by Katie French
Her eyes go cold. She tosses hair off her forehead and refuses to look at him. “Then I was wrong.”
He stands for a moment, clenching and unclenching his fists. He turns to go.
“That’s it?” Jess smugly asks. “That’s all it takes to rile you? You looked like you were made of harder stuff, but I guess not.”
He puts his hand to his side, covering the stab wound, still raw and fresh. Even now, he wants to see the glow in Cole’s eyes as he recounts the tale of the brown-eyed girl and her baby sister.
“Don’t leave,” Hannah calls.
Clay doesn’t turn. He can’t look at her. “I gotta go.”
“Wait,” Hannah says. “What’s your name?”
“Clay. You call for Clay if you need anything.” He stalks out of the office.
He stops when he gets to the truck. Bear and Johnson are sitting in the back, eating and drinking what’s left of Darby’s liquor. The stink of alcohol is strong as he walks by. Soon, they’ll be drunk.
“What time do the Breeders get here?” He’s not sure why he’s asking, but he can’t leave it alone. If you pick at a scab long enough, it’ll bleed. He knows this, but he can’t stop digging.
Johnson takes a pull from the silver flask and eyes Clay. “I told you. Tomorrow.”
“Morning?” Clay asks.
Johnson narrows his eyes. “Why you wanna know?”
He has no answer, none that will satisfy Johnson. He thinks up a lie. “Wanna make sure I’m ready. In case there’s trouble.”
“Won’t be trouble,” Johnson says coldly. “Will there, boy?”
Clay shakes his head.
Johnson hands the flask to Bear and leans forward, eyeing Clay. “Wouldn’t want to tell yer Pa you went soft on us, now would I?”
Bear holds out the flask to Clay. He takes it and drinks. It’s bitter all the way down.
He eats with the men and drinks more whiskey. It’s warm and blurs his thoughts. It doesn’t feel good, but it feels better. In the front of the Armadillo, Bear and Johnson laugh and joke. It’s funny to hear Johnson’s laugh, a braying donkey honk that Clay’s never heard and probably never will again. He falls asleep, feeling small.
Chapter 5
He wakes in a sweat.
Where is he? The Armadillo. It’s dark. Too hot and sticky. Clay sits up. His head spins. He shouldn’t have had any whiskey. He wants to shake off the drunkenness, but it clings to him. He sees Bear, the snoring ball on the Armadillo’s floor. But Johnson is gone. There’s a wad of dread in Clay’s stomach like a rock.
Clay scoots to the open back doors and slides down. The world rolls again, and he drops to his knees before he manages to stand. His eyes find lantern light spilling out of the doorway that leads to the warehouse’s back room.
To the girls.
Clay staggers to the door and barrels in.
Johnson kneels beside Jess, one hand on her thigh. His lips are curled around her pale neck. There’s a wet, sucking sound. Clay stares, unable to move, as Johnson’s hand squeezes, squeezes her thigh. Jess looks up at Clay, her brown eyes impossibly huge in the lantern light.
Clay’s trembling hand drops down for his gun belt. Slowly, he draws out his revolver.
“Wouldn’t do that, son.”
Clay whips around. Bear stands in the doorway behind him, gun aimed at Clay’s chest. He gives Clay a pleading look. Clay’s trembling hand hovers over his gun. He can have the revolver out in a second, but Bear has the drop on him.
Behind him, he hears Johnson rise and draw out his gun. “It’s ’bout time we put this little sonofabitch in the ground,” Johnson says. Clay hears a click as Johnson thumbs down his gun’s safety.
Bear flicks a glance over Clay’s shoulder. “What’re you, crazy? Tate will have our balls strung ’round his neck faster’n you can say baby boy.”
“We’ll tell Tate the boy died in the raid. We laid him out next to Darby and cremated him. He don’t care ’bout his boy anyway, or he wouldn’t’ve let him come.”
Bear shakes his head, looking dead into Clay’s eyes. “Tate’ll want him back alive. Clay’s just confused. Ain’t ya, boy?”
Clay’s mouth is dry. He stares at Bear, at the barrel of his gun. “Yes. I’m… confused.”
“Turn ’round,” Johnson says.
Slowly, Clay turns.
Johnson smiles. “Does this confuse you?” He leans down and presses his lips onto Jess’. She lurches her head back and forth until Johnson’s kiss finally breaks free. He brays that awful laugh.
Clay reaches for his gun.
Bear grabs him from behind.
Clay struggles to get away, but Bear has his arms pinned. “Stop it now! Stop it!” Bear yells.
From her chair, Hannah begins bawling. Big, round tears slip down her cheeks. Clay can’t stand to see her cry. He stops lurching. “Hey, Hannah. Hey, look at me. It’s Clay. Remember me?”
Hannah’s frightened eyes trail back to Clay’s face. Slowly, she nods.
“Yeah, see. It’s me. We were just playing a game, but we got too loud. I’m sorry.” He smiles and tries to make it convincing.
Her bottom lip trembles. “A game?”
“We were wrestling,” Clay says. “Sorry we woke you.” He’s telling lies that help; his mouth feels thick with them.
Hannah’s terror recedes from her face. “You should be more quiet next time.” He’s not sure she believes it, but she’s stopped crying.
Clay looks at Johnson, who’s frozen, standing over Jess with his gun in his hand. “We were just leaving.”
Bear drops Clay’s arms but keeps one forceful hand on his bicep. Clay begins to back up. He hopes to God Johnson will have a shred of decency and leave, too.
Johnson flicks out a knife, saws through Jess’ plastic cuffs, and drags her to her feet. “Your sister has to use the bathroom,” he says to Hannah. “She’ll be right back.” Jess glares at him, but she doesn’t fight. Her eyes go to her little sister.
The four of them shuffle out of the back room, and Johnson shuts the door behind him. The minute it’s closed, Clay lurches at Johnson.
They fall, Clay on top, Johnson below, Jess stumbling away. Clay reaches back for a punch, but Johnson dodges just in time. Clay’s hand smacks into the floor, shockwaves of pain shooting up his wrist. Before he can think, a fist blasts into his temple. He falls sideways and lands in a pile of debris. Behind him, he can hear Bear yelling.
In a daze, he pushes up onto his knees. His head is a bobbing balloon. Hands reach under his armpits and pull up. It’s Bear.
“You shouldn’t have done that, little buddy,” Bear whispers. “I was tryin’ to help you.”
Sweaty and disheveled, Johnson points his gun at Clay’s temple. “Get him outta here, or I swear to God I smear his brains all over the floor.”
Bear nods, pulling Clay away. Clay fights, but his legs don’t seem to be following orders.
When they get out into the starlight, Clay tries once more to get back into the warehouse. Bear shoves him back so hard that Clay topples into the dirt.
“Now just stop!” Bear shouts, sounding like a frustrated mother. “You’re making a mess of this!”
Clay pushes to his feet. His head is spinning. Still, he staggers toward the warehouse. Bear shoves him down again. “You’re gonna get yourself killed!”
“Don’t care,” Clay says, flat on his back. He begins the laborious process of trying to stand. “Gotta help her.”
“If you wanna help her, you’re going about it all wrong,” Bear says, pushing Clay back with the heel of his boot. “Getting yourself popped full of holes ain’t gonna help no one.”
“What d’you suggest?” Clay says, spitting blood into the dirt. Soon, he’ll pass out.
Bear squats down beside him and puts a hand on his thigh. “You stay out here. Get some air. Clear your head. Let me talk to Johnson. That man takes finesse, not force.”
Clay looks into Bear’s face. “You can stop ’i
m?”
Bear nods. “Done it before.”
Clay sags back onto his elbows. More blood has filled his mouth, and his head is throbbing. His body won’t go much longer. He can barely see, much less keep his head up. “You sure?”
Bear nods. He pats Clay’s boot. “Leave it up to me.”
Sunlight wakes him. He opens his eyes, unsure of where he is. Memories come back in snippets. The back of the Armadillo. Whiskey. Johnson with his hand on Jess’ thigh. He sits up, his heart suddenly pounding.
He’s in the Armadillo; a pile of stink next to him that can only be what was once his dinner. His head feels like a carved pumpkin, and the dawn light streaming in from the open warehouse doors needles his eyes. Reaching around, he finds a lump on his head from where Johnson slugged him, but he has no time for that. He forces his wrecked body out of the van.
It’s midmorning, judging from the sun. “Shit,” he says. “The Breeders.” He jogs to the back room and flings open the door.
The room is empty. Hannah is gone. Jess, too. There on the ground are the plastic cuffs the girls wore. “Where the hell are they?” He’s panicked now.
He runs out of the room. There are several other rooms at the back of the warehouse. He searches each one. The first two are so clotted with debris, trash, and animal droppings he can barely wade through. They stink to high heaven of decay, and he stirs up dust he knows he shouldn’t be inhaling, but he swims through anyway, calling their names.
He bursts into the last room expecting nothing, but stumbles up short.
Bear lies in the middle of the floor in the old office. His pants are in a crumpled pile in one corner, his gun belt, too. He’s snoring like a rusty saw.
Clay doesn’t understand. Why is Bear in his underwear? Where are the girls? Where’s Johnson?
On the ground beside Bear, he spots another set of plastic cuffs just like the ones beside the girls’ chair. He sees the empty whiskey bottle.
It hits him like white lightning behind his eyes. Trembling, he kicks Bear’s foot. When he doesn’t wake up, Clay kicks harder.
“Huh, what?” Bear stirs. Blinking, he lifts his head and looks at Clay. At the barrel of Clay’s gun aimed at him. “What’s this?”
Clay thumbs down the safety. “Where are the girls?” His voice doesn’t sound like his own. It’s hollow, brittle. He wants to scream, but he can’t find the strength. “Where are they?”
Bear shakes his head, sitting up a little more. He looks pathetic, lying in rotting ceiling tiles and bits of trash in his ripped underwear.” Breeders took the girls ’bout an hour ago. Johnson saw to it.”
He points his gun at Bear’s head. “Why’d you lie?” he asks, barely able to speak. “Why’d you lie and say you’d stop Johnson when you knew you’d come in here and line up right behind him? Why not kill me like he said?”
Bear gives a weak smile, holding up his hands. “I don’t wanna kill ya, boy. I know how hard this life is at first, but you’ll come around. Soon, it’ll feel like old hat. Just stick with me, I’ll show y—”
Clay pulls the trigger. The gunshot is terribly loud. He stumbles back.
Bear crumples back into the trash, a dead man with a hole in his head.
For a while, Clay looks at Bear’s body. What choice did he have? If he’d let Bear live, he would’ve stopped Clay from what he was about to do. He’d try to lead him away with his lies. And Clay couldn’t let Bear lead him anymore. Not down that path.
With his gun ready and his hand steadier than before, he strides over and grabs Bear’s gun belt. The man’s guns are in worse shape than the ones inherited from Vance, but he doesn’t want anyone else to find them. The lump of remorse is thicker at the back of his throat as he gazes into Bear’s open eyes, but he swallows hard and thinks of Johnson’s smug face. Then he goes looking for it.
But he can’t find him in any of the rooms, and there’s no sign of where he’s gone.
Time is ticking, and the Breeders’ tracks are blowing away. He wants to deal with Johnson, but he has to go. Glancing around the warehouse once more, he decides leaving Johnson here to die will have to be punishment enough. Sure, the man might find a ride out or walk to civilization, but it’s a chance Clay will have to take. The girls need him.
He opens the van’s driver’s side door and finds a gun in his face.
“I knew it,” Johnson says, training his revolver between Clay’s eyes. “I told Bear you couldn’t be trusted, but he’s always been a softhearted fool. That’s why he’s worm food.”
Clay’s eyes track between the gun barrel and Johnson’s cold eyes. He slowly lifts up his hands in a posture of surrender. “I killed him so that you and me could split the spoils. There’ll be a lot more loot between two than three.”
Johnson snorts. “You’re a terrible liar. Guess you never got your daddy’s skill. Not as fast as him on the draw, I see.” Johnson glances to where Clay’s guns rest at his hips.
Clay’s face burns with anger and resentment. “You sonofabitch. