The Road To Deliverance

by James, Harper

The two men had scrambled to their feet now, stood staring at him.

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’ the oldest one spat.

  ‘No. Who the fuck are you?’ Evan yelled, pulling a fence post from the truck bed. ‘And what the hell do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘It’s Beau’s brothers,’ Jay called from somewhere high in the rafters. ‘Cody and Junior. I don’t know where Beau is.’

  Junior had recovered sufficiently to laugh at that.

  ‘No? Try looking below you, shit for brains.’

  Evan took a step towards them. Junior dipped quickly, picked up the axe handle he’d dropped when the bull hit the slats two inches away from their faces.

  ‘You need to get that animal out of the stall,’ Evan shouted.

  Junior took a step forward.

  ‘Says who?’

  Junior wasn’t the one Evan—or Jay—should’ve been worrying about. Cody put a hand on his brother’s arm to hold him back. Not because he was a conciliatory sort of guy. Because he had a better plan. He dropped his hand from Junior’s arm, pulled a six-inch hunting knife from a sheath on his belt. Evan hefted the fence post, held it in front of him.

  Bring it on.

  Except Cody wasn’t interested in Evan.

  He took a couple fast paces forwards until he was alongside the rope. Held the razor edge of the blade to it. Drew it backwards lightly as if a demonstration was required. A handful of rope fibers pinged apart.

  ‘That’s one sharp knife, Bro,’ Junior said.

  Cody gave a smug nod of the head, you said it.

  ‘Drop the fence post.’ This to Evan.

  Evan dropped it. It wasn’t his life in the balance.

  ‘That’s better. Now, who are you? And what are you doing here?’

  Evan stared at him a long time. At the brother of Beau Layfield, the man who would have shot Sarah dead at the side of the road with no more thought than if he were squashing a roach under his heel. This man in front of him was protecting Beau, would have let Jay be killed by the bull to protect him. That death would have been his fault, Jay a victim of his poor judgement in giving him the name.

  Six years of pain and anguish and anger were now concentrated on this man standing in front of him, knife poised, ready to slice through the rope that was fraying in front of their eyes.

  It wasn’t the only thing fraying. Cody’s smugness, his cockiness, was unraveling under the weight of Evan’s stare. Because the rage inside Evan was palpable, a fury at the pain he’d endured, the loss he had suffered. Cody understood that even if the pain might never ease, the burden could be made more bearable by inflicting a taste of it on others.

  It struck him that Evan might not give a damn whether he cut the rope or not. Because the seconds it took to slice through it would be all the time Evan needed to get his hands around his neck. And Cody was thinking now that if he did, Junior could beat on his back and his head with the axe handle until the cows came home, it wouldn’t make one bit of difference.

  The thing was, everybody was forgetting the most important player in the game. The F-word. The one you really have to worry about, not the one that isn’t welcome on the church steps.

  Fate.

  While they all stood around in a cloud of testosterone to rival the macho posturing of the bull itself, Fate had been busy loosening Junior’s badly-tied knot on the trailer hitch.

  Jay let out a sharp cry as the rope slipped an inch.

  Then another.

  Evan whirled around, saw what was happening. He threw the fence post to the ground. Grabbed the rope with both hands as it came loose from the hitch, coarse fibers slipping through his palms, burning them as he tried to tighten his grip.

  Jay dropped a foot in one jolt.

  Under him the bull paced, flicked its massive head.

  Evan whipped the slipping rope in his left hand around the right one, once, then twice, stopped it dead, hand and rope one big tangled knot. On the other end Jay jerked upwards in panic. Every twitch and spasm of his two hundred or more pounds came down the rope, drew it ever tighter around Evan’s hand, crushing tendon and bone as if his hand were on a block of wood, Jay’s every movement a hammer blow.

  Cody and Junior were quick to take advantage. They closed in on Evan as he stood with arms stretched and straining above his head. Cody was an inch shorter than Evan, his reach shorter too. It didn’t matter. With the six inches of his blade on top, he could easily sever the rope.

