Killman Creek by Rachel Caine

  Boot barks. It's a full-chested thing that hits me in ways that make me want to run, but I don't. Barely. Boot stands up, flows down the stairs, all sleek fur and muscle, and circles around me. I stay still, not sure what I'm supposed to be doing. Finally, Boot comes to a stop in front of me and sits.

  "Uh . . ." I say. Which is genius. But I can't think of anything else. My mouth is dry. I'm afraid to even look at the dog. "Hi?"

  I slowly, slowly lower my bag to the ground. Boot doesn't move. He stares at me as I hold out my hand to him, then turns and looks at Mr. Esparza as if he's saying, Is she serious with this crap? before sniffing my fingers and giving them a dismissive little lick. He snorts, as if he doesn't like my bodywash or something, and then turns and flops himself down in the shade to put his chin on his paws. He seems thoroughly disappointed. I guess he was looking forward to a good, solid fight to start his day.

  Boot and I have a lot in common.

  I keep my head down and don't look at Mr. Esparza at all as I say, "Can I go inside now?"

  "Sure," he says. He sounds calm, and ever so slightly amused. I keep my eyes on Boot as I pick up my bag and walk slowly across the open space to the steps.

  "Good dog," I tell Boot. He looks away, but he gives me a little twitch of a tail wag. Then I'm up the steps. There's an old weathered chair, and a shotgun still braced in the corner by the door. I have an almost crazy urge to touch it, but Mom would go apeshit if I do, so I just open the cabin door and step inside.

  "Great," I say sourly, looking at my options. It isn't big. I guess it's fine; there's a fire burning in the hearth to take the chill off, and the sofa looks big and comfy. So do the chairs. A little dining table next to an equally little kitchen, everything neat and clean.

  There are three doors off the main room: bathroom (one, oh God), and two small bedrooms. I throw my bag on the first bed I see and collapse facedown on it. Take in a deep breath.

  It smells like pine and crisp linen, and I hug the pillow for dear life. That, at least, is right. Very right.

  "Hey," says Connor from the doorway. "Where am I supposed to sleep?"

  "Don't care," I mumble into the pillow. "I claim this land for Atlanta."

  "Don't be a b--"

  "If you say the word I'm thinking, I'm going to kick your ass, Connor."

  "Meanie," he says instead, which is kiddie enough to make me laugh, especially the dignified way he says it. "I need to sleep somewhere."

  "You get the other room," says Mr. Esparza from behind him, and a quick glance shows me he's smiling. "The bigger room, since Lanny already picked this one."

  "Hey!" I get up fast, but I'm too late; Connor is already scrambling for the other room. I glare through a veil of black hair at Mr. Esparza. "Not fair!" He shrugs. "Wait . . . where are you sleeping?"

  "Couch," he says. "It's okay. I'm used to worse, and it folds out into a decent bed."

  He thinks like Mom, who always takes the room closest to the door . . . putting herself between us and whatever might be coming.

  "Hope you don't snore," I shoot back.

  "Oh, I do," he says. "Like a wood chipper. Hope you have earbuds."

  I think he's kidding. Maybe. I don't want to ask in case he isn't. I just flop back on the bed like I've been shot and stare at the ceiling. Pretty bland. The room is . . . blah, but clean, and it smells nice. I have a couple of personal things in the bag. Connor has a buttload of books. Maybe I can steal some.

  Mr. Esparza turns away, and I see Mom stepping inside the main room with Sam Cade. "Javi, you're sure this is okay?" She suddenly sounds uncertain. Which is not like Mom. "I know this is a ridiculous favor to ask. I'm putting you in danger, and putting you out at the same time . . ."

  "It's fine," Mr. Esparza says. "Be nice to have some guests for a while. Look, this cabin might look like a shack, but it's reinforced. I've got alarms and lights. I've got Boot and guns and training. They're going to be okay. I'm going to see to that." He pauses, and I see the look he gives Sam. I'm not sure what it means. "Going after your ex is a dumbass idea, Gwen."

  "Yeah, it is," she says. "But I spent years hiding, and look what happened. He manipulated me. He put me right where he wanted me. But he's on the run now, and hunted, and I am not letting him come after my kids again."

