A Crooked Tree

by Una Mannion

  “They’ll find her, Libby. She’ll be okay. I just wish I had said something from the start. To your mother or someone. It just didn’t sit right with me not to say anything.”

  Sage looked at me and shook her head to tell me again that it wasn’t her. I already knew it wasn’t.

  For the second time that night, I could see her trying to grasp something, like a picture that comes into focus and then recedes.

  “Sage,” I said, “tell Wilson? That Ellen’s gone, and Barbie Man could be looking for him?”

  The two officers helped me into the back of the patrol car. “Where’s her brother?” people had started asking. I could hear the murmur of his name: “Thomas Gallagher . . . was here a few minutes ago . . .”

  “Did you see where your brother went?” Officer Day asked me.

  “No. He was next to me. Maybe he went home to see if she’s there?”

  Officer Day told the other cop to call it in, and I listened: Thomas’s name, Ellen’s name, repeated by a voice muffled by static and interference as we made the three-point turn and headed down Horseshoe. Families were still standing on the side of the road, looking in at me sitting in the back of the car as we drove past. I looked back at them, desperate. Tears fell, but it wasn’t like regular crying. I wanted my mom. Please help me. What would he do to Ellen? She should have been at the Gambinos’ tonight, making custard and cakes with Gabriel, wearing aprons. This was all my fault. What would he do to her? I couldn’t think of that, her slight frame and his giant one, him hurting her. I dry-heaved in the back, and Officer Day said, “Pull in, she’s going to be sick.”

  I stood out on the side of the road and threw up in the grass, and Officer Day said, “Just take a second there in the fresh air.” Cars coming down from the fireworks passed me as I bent over, hands on knees. It was right near the spot where only a week earlier I had stood with Grady Adams and Mrs. Boucher and the dead doe. I thought about how Ellen had jumped that night. And what was Thomas doing now? How I had done nothing that time at Jessie Warren’s house. Wherever Ellen was right now, she would fight. Maybe she’d seen Barbie Man and run for her life and hidden. Even Thomas, who barely left his room, was out there, somewhere in the dark, trying to save her. I had to get a grip on myself so that I could act.

  Everything was moving in slow motion—the sway of the trees, cricket sounds, drivers slowing down to gape through the dark glass, me looking back, searching for Ellen’s pale face. The Walkers passed, the whole family looking straight ahead, as if they didn’t know me. I breathed in, like my PE teacher had said, to be ready to encounter the other warrior, to be brave.

  “I’m okay,” I said to Officer Day, who had stood a few feet away, trying to give me privacy. He handed me a Kleenex. I blew my nose, and we got back into the squad car.

  “Can we go to my house first?” I asked. “I need to get my sister’s number in Philadelphia.”

  The house was in total darkness, and I felt better going in with Officer Day and his partner. I shook the handle of the garage doors until they unlocked and then rolled them up.

  “You should get that fixed,” Officer Day said. We went up to the hallway outside the living room.

  “Ellen?” I called. “Thomas?” No response. “I’ll be right down,” I said.

  I ran up the five steps to the next hallway and went into our room. Marie’s number was on a slip of paper on the bookshelf. I stuffed it in my pocket. I took off my red-and-white-striped shirt and opened the drawer that held the clothes Marie had left behind. I needed something dark. I grabbed a black T-shirt and opened the closet. I took down the B. Altman box with the Marksman air gun. We had only used it a couple times out in the woods. Marie thought Thomas would be annoyed that she’d gotten one and not him, so we’d never let him know. Mom would have killed us, and then killed Dad. I put the pistol into my back pocket and a handful of darts in the other and pulled the T-shirt over them. I went back into the hallway.

  “There in a minute,” I called. “Just going to the bathroom.”

  Inside I locked the door, turned on the sink to make noise, went over and pressed the toilet handle down, lifting the window as it flushed. I stepped out onto the thin ledge and jumped across to the lower roof above the dining room. I landed on my hands and knees, feeling the scraped burn on my right knee. I prayed they hadn’t heard the thump. I moved down the roof to where its lowest point met the ground and jumped again. I landed on my feet and sprinted straight up through the woods. The trail was ahead.