  That was for later. First, he wanted some fun. Because time was on his side. He danced around Evan, pricking him with the tip of his knife. As if Evan were a giant turkey and he was the chef, preparing his skin for the pepper and salt rub before popping him in the oven. Evan lashed out wildly with his foot as Cody nipped in and quickly out, pricking first the underside of an arm, then the tender parts of his armpit, another time the flesh stretched tightly over his ribs. All the while, Junior circled the other way, kept himself behind Evan, the axe handle in his hands. Evan braced himself, waited for a blow he knew was coming, not knowing if it would be his kidneys or his spine or between his legs.

  Junior waited for him to kick at Cody again, swung low and fast, caught him on the back of his standing leg, took it out from under him. He drew back the axe handle ready for a second blow when a different noise spoiled their fun.

  The sound of a pump-action shotgun being racked.

  ‘Cody! Junior! Get away from him. Drop the weapons.’

  It was Bill Dalton. Standing in the doorway and behind him a couple of sheriff’s deputies, their guns drawn. Dalton walked down the central alley, stood in front of Evan. His lips curled up at the corners. You couldn’t call it a smile.

  ‘I’d hate to see what happens when you decide to cause more trouble. I reckon there’s flies that wish they could sniff out shit as good as you.’

  He shooed Cody and Junior out of the way with his shotgun. The two deputies got a grip on the rope, took Jay’s weight. Evan disentangled his hands. Dalton jumped up onto a hay bale, grabbed Jay by the belt, made sure he ended up on the outside of the stall as the deputies lowered him to the ground.

  Evan massaged the life back into his rope-burned and crushed hands, debated whether he could get to the axe handle Junior dropped and get a couple good whacks in on him and Cody while Dalton was busy with Jay.

  He took a step towards it. Seemed Dalton had eyes in the back of his head.

  ‘Stop right there.’ He jumped down from the hay bale, slapped the stall door. ‘I ought to stick you in that stall with old Bo.’ Then to Cody and Junior, studying them with a look of weary contempt, as if the three of them were old enemies, ‘Where’s Beau?’

  Neither of them said anything. Dalton jabbed the barrel of the shotgun into Cody’s shoulder.

  ‘Mexico,’ Cody said sullenly.

  Dalton nodded his head like that made sense, where else would he be?

  ‘When’s he coming back?’

  ‘Tonight some time.’

  Dalton smiled a smile that made Evan glad he wasn’t on the receiving end of it.

  ‘Good. We’ll be sure to pull his car apart when he does. See what kind of souvenirs he’s bringing back.’

  He nodded to the deputies, get them out of my sight.

  Jay had untied his ankles by then. He was sitting with his back against the empty stall opposite Bo’s, not yet trusting his legs to take his weight. Evan sat down next to him. Then Dalton perched himself on a hay bale, leaned his shotgun against the wall, stared at them a long time. Both of them found something interesting to look at between their feet. Straw’s like that, you can stare at it for hours if you need to. Concrete too.

  ‘Just one thing confusing me,’ Dalton said finally, ‘which one of you two jokers is the Lone Ranger and which one is Tonto?’ Whichever way around it was, they’d both been struck dumb, a state of affairs that met with Dalton’s approval. ‘As far as Beau Layfield’s potential involvement in your brother’s shooting’—he waited until Jay looked up to
acknowledge him—‘and the attempted murder of your wife’—he did the same with Evan—‘I think it’s fair to say that persons of no official standing are done here.’

  He waited until Evan and Jay had a good rhythm going with the head nodding.

  ‘Are we clear on that?’

  A chorus of yessirs echoed around the barn, making some of the animals antsy.

  ‘Either of you want to press charges against those two retards?’

  A similar number of nosirs made the animals more jittery still. Being a country boy at heart and in the interests of good animal husbandry, he left it at that, no more questions. He pushed himself to his feet, slapped at the straw on his butt with his hat. Then he picked up his shotgun, headed towards the door.

  Jay called after him, wanted to know if they were being charged with anything. Not until he succeeded in getting stupidity listed as a crime in Texas, he replied over his shoulder. Then he paused, turned back. The look on his face suggested he wouldn’t want anything bad to happen to either of them that he wasn’t a part of. Which was sort of what he said next.