  This is the first time I've heard Mom say it so directly. I mean, I know that's on her mind; she needs to be between us and him. I get it. I'm just worried about what is going to happen.

  Mom comes into my room and sits down on the bed next to me. I don't want to have The Goodbye Talk, so I start unpacking.

  "You always unpack first thing, everywhere we go," Mom says, and I hesitate as I'm folding up a shirt. "Did you know that?"

  "Whatever," I say. I open the dresser drawer. It's empty, lined with cedar that wafts up in a warm cloud. I'm going to smell like a tree. Awesome. I stash my pile of underwear and socks, then put shirts in the second drawer.

  "Connor never does," Mom says. "He leaves everything in the bag."

  "Yeah, well, he's always ready to run. I like to feel like I'm not." Even though I am. Even though I know exactly where everything I have is, and I can have my bag packed in less than a minute in an emergency.

  I take the rest of the shirts out of the bag and refold the wrinkles out, then put them away.

  "I thought you'd gotten rid of all of those," she says, and I realize she's talking about the faded Strawberry Shortcake T-shirt that I'm putting away. It looks weird, I admit, in my gloomy drawer full of blacks and reds and navy blues. I'm not a Strawberry Shortcake kid anymore. I'm wearing loose cargo pants with zippers and flapping rings, a big bowling shirt, black, with a giant embroidered sugar skull on the back. My hair is dyed the color of midnight, and worn long and straight. I didn't put on any eyeliner today. I miss it.

  "Yeah, well, I like the way the shirt feels," I tell her, then shut the drawer on the girl I used to be. "There. Home sweet home. You're dumping us here for how long?"

  There are spikes in it, but she doesn't flinch. "I don't know. I know it's going to be hard, but I need you not to contact your friends in Norton. All right?"

  Yeah, right, like any of my friends would want to talk to me now. I'm not just the Town Weirdo. I'm evil by association. Besides, they're all in school. "What are we supposed to do about classes?"

  "I'm sorry," Mom says. "I know how much this hurts. But it's temporary. Javier and Kezia will make sure you get lessons while I'm gone. I'm hoping it'll be a week, maybe two at the most. But I need you to--"

  "Be responsible, take care of Connor, yeah, yeah, I know." I roll my eyes, because we're clearly at that part of the conversation. "Hey, maybe we can hunt our own food. That'll be fun. Squirrel soup. Yummy."

  I dig into the bag. On top is a picture of the three of us, laughing, standing in front of the cabin on Stillhouse Lake. Sam took it. It was a good day. I set it on top of the dresser and stand there, fidgeting with it, trying this angle and that. My mom hasn't taken my bait. I'm not surprised. I finally say, "You told us you weren't going to shoot Dad."

  "I'm not setting out to do that," she says, which is pretty honest, all things considered.

  "I wish you would," I say. "I wish he was dead already. They should have killed him back in Kansas. That's why they call it death row, right?" I try hard to keep my voice even and my shoulders from hunching in. "He's going to murder somebody else, isn't he? And maybe us, if he can."

  "That's not going to happen." Mom says it gently. I can tell she wants to give me a hug, but she's become an expert at Lanny Language, and she stays at arm's length. I don't want a hug. I want a fight. She's not going to give it to me, which sucks. "He's going to be caught, and he's going back to jail. And when it's time, then the state will carry out his sentence. That's the right way to do it. Otherwise it's just revenge."

  "What's wrong with revenge? Didn't you see the pictures of the bodies? If that was me hanging in that noose, Mom, wouldn't you want revenge?"

  She freezes
. Just . . . shuts down. I think because she doesn't want me to know how much revenge she'd want to get. Then she blinks, and she says, "Did Connor see those pictures?"

  "What? No! Of course not, I'm not stupid. I wouldn't show those to him, and not the point, Mom. The point is, Dad doesn't deserve to live, does he?"

  "I'm emotional about him. So are you. That's why it shouldn't be us who decides what happens to him." She's talking the talk, but I can tell she's not feeling it. She wants him super dead, so much that it makes her shake. But she's making an effort not to raise me that way. I guess that's good.

  I dump the bag upside down, and stuff rains out on the bed. Makeup, mostly. A scrapbook that comes with an ostentatious, probably easy-to-open lock on it that Connor said he could jimmy with a paper clip. A diary, also locked. I like to write longhand, on paper. I like to think it survives, when stuff on the Internet is just pixels that can disappear in a second. Gone like it never existed.