  24

  At Forge Mountain Drive, I crossed the road and slipped into the woods instead of going up the road. This section of the trail was less defined than the one behind our house. When it rained, a small stream ran through it, and in heavy downpours it could wash out, its shape shifting, boulders carried several yards, loose shingle dumped in sheets and the water redirected, gouging even deeper into the earth.

  I walked close to thickets and trees, avoiding the gully that had swallowed the path. In front of me were sycamores; I could feel the strips of fallen bark underfoot. The American sycamore sloughs off its bark like a snake. Ghosts of the forest, they’re called, for their spooky white-gray branches. There had been a lawn we took care of in Penn Valley with sycamores all across the front, and as the lawn mower chopped up the fallen strips of bark, the dust would catch in my throat and stay there for days.

  The waxy leaves of rhododendron brushed against my bare legs. I thought about copperheads nesting under the rocks below me, feeling the vibration of my footfall, coiled like springs, waiting to strike. There was movement in the underbrush beside me, and I jumped. Whatever it was, I could hear it moving away in the thicket, a deer or fox that I’d startled. Could it be a coyote? Once Thomas and I had heard a high wailing sound in the woods. Not one animal but like a chorus of howls and cries. “Are they dogs?” I’d asked. Thomas thought coyotes. He said there were increasing numbers of them throughout Pennsylvania, but not to worry, because they didn’t bother humans.

  I walked until the trail neared the road and I cut through a property in order to come out on High Point. I would have to go the rest of the way by road. I ran down the short hill to Forge Mountain, turned left, and sprinted toward Paul Lemen. There were headlights in the distance, coming up the hill, and I turned into the woods behind the houses and waited for the car to pass. Pushing through thick understory, I moved toward a light in a window. A woman was standing in its frame, like she was a painting, drinking a glass of water. I waited. When she turned and walked away, I ran across her backyard to the side of the house. The blue glow of a television flickered through the curtains. I crouched low, my head beneath her window, and pressed along the side wall. The air-conditioning unit was running, one of those that stands apart from the house and spins and makes your voice go funny if you talk into it.

  I squatted there against the wall, beside the humming unit, and took the Marksman and one dart out of my back pockets. I released the slide latch, pointed the barrel up, and pulled the slide out until I heard a click. Then I pressed it all the way in, feeling for the second click. The gun was cocked. I pushed on the safety and then the loading button at the front, tipping up the barrel. There are two slots on a Marksman. I felt them with my finger, holding the bottom one where the darts go. I searched for the dart in the fold of my T-shirt and forced it forward into the barrel. My hands were shaking, clammy and unsteady. I put the gun in my lap and wiped my palms on Marie’s shirt, then unlocked the safety. It was ready to fire. Gripping the gun, I tried not to hit the trigger. I didn’t even know for sure if the dart would hurt someone. In the woods, darts fired from a long distance bounced off trees, but from five yards they pierced through bark and into the heartwood all the way down to the dart’s shaft. (I’d told Marie that of all the things we could shoot, I didn’t want it to be trees.) If I had to shoot tonight, I would need to be up close.

  I stayed up against the wall, and when I got to the front corner of the house, I looked across the r
oad to the McVays’. There were no lights on at the road, and I couldn’t see any through the trees. I hadn’t seen Wilson at the fireworks. Maybe they were already asleep. I sprinted as fast as I could across the road to the end of his driveway, then went into the woods between his house and the neighbor’s. I knew there was a shed with a carport on that side; I’d seen Wilson working in it. If his motorcycle was there, it meant he was too, and I would ring the bell. As I got closer, I could see a single utility light on at the side of the house.

  I nearly walked right into the shed before I saw it in the darkness. I leaned against the back of it, still holding the Marksman. I thought I smelled cigarette smoke and wondered if Wilson was in the shed, but there was a window next to me, and it was black inside. The driveway was empty. Wilson’s dad’s Buick wasn’t there either.

