
“Ain’t your pa, fella,” he says, clearing the fog of confusion. He leans me against a tree, holding me in place. “And I’m sorry for knocking you for a loop. Never was good at pulling my punches. But I thought you might have been one’a them. Judging by your clothes, I reckon you’re one of us.”
I look him over, dressed in camouflage, looking as powerful as I remember. I can smell his Old Spice, and it nearly brings tears to my eyes. My father is real. And alive. And damn near to hugging me. But something about him is not like I remember.
He’s afraid.
Not for me, or for himself. A small hand clutches his pant leg. I’m standing behind him. The younger me. I didn’t live through this. I have no memory of it. I can’t say for sure how I’m feeling, but I have a pretty good idea. If Dad’s afraid, I’m terrified.
“I’m good,” I say, pushing myself up. In truth, I’m still a bit dazed, but I’ve pushed through worse. Survival sometimes demands discomfort. “Who’s coming?”
“I don’t know what to call them,” my father says. “A bunch of hillbillies wearing rags and carrying antique weapons.”
“Were they chasing a woman and a young man?” I ask.
“Friends of yours?” He doesn’t wait for any answer. “They were in a bad sort. Outgunned. Normally, I would’a helped them, but…” He glances back at younger me, who’s just starting to poke his head out to look at me.
When I say, “Family comes first,” he looks relieved. Then his eyes widen a bit. “You’re the fella from the road. Out for a walk. The younger fella, he was with the woman.”
I nod. “That’s them.”
Downhill, a tree branch cracks.
“We should hide,” he says.
That shouldn’t be difficult for the two of them. Both are dressed for the hunt, wearing camo from head to toe. I remember the clothes being sweltering in the summer heat. They’re probably not quite enough in the current frigid conditions, but neither of them are shivering.
“Up there,” I point to a fallen tree, its branches still intact and full of dead leaves, forming a mesh of broken lines. Like my father’s camouflage, it will conceal us from sight, but allow us to keep an eye on anyone searching for us.
“They’ll track our prints,” he says, and curses under his breath. He’s just realized that approaching the battle scene was a mistake that’s left him and his son exposed to men prone to violence.
“Walk backward,” I say, “Owen first. Then you. I’ll follow.” I look the pair over. “Where’s the rifle?”
My father’s face screws up with suspicion. Shit. I used my name. Before he can point that out, I address it. “I heard you talking, before I opened my eyes. You said his name.”
I can tell he’s not sure whether or not he did.
“And I know you have a rifle because you were out hunting. Heard the shots earlier.”
Another cracking branch, this one closer, forces him to let go of his doubt. He reaches behind the tree I’m leaning against and plucks out the old Winchester 1895. It’s a powerful weapon best known for being the rifle of choice for President Roosevelt while on African safari. I’m not sure how many animals he killed with the weapon, but it’s damn near powerful enough to take down most anything he encountered. My father will have it loaded with four rounds of 7.62x54mmR, which are rimmed and still used in some of the world’s armies, most famously in the Russian Dragunov sniper rifle. I haven’t seen the rifle since I was a child. Unlike the house, which I inherited, the rifle was one of the many heirlooms sold off by my grandfather, who’d acquired it during World War II. It’s like seeing an old friend again.
“What makes you think you’re a better shot?” he asks, holding the weapon back.
“I had a good teacher…and I’m a Marine.” I give my haircut a rub, like the high and tight style is all the proof he needs. “Trust me. You take care of your son, and let me take care of the both of you. I’ll die before letting anything happen to you.”
The conviction in my voice seems to surprise my father, dissolving his apprehension. “And this?” He reaches behind the tree again, recovering the pump shotgun. “I reckon it’s not yours.”
“No, sir,” I say. “But you should hang on to it. I can do more with the rifle.”
He mulls that over for a moment and then offers his hand, taking time for a proper introduction despite the fact that Boone and his men might be coming our way. “William McCoy.”
I shake his hand. He’s got a firm, almost painful grip. The moment is surreal. I’d only ever experienced the gentle side of him. He could lose his temper, and was a firm disciplinarian, but never violent. Never scary. Now, as an adult, I can see in his eyes the potential for both. “Kevin,” I say and then throw in the first last name that comes to mind—Cassie’s. “Dearborn.”