  "Lanny. My job is to get between your dad and you. So that's why I'm going. You understand that?"

  I fiddle with a tube of lipstick--Crimson Shadow--and set it on the dresser. "And I'm the one who stands between him and Connor," I tell her. "I get it. I just hate it, that's all. I hate that no matter what we do, how hard we try, it's always all about him."

  Mom puts her arms around me this time and hugs. Hard. "No. It's about making him meaningless, finally. We are not his. We are ours."

  I hug her back, but fast, and then I'm out. I flop down on the bed and put my headphones around my neck. "And when do I get my laptop back, Warden?"

  "When this is done."

  "I know what not to do. You could put parental controls on it, even."

  She smiles. "And you're a smart kid who can crack those two seconds after I'm out the door, so no. I'm sorry, but not until this is over."

  I give her The Look. It bounces off without effect.

  "I'll call tonight," she tells me, and I shrug, like it's no big deal if she doesn't. Except it is. We both know it.

  When I get my makeup set up to my satisfaction, I find that Mom has gone out to the living area and is at the kitchen table. She's sitting across from Connor. Javier has put a glass of water in front of my brother, but he's ignoring it. All his attention is on the page he's reading. Mom takes his glass of water and sips, but he ignores that, too. "Must be a good story," she says. I settle into one of the armchairs near the windows. I was right. Comfy. I sling a leg over one arm and watch the show, which consists of my mom trying to gently get behind Connor's walls, and Connor pretending she isn't even there.

  He finally gives in enough to say, "It is." He carefully inserts a battered bookmark between the pages of his book, closes it, and puts it down on the table. "Mom. Are you going to come back?" I can see his eyes. I'm worried about how they look. I don't really know what my brother is thinking about anymore. Since Lancel Graham took us, he hasn't felt safe; I know that. He'd put such faith in Mom to keep us completely secure, to keep the world away, and for him, that failure had been epic. Hadn't been her fault, and she'd come for us like I knew she would.

  But I don't know how to fix my brother.

  Mom says all the right things, of course, and she hugs him. He breaks away quickly, which he always does . . . Connor isn't much of a hugger, especially when other people are around. But it's more than that.

  Mom kisses me on the forehead, and I give her a hug, a real one, but I don't say anything. Sam, who's been quietly leaning against the door, comes over to me and says, "Hey. Take care of your brother, okay?" Sam is a good man. I was wary for a long, long, long time, but I've seen him do quietly amazing things for us, including fighting to save us when our lives were on the line. I believe him when he says he cares.

  I also believe it's hard for him, because our asshole dad killed his innocent sister, and when he looks at us he can't help but see some part of Melvin Royal in me and Connor. I study myself for hours in the mirror sometimes, picking out bits that resemble Dad. My hair's more like Mom's. But I think the shape of my nose is more like Dad's. And my chin. I've looked up how old I have to be to get plastic surgery, just to remove any trace.

  Connor sometimes looks exactly like pictures of our father when Dad was a kid. I know it bothers my brother a lot. I know he spends a lot of time obsessing about whether he will turn out . . . bad.

  Mom needs to get him help. Soon. And if she won't, I will.

  "I'll take care of him," I tell Sam, then give it a shrug for good measure as if it's no big deal. But Sam gets it.

  "And yourself, tough chick."

  "Who you calling chick?" I demand, giving him a grin. We don't hug again. We bump fists, and he goes to do the same with Connor.

  Then he and Mom are gone, out the door, and we go out on the porch with Javier Esparza and Boot the dog to wave goodbye. Well, Boot doesn't wave. He still looks unhappy he didn't get to chew my face off. I give him a guarded pat on the head. He snorts again, but then he turns to Connor, and without the slightest evidence of fear, my brother sits down next to the dog and scratches him between the ears. Boot closes his eyes and leans against him.

  Boys, I think, and roll my eyes.

  I watch Mom and Sam get in the car. I watch them drive away. My eyes are clear and dry, and I'm proud of that.

  Mr. Esparza says he's going to make chili dogs for lunch. He puts Connor to work chopping up onions.