  I heard an engine in the distance—a motorcycle decelerating, taking the turn from Forge Mountain Drive, coming down the hill. There was a rustle somewhere close, maybe a cat or something under the shed or on the other side. I stayed still, listening. I thought I heard a cough, like someone clearing their throat before spitting. Then the light was coming up the driveway through the trees. Wilson. I put the gun in my back pocket. The motorcycle passed where I was crouching and turned at the top of the driveway. I walked toward it along the side of the shed, slowly, my hand trailing against the wood cladding. Wilson’s headlight blinded me, and I stopped. There were two people on the bike. The second person was too big to be Ellen. My eyes adjusted to the glare, and I saw that it was Thomas. I was about to shout to them, but they were both looking at something else. Their stillness stopped me.

  Against the headlight, a dark shadow fell like a tree across the lawn and me. Someone was moving toward them, his shadow enormous in the headlights: Barbie Man. He must have been on the other side of the shed, waiting. He stepped out in front of them, and I wanted to scream Drive away, Wilson! Run, Thomas! Why weren’t they doing anything? He walked toward them. His left hand was still in the sling, but in his right hand he had a gun.

  “Kill the bike!” he shouted.

  The engine cut. The headlight spluttered out, and all of them were just dark shapes, outlined by the dim light attached to the house.

  “Off. Fucking kneel.”

  Thomas eased off the back of the bike and knelt on the ground, his arms at his sides. Wilson leaned over the Yamaha like he was trying to get something from his boot.

  “Get off the bike. Hands where I can see them.” Barbie Man stepped closer, waving the gun. The bike toppled on its side as Wilson swung his leg over it. In a single movement he lunged toward Barbie Man, tackling him. They fell together, Barbie Man landing on his slinged arm, screaming. Thomas tried to stand up, and at the same time there was a popping sound, a flash, and then a blast reverberating around us, like aftershocks. He’d shot the gun. He’d shot Wilson.

  Wilson was on the ground, scrambling on his side to get away from Barbie Man. He looked bewildered, checking his shirt. Barbie Man was sitting on the ground, pointing the gun at him. Wilson wasn’t hit. Barbie Man had missed.

  “Kneel on the fucking ground. Over by him.” Wilson stood and took slow cautious steps backward to where Thomas was kneeling.

  Barbie Man tried to stand. Even in the dark, I could see clots of black blood spout from his nose. He tucked the white sling close to his body and stumbled, still pointing the gun at Thomas and Wilson. He was in pain. He walked in a circle twice, his body bent, then stopped and turned. Then, suddenly, he moved fast toward them, almost running, long strides, and kicked Wilson in the face with his heavy black boot. I heard the crunch, the sound of bone splintering. Barbie Man stepped back again and took another walking kick at him, this time in the ribs, and Wilson fell toward Thomas. I wanted to scream to Thomas, Get out of the way, get away from both of them! Wilson was slumped across Thomas’s knees. Barbie Man seemed demented. “Fuck you!” he shouted, kicking the Yamaha on the ground, shattering the headlight.

  Wilson’s neighbors in the blue-glow room with the curtains drawn must have heard the shot and his shouting. Call the police, please, I willed them. Thomas was leaning over Wilson, whispering something to him, trying to help him sit up. I took a few steps toward them.

  “Get the fuck off him!” the Barbie Man shouted at Thomas. He pointed and waved the gun wildly. “Move away from him.”

  We’re all dead, I thought.

  He paced toward them again, kicking Wilson in the ribs a second time. Wilson’s body didn’t make a sound.

  “Fucking cunt, thinks he can come into my town and fuck me up?”

  I was holding the Marksman now.

  Barbie Man took the bandanna off his head. “You do this to me, motherfucker?” he shouted. “You come and cut me up?”

  He walked over to the fallen Yamaha, gun still on Wilson and Thomas. He took the cap off the gas tank, dipped the bandanna in with one hand and sloshed the fuel all around. Then he angled the gun into his bad arm and took out a lighter from his pocket. He lit the gas-soaked bandanna and jumped back. Thomas moved toward Wilson again as if to protect both of them from what was coming. Even I took a step back. There was a burst of white light and then an explosion like a rocket as a fireball blasted into the air. Patches of fire floated to the earth and sizzled out on the grass. The gas tank on the Yamaha looked like a can that had been peeled open, and lingering flames kept burning. Barbie Man was now just a few feet in front of me, still shouting. What had he done to Ellen when he was like this?