  ‘You’ve got to let it go, both of you. Before you kill yourselves.’

  Chapter 54

  ELWOOD CROW LEANED BACK in his chair, a satisfied smile on his pale lips, a shadow over his heart. He’d found what Evan was after. It didn’t make for good reading. So he called Kate Guillory. Not because he was afraid of passing on what he’d found to Evan directly. Because it would be better coming from Kate. Better for Evan, better for her. He could feel how much she needed to be able to do something for him, especially now that it looked like everything that she had pooh-poohed in the past had turned out to be true.

  More than that, he felt in his bones that the end of Evan’s long search was almost at hand. And it wouldn’t be a happy ending. When it came, he’d need something better than a crusty old relic like himself to lean on. She might as well take ownership of it—a phrase he detested—from the start.

  ‘He rang me first thing this morning,’ Guillory said. ‘I couldn’t believe it.’

  ‘He probably wanted to hear your voice, that’s all. I can’t blame him. I get the feeling he’s dug up some things that have shaken him up more than he was expecting. It doesn’t matter how much we tell ourselves we’re ready for the truth, ready for whatever fate has to throw at us, it still hits hard when it comes to it.’

  ‘I feel guilty now for snapping at him.’

  ‘Don’t. Just do this for him. And don’t tell him I told you.’

  Then he told her what he’d found, gave her the details of where she could read about it for herself. They were both quiet for a few moments after he’d finished, the only sound his pet crow scratching around in the bottom of its cage. And her heart, of course, thundering away in a cage of its own.

  ‘That’s awful,’ she said. ‘I’m not surprised she never told anyone.’

  She went to end the call. He had one more thing to say. It wasn’t anything she didn’t already know.

  ‘It’s nearly over, Kate.’

  His words stayed with her as she looked up the news reports he’d found, read the details for herself. At times she scrolled the mouse with one hand, the other held in a fist pressed tightly to her mouth. And the more she read, the more she dreaded picking up her cell phone sitting on the table, seeming to challenge her.

  Make the call.

  She made it. Sooner was better than later. Her heart thumped in her chest in time to the ringing of his phone in her ear. He sounded strange when he picked up. Not as strange as you’re going to feel in five minutes’ time, she thought to herself. She started talking immediately, didn’t even say hello.

  So he knew it wasn’t good news on the way. He closed his eyes and something dreadful happened. Kate’s voice grew so faint he could barely hear her. And when it came back it wasn’t her voice at all. It was Sarah’s, a voice he hadn’t heard for six years. One he knew now he would never hear again.

  I dare you.

  Her cousin Jack, aged fifteen years, four months and twelve days. Never to grow a day older. Herself, two years younger, just turned thirteen. In the basement of Jack’s house. Kneeling on the floor, sitting on their heels. As if preparing to commit seppuku. In Jack’s hand Uncle Bobby’s Beretta M9 service pistol, a short recoil, 9mm semi-automatic.

  He said it again.

  I dare you.

  How much?

  A dollar.

  Five.

  Two.

  Okay.

  Guillory paused, swallowed. Wiped away the sweat on her top lip with the back of her finger. Wishing she’d gotten herself a glass of water before she made the call. Her own voice echoing in her ears as she recited the details of a stupid, childish dare for a measly two bucks.

  Taking it from him, trying hard to stop the shake in her hand. Wishing she’d held out for five bucks. He’d never pay that. It was heavier than she thought.

  Hurry it up, Sarah.

  She wiped the barrel on her T-shirt, left a dirty smear on it. Opened her mouth. Felt like her jaw was wired shut. A lump the size of a golf ball stuck in her throat. Heart beating so fast she felt sick.

  Cold metal on her tongue, setting her teeth on edge. Front sight sharp against the roof of her mouth, drawing blood. Stomach churning. Needing to pee.

  Close your mouth.

  Lips clamped tight around the barrel, wanting to cry.

  Now pull the trigger.

