Aaron grinned. “Yep.”
Luke felt a smile flutter over his lips.
His brother snatched his blade from the air, sheathed it and headed for the door. As he passed Luke, he said, “I hope she’s there.”
“Me too,” Luke agreed.
“Cuz if she ain’t…if she’s in some hospital somewheres, you’re as good as dead.”
Wellman was exhausted. The fear and adrenaline had drained him, and now all he wanted was to close his eyes and sleep like the dead. Twenty minutes had passed since the knock on the door, since he’d felt the kind of terror that threatened to disable him, leave him prone on the floor, victim of a heart that had taken pity on him and shut down, spiriting him away from whatever horrors lay ahead.
Now as he opened the front door and slowly eased himself down to sit on the stoop, the night air muggy and suffocating, he felt like a shadow of himself, the sad result of a life only half-lived. His bones creaked and popped painfully as he settled himself, ass on the wood, legs outstretched, heels dug into the dirt and scattered gravel of the driveway. In one hand he held the bottle he had shared with Jack Lowell, who he figured was most certainly dead now, or as good as. In the other hand, he held the small picture of himself and Abby, thirty years younger and beaming, not yet educated in the ways of suffering and death, their faces unlined, eyes not yet dulled by pain and the realization that there is no control, no dictating of how destiny will unfold, no real choices. Everything is preplanned, a fact that might not upset humankind as much if they were let in on the secret, if they were offered tantalizing glimpses of what the future holds. But no such previews exist, and so man flails blindly through the dark, hoping to avoid the holes through which he has watched so many of his fellow man fall.
The Colt was a cold unyielding lump against his spine, held in place by a waistband three sizes bigger than the one the younger, happier version of himself was wearing in the picture. Those forgotten youths, bursting with love and high on the promises they intended to fulfill together, as one, forever and ever amen, smiled up at him, attempting to convince him that happiness did exist, while at the same time torturing him with the truth that he would never know it again.
A droning sound echoed in the distance, bouncing against the hills and passing through the longleaf pines like gossip among old women.
The fear coiled inside him, but he was too weary to swim against its current, instead choosing to focus on the smiles from that handsome couple and their sepia world, as if wishing enough might enable him to travel back in time, to that place.
Headlights appeared on the horizon, twin moons punched in the canvas of night. The car was coming fast.
Wellman brought the open whiskey bottle to his lips, took a mouthful, swished it around to burn away the taste of bile, and swallowed. Then slowly, he rose and stepped outside. He monitored his breathing, regulating it in an attempt to steady his nerves. Then he reached behind him and untucked his shirt, letting it fall loose over the gun. In his left hand he still held the picture, the frame slick in his sweat-moistened grip.
Then lowered it.
Luke’s head felt like a honeybee’s nest. Ill-formed thoughts and paranoid suspicions bounced around his skull like smoke-addled drones protecting their queen. His palms were soaked with sweat, his brow beaded with perspiration, and not for the first time in his life, he cursed his lack of education. Papa-in-Gray had yanked his children out of what passed for a school in Elkwood as soon as Momma fell ill and was re-christened to suit her new permanent quarters. At the time, Luke hadn’t cared one whit about being taken away from that low-slung series of prefabricated shelters. They’d been too cold in winter, too damn warm in summer, and the other kids had treated them like they’d fallen off the back of a circus wagon that had passed through town. Since then however, there had been occasions and developments in his life that had made him regret not picking up his schooling, even if it was restricted to their home, and even if Papa taught them. But Papa, though plenty sly, wasn’t all that smart himself. He could trap a deer, a fox, or a man a thousand different ways, but when it came to things like numbers, or geography, he just scowled and spat and threw a fit to cover his ignorance.
Luke wished for smarts, especially now when he knew without a doubt they would help him sort out his thoughts, align them into some kind of orderly formation so they could be inspected, studied, and understood. So he could use them to engineer his escape.
But brains couldn’t save him now. The window of opportunity had slammed shut ten minutes ago when they’d left the Lowell farm burning behind them. Papa had set the lone horse free, but it hadn’t moved from its dark stable, so he’d left it there, figuring if it stuck around and burned, it was probably too dumb to be of much use to anyone anyway. And as stringy as the old mare looked, they wouldn’t be losing much of a meal even if it wised up and took off. The pigs were a different story. Lowell had kept them plump, but even if he hadn’t, swine are resourceful sonsabitches and will eat each other before they’ll die of starvation. A thin pig was about as common as balls on a scarecrow. With Aaron and Luke’s help, Papa had cornered the animals and deftly cut their throats. They were now bagged in burlap sacks and bleeding out in the bed of the truck as it reached the bottom of the hill and swung around a short hairpin bend. Doctor Wellman’s place, old as the Lowell farm, but a lot less neglected, was dead ahead, waiting at the end of a long ribbon of gravel.
“Someone’s there,” Aaron said, unnecessarily, for they could all see the man standing before the open door of the house, silhouetted against the golden light from within. He had something in both hands. Luke guessed one of them might be a small thin book. The other item caught the light from the house and mangled it, making the bottle seem like it held aggravated fireflies.
“Looks like he’s aimin’ for a fight,” Aaron said, and Luke looked at him, caught the relish on his brother’s face. Ordinarily he’d have shared his sibling’s excitement at the thought of what was going to happen here, but not tonight.
“Looks like he’s aimin’ to die,” Papa mumbled, as the headlights washed over the old man, forcing him to squint and raise the hand holding the bottle to shield himself from the glare. Papa eased the truck to a halt, but kept the lights blazing. Then he killed the engine, and sat for a moment, staring out at the doctor.
Luke could feel his heart roaring. Could feel where his bare elbows touched his brother’s. Aaron was trembling too, but for different reasons.
From the small space between the front seats and the cab window, the twins were electric balls of energy, their impatience making the truck rock slightly. Joshua’s fingers were clamped on the back of Luke’s seat. He could hear his younger brother’s rapid breathing in his ear.
“What’re we waitin’ for?” Aaron asked, sounding just a little annoyed.
Around them, the night was uncannily quiet.
Wellman stood bathed in the stark glow of the lights.
“Search the house,” Papa said at last, still watching the doctor, as if he knew more than any of them possibly could just from the look in the old man’s eyes.
Luke moved, much too slow for Aaron’s liking, and barely had the door open before his brother scrambled over him, knife drawn. The doctor may as well have been a cigar store Indian guarding a store full of free candy for all the attention Aaron paid to him as he hurried into the house.
“Go,” Papa grunted, and Luke flinched, then obeyed.
The twins slid over the seats and followed.
Luke took his time, and heard the truck door slam shut as Papa stepped from the vehicle and drew abreast of him. The doctor looked on as the twins shoved past him, their feet thundering against the wooden floor as they disappeared inside. Then silence fell, and to Luke, it may as well have been an axe descending on his neck. His brothers knew better than to waste time. If they’d found the girl there would have been whoops and cries of delight, their way of letting the others know the chase was over, the day—and Luke’s life—saved.
But now the quiet that held the night by the throat had infiltrated the house. The only sound was Wellman’s unsteady breathing.
Papa did not look at Luke as they stopped in front of the old man, and Luke was thankful. He could not bear to see what remained of his increasingly dwindling hope being swallowed by the cold in his father’s eyes.