  “Move back!” he shouted at Thomas. “Get away from him.” Thomas moved backward on his knees, his arms raised, and Barbie Man dragged Wilson’s limp body by his suede jacket and then knelt down beside him. Was he going to kill him?

  I moved forward. I was in the yard now, out of the trees. I took quick, quiet steps toward them, and just a foot from Barbie Man, I raised the Marksman. Thomas saw me at that moment; his eyes locked on mine for the briefest second, and then he looked away. Barbie Man was bent over Wilson, and I could feel the adrenaline surge through me. If I hit the skull, it could bounce off; I had to go for the neck, the vulnerable flesh and tender veins. He suddenly reached back, put his gun into the back of his jeans, and pulled a knife from a sheath on the side of his boot. I could see the strip of white flesh on his back below his shirt. What was he going to do to Wilson with the knife? My hands were shaking. Now I had to do two things at the same time: shoot him and get his gun. Pull hard and keep aim. Breathe in. With two fingers, I pulled the trigger. As I felt the air pressure release, I grabbed the gun from his trousers and stumbled backward. Barbie Man fell over Wilson, and Thomas catapulted onto him in a single movement.

  I was holding two guns. Barbie Man was screaming.

  Thomas rolled away and sat up. Barbie Man was lying on the ground, his left hand impaled through the palm and stuck into the earth. He looked like a pinned insect with just one wing, something in a grotesque natural history museum. He was trying to sit up but couldn’t. He twisted onto his side and reached toward the knife, but Thomas got there first and pulled it out, throwing it across the lawn toward the woods. Blood spurted from Barbie Man’s palm and dripped from his hair where the dart had hit his neck. Had Thomas stabbed him? I handed Thomas the gun.

  Barbie Man’s nose was still streaming, and he tried to use his right hand to support himself but collapsed back onto the elbow.

  “Where is she?” Thomas asked. “Where?”

  Wilson mumbled something on the ground.

  “Car,” Thomas said. “Libby, check his car. By the shed.”

  The Camaro was backed into the carport at the side of the McVays’ shed. When I opened the door on the driver’s side, an interior light came on. The car smelled of cigarette smoke and patchouli. A yellow rabbit’s foot hung from the rearview mirror. On the passenger seat was a black comb, white hair and lint caught in its teeth, and a pink plastic mirror like a child would use, with a small plastic bag of powder sitting on it.

  I kneeled on the
driver’s seat and looked into the back and on the floor. I thought of Ellen sitting inside here with him that night, how terrified she must have been. Where was she?

  “She’s not here,” I shouted.

  “Check the trunk.”

  I went to the back of the car, pushing pine branches out of the way. I paused a second, terrified of what I might find. I lifted the trunk lid. It was empty, just some leaves in the bottom.

  “She’s not here.”

  I wanted to go kill the man and stamp on the hand where he was bleeding. I walked back toward them. Wilson was lying still. He was breathing, but it didn’t sound right. His eyes were open, and he looked back at me. Barbie Man was propped up on his elbow a few feet away, his hand on the ground, still pumping blood.

  “Where is she?” Thomas asked again.

  “Fuck you.”

  “Libby, shoot him again.”

  “You’ll be fucking dead if you do.” Barbie Man tried to sit up further.

  Thomas stepped back. “Don’t move,” he said. He motioned me to come over. “Be in front of him in case I have to shoot. Get him in the eye or the front of the neck.”

  I pulled another dart from my back pocket and cocked the air gun again. It took several attempts, my hand was shaking so hard.

  “Where is she?” I asked. “What did you do to her?” I walked closer, trying to aim.

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  There were sirens in the distance. Barbie Man heard them, too. He made a half-hearted swing for me, and at that exact moment a firework sounded.

  Barbie Man looked down at himself. There was blood on his shirt.

  “Oh my God, Thomas. You shot him.”

  Barbie Man sank back down, bent over himself. Had Thomas killed him?