  No way. That wasn’t part of the deal. She opened her mouth. Withdrew the gun slowly. Carefully. No big deal. Not jerking it out like she was afraid. Spat the foul taste out of her mouth. Didn’t care what he thought about that. It was worse than cigarettes.

  ‘You okay?’

  Evan’s voice coming down the line. She hadn’t realized she’d stopped again.

  ‘Yeah.’

  Couldn’t bring herself to get out the standard response—you?

  Of course he wasn’t.

  She tried to imagine how Sarah must have felt, the warm rush of relief, thinking the worst of it was over once she’d taken the gun out of her mouth. Not suspecting for one second what was coming next. Passing the gun to her cousin, never so glad to get anything out of her hand.

  Your turn.

  A big, cocky smile.

  Like you’d expect from a boy fifteen years, four months and twelve days old. Hormones on overdrive. Keen to impress cousin Sarah, already cute, starting to fill out her T-shirt nicely even if she was still only a kid.

  He snatched the gun out of her hands, hands that were shaking now with the adrenalin let-down.

  Hurry it up, Jack.

  Mimicking his words. Like he was bothered.

  No hesitation.

  A second from start to finish. From before to after.

  Mouth open, barrel in. Lips clamped tightly shut. Managing to smile around it. Eyes bright.

  Finger squeezing.

  ‘Give me a minute, will you?’

  Evan telling her to take as long as she needed. Because he already knew where this was going. So why did she have to finish the damn story?

  Because you have to hear the words to make it real. That’s just the way it goes.

  Not a hollow click.

  Instead, the loudest noise she ever heard.

  Blood spatter on her face, her neck. In her hair, her eyes. She couldn’t ever get it off. Or the taste out of her mouth. Retching until her stomach ached.

  Screaming the house down.

  It wasn’t my fault.

  Neither of them could have said how long they sat in the silence, every bit as loud as Uncle Bobby’s Beretta M9 service pistol. Not daring to speak, to breathe, each of them thankful they weren’t Sarah. All Guillory knew was she would be eternally grateful to Crow for giving her the story to tell. It was right that it came from her, hard as it had been to get the words out.

  ‘Jesus,’ Evan said, a rush of air big enough to blow her away coming down the line. ‘And I thought I’d had a bad day.’
>
  ‘Amen to that.’

  ‘No wonder her old man gave her the Zippo.’

  She went to say something, realized there was nothing she could say that would be worth the breath expended. She bit her tongue instead, would’ve sworn blind she tasted the cold metal of a gun barrel in her own mouth.

  And she should know, she’d tasted it before. It wasn’t a taste you easily forgot. Or the things that made you put it there.

  ‘You okay?’ he said again.

  ‘Yeah, I’m fine.’ She put a lot of bright and chirpy in her voice, wondered what was the bigger sin, lying to yourself or to another person.

  ‘It all makes sense now,’ he said. ‘She had this nervous habit whenever she felt under pressure, wiping at her face as if she was trying to clean something off.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘She used to wake up screaming sometimes too . . .’

  ‘It wasn’t my fault?’

  ‘Yeah. I stopped asking her about it after a while. I thought maybe she’d tell me about it one day.’

  ‘She might have. One day.’

  If she hadn’t disappeared.

  She didn’t know how she stopped herself from asking him what he’d learned from Jay. After the last five minutes she didn’t need telling that over the telephone was not the way to go. It would have to wait, wait until she could touch him when the words got difficult.

  The unspoken thought, if she hadn’t disappeared, brought them back to the present time if nothing else, the reason they were having this conversation.

  ‘I don’t know where this gets us.’ He sounded more deflated than she’d heard him before.

  She smiled then, the warmth of it dispelling the chill, cheerless thoughts of a moment ago.

  Because she knew.

  She almost slipped up, almost introduced her pièce de résistance with the words, Crow also discovered, before she caught herself, turned the first half of the word Crow into a kind of cough, enough to disguise it anyway.

  ‘That’s because you don’t know what else I found out,’ she said, surprised she didn’t choke on the words.

  He told her to spit it out for Christ’s sake.

  ‘The house where it happened is still standing. It’s derelict. It’s been empty ever since that poor boy shot himself in the basement.’