There’s a flicker of excitement in Owen’s eyes as he leans out around our father and looks me in the eyes for the first time. I’ve looked at my own eyes in the mirror countless times, but seeing them in a head that is not my own…but is my own…is almost disorienting. When he sees me, Owen looks a bit disapp
ointed, but then collects himself and then offers his hand.
I hesitate to shake it. I’ve seen time travel movies where touching yourself in the past can blow up the universe. But since neither of us are in the right time, and movie science is questionable to say the least, I take his small hand and give it a shake. Then I point to our hiding spot and tell him, “Hurry. Backward the whole way.”
My younger self gives a nod and sets to the task, walking backward uphill, leaving a trail that gives the appearance of someone approaching, not leaving. With all the other tracks around, I reckon Boone and his men won’t give them a second glance, but if they do, they won’t have a reason to follow them.
My father hands me the rifle and keeps the shotgun. I take it in my left hand and run my right over the barrel. Then I look down the sights, give it a heft, and pat the weapon’s side with the same affection you might show a pet dog. I run through the routine each time I hold a new weapon, or in this case, an old one. I’ve done it since…
Crap…
I glance up at my father, whose expression has turned suspicious again. He’s looking at my eyes, really looking. I can see the question on the tip of his tongue, but he’s interrupted by the sound of voices, agitated and close.
“Go!” I whisper, and I turn to guard his retreat.
17
There’s no time to follow in my father’s reverse footsteps, so I duck behind a broad tree and watch his progress. Steam puffs from his living lungs as he walks backward up the hill, following Owen’s small prints, step for step, leaving only one set and obscuring the child-size depressions which would stand out in these woods, in this harsh time.
He gives me a concerned look, but the sound of voices, nearly on my position, chases him into the tangle of dead branches and leaves. As soon as he’s on the ground, the camouflage he’s wearing makes him invisible.
I, on the other hand, am very visible. The moment someone walks past this tree, the pale white skin of my bare arms and face will stand out.
The tree’s rough bark feels good on my back as I lean against it. I roll back and forth, letting the trunk scratch and massage some tension away. Then I stand still and close my eyes. My breathing slows and grows shallow, preventing the fog of exhalation from giving away my position.
“I still don’t know what she was shootin’,” a man says. “Ain’t never seen a gun can fire that many bullets, that fast. And tarnation, could she shoot.”
“This is why they should’a never been freed,” Boone says. “Didn’t I tell ya, Buck? Trouble. All of them. Woman like that belongs stooped over in a field, not shooting up my mountain.”
The racism might be genuine, but I’m pretty sure it has more to do with bolstering their bruised egos. Sounds like Cassie gave them a fight they won’t forget. The question is, did she survive it?
I turn my attention away from the sound of their voices and to the crunch of feet in snow. There’s just two of them, heading back uphill.
Questions compound and mix with anger.
Knowing my father and younger self are watching, I point two fingers at the fallen tree and then my eyes, pulling my fingers down and closing my eyes. I hope he understands my meaning. Owen might be me, but he’s still a kid, and I don’t want him, or myself, having the emotional scars of seeing what comes next. I have no intention of killing either man, but if I’m left without a choice, I won’t hesitate.
And if it turns out Cassie or Levi have been killed…
“At least I got this. Pretty and deadly. Mmmhmm. Sure wish I knew what kind of bullets it takes.” Boone walks past the tree’s right side, holding my handgun up, admiring its futuristic shape. The slide is locked back, the ammunition spent, no doubt fired at Cassie and Levi.
He doesn’t notice me until I’m in motion. He spins, wide-eyed and blood-spattered. The rifle’s butt catches him in the forehead, toppling him back. He lands on the snow-covered slope and slides several feet before coming to a limp stop.
His compatriot, Buck, a mountain of a man carrying a shotgun, is quicker than he looks, but not very smart. I dive behind the tree as the man wages a one-man war against its bark, like the pellets might somehow penetrate the wood and strike me. All he manages to do is create several bald spots on the tree’s surface, and empty his shotgun.
When I hear the first useless trigger pull, I round the tree and raise the rifle. My instinct is to put a bullet in the man’s head, but my intention is to capture him and Boone alive. But Buck has adjusted to the situation, swinging the shotgun like a bat, connecting with the rifle hard enough to knock it from my hands.
I have a moment of concern for the rifle’s welfare, afraid I’ve taken the heirloom from my father only to see it destroyed a few minutes later. Worry shifts from the rifle to my life when Buck swings a second time, nearly taking off my head.
The shotgun slams into the tree when I duck, splintering more wood from the old oak and shattering the weapon. Had that hit my head, I’d have a shotgun-shaped indentation in my brain.
The impact forces a shout of pain from Buck, but he’s undeterred. While the people Boone left behind at the camp weren’t fighters, this man is no stranger to action. He’s shit with a shotgun, but given the thickness of his knuckles, I’m guessing Buck’s weapons of choice are his fists. He takes the pain in stride, never losing focus, closing the distance again.
I’ve fought men like this before. Powerful. Indomitable. The secret to defeating them isn’t matching them punch for punch, seeing who can deliver the most pain in the shortest amount of time. It’s the technique perfected by Muhammad Ali—the rope-a-dope. All that muscle needs oxygen and the more he swings and misses, the more exhausted he’ll become. Sometimes it takes minutes, sometimes just thirty seconds, but the big man will eventually lack the strength to lift his own arms. That’s why the best fighters find a balance between power and endurance. It’s what separates the—
“Oof!” The second punch in a surprise combo strikes my arm. I stumble back, gripping the numbed limb. The man is faster than he looks.
I take another step back, rethinking my strategy. Buck smiles at me, mistaking my movement for fear, or perhaps retreat. He’s certainly humbled me, but I don’t back down that easily.
Buck peels his jacket away. It’s lined with thick fur that gave him a bulked up look. With the coat missing, I can now see that he’s got the body of a fighter, not to mention a good foot on me, and several extra inches of reach.
What he doesn’t have, is training. But I’m not going to underestimate him again. Assuming he can fight as well as, if not better, than me, I need to come up with a way to end this sooner than later.
When in doubt, fight dirty. I don’t think it will make my father proud, but we’ll be alive at the end.
I glance to the rifle. There’s a chance I could reach it before Buck could land a punch, but then again, he might crack my skull before I could lift it out of the snow. When he steps closer, cracking his knuckles, the possibility is eradicated. The only way to reach the weapon is to go through him.
Matching his pace, I back away, inflating his sense of superiority while simultaneously frustrating him. When he raises his hands and waves me toward him, shouting, “C’mon!” I grant his wish.
I charge.
He throws a punch that would likely have killed me if I hadn’t slid onto my back. Snow and the steep grade carry me under his swing and toward the exposed soft spot between his legs. One good shot and the fight will be over.
I kick hard, planting the sole of my foot between his legs. But the soft squish of compressing testicles is missing. All I feel through my boot is the firm resistance of barren taint.
Stunned, I look up into Buck’s eyes and see shame-fueled rage. I don’t want to know how or why, but the man whose name suggests animal masculinity and has the body to match, has been castrated.
“Fuck,” I mutter as his big foot rises above me and crashes down toward my face. My hands and arms scream in pain as I catch his bo
ot. There’s a moment of equilibrium, but his strength and weight overpower me. Before he can compress my face, I twist his foot hard, and kick out his planted leg.
He topples back, falling downhill, but he has no trouble rolling back onto his feet.
I scramble up and decide to press the attack. I leap into the air, sailing toward his head thanks to my elevated position. My airborne foot will deliver the same kind of knock-out kinetic energy that his punches contain…if it connects.
It doesn’t.
Buck swats my foot aside, sending me into a chaotic tumble. If that wasn’t bad enough, he grasps hold of my belt and propels me downhill. I fly out over the descending ground and careen toward a painful landing.
The only things that save me from certain doom and death, are the cushion of the snow and the angled terrain. Instead of coming to a sudden, bone-breaking stop, I hit the ground and slide. A sapling gives me a good whack in the back of the head, but I escape the embarrassing failed attack without significant injury.
Buck sets upon me as I stand, forcing me into a discombobulated defense. I do my best to duck and weave his series of quick punches, but he connects three in a row, stunning me and leaving me wide open for a haymaker that will end the fight.
I can’t match his strength, so I decide to fight smart.
As his arm comes around toward my head, I snap a quick strike into the inside of his arm, just a few inches above his elbow. He shouts in pain, as I crush a knuckle into the pressure point. The strike numbs his arm, diffusing the muscles behind his punch, but since an object in motion tends to stay in motion, his fist continues forward into my face.
I’m sprawled to the ground, but spared the knockout force of Buck’s punch thanks to the pressure point and rolling with the impact rather than trying to resist it.
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