  I go to my room, shut the door, and weep into my pillow, because I am as afraid as I've ever been in my life that I will never see my mother again.

  And that Dad's going to find us.

  3

  SAM

  Gwen is still too quiet, an hour out onto the road. I can feel the pain vibrating the air around her.

  "You okay?" It's an inadequate question, but I have to try. There's something haunting in the blank way she's staring out the window at the flickering trees, like she's trying to hypnotize herself into something like peace.

  "I just abandoned my kids," she says. Her voice sounds strange. I shoot her a quick look, but the road is narrow and curved, and I can't spare much focus from keeping the SUV on the road. "Left them with . . . strangers."

  "They aren't strangers," I say. "Come on. You know they're good people. They'll do everything they can to keep the kids safe."

  "I should have stayed with them." I can tell that she's aching to ask me to turn the car around. "I just want to take my kids in my arms and never let them out of my sight again. I'm terrified . . ." Her voice fades out for a few seconds, thin as fog, then comes back stronger. "What if I never come back to them? What if they're taken while I'm gone?"

  She sounds so shaken that I pull the SUV off on the shoulder, in the blue shadow of trees. "Do you want to go back?" I cut the engine and turn to look at her. Not judging, but worrying. If this is going to work, I need to be sure that she's up to it. I won't blame her if she isn't, but deep in my heart I know I have to go, with or without her. Melvin Royal is out there, and he's going to come for Gwen, and those kids. This used to be about revenge for me, about getting justice for my sister, Callie, but now it's something more.

  "Of course I want to go back," Gwen says, then takes in a deep breath. "But I can't, can I? If I don't fight for my kids and protect them now, how can I ever look them in the eyes again? He's going to come for them. And I need to be in his way when he does."

  Gwen's all raw pain, wired in place with steely control. Looking at her, you'd never doubt that she means what she says. And I don't, not about Melvin Royal. She will face him head-on. And she won't run.

  "We're going to kill him," I say. It isn't dramatic, and it isn't a question. "We understand each other, right? We're not in this to find him and call the cops and put him back in jail. The man will keep hurting you any way he can for as long as he lives. And no way am I letting him go on doing that."

  I don't mean to betray that much, but there it is. If I feel love for this woman, it's a harsh kind of love, dangerous to both of us until the ghost
of Melvin Royal is finally put to rest.

  "Yes," Gwen agrees. "We're going to kill him. It's the only way to be sure the kids are safe."

  I nod slowly, then give her a smile. The one that answers me is grief and guilt and apology all together. "I have to confess, I never thought I'd be talking about becoming a straight-up murderer. Funny the things you learn about yourself, when you're pushed."

  Gwen puts a hand on my arm, and I feel it through the cloth, hot as a brand. I let go of the steering wheel and slide my hand into hers. Our fingers twine. We don't say anything for a long, long moment, and the peace of the wild country road, the trees, the distant call of birds, is so far from the darkness inside that it feels like another world away.

  A ringing cell phone shatters the silence, and we both go for our pockets. "Mine," I say, and because I recognize the number that shows up on the screen, I answer. "Hey, Mike. What's up?"

  "The hell you think is up, Sammy, I called you to shoot the shit? Business, son. I got a couple of leads on possible Absalom members. You want to take one?"

  "Sure," I say. "I take it this isn't official."

  "Officially, I haven't got enough to ask any of these sons of bitches what time of day it is, so you take it however you want. You want the tip or not?"

  I have no pen or paper, so I make an air scribble with one hand, and Gwen takes the hint; she comes up with a pen and the rental agreement for the SUV. I listen to the two options that Mike Lustig reads out and make an instant choice. I jot it down. "Got it. We'll take the closest one to us, in Markerville."

  "You go careful, yeah?"

  "Yeah," I tell him. "You, too."

  Mike hangs up without a goodbye, which is just his style. I hand the written note to Gwen.

  "Arden Miller, Markerville, Tennessee," she reads off. "Man or woman?"

  "Don't know."

  "And where's Markerville, besides in Tennessee?"

  Having a name, a direction, makes this feel real now. Momentum. I give her a sudden, broad grin and put the SUV in gear. "Don't know that, either. First stop: buy a map." That would sound weird to most people these days, but neither of us can afford to risk using the Internet. Not with Absalom watching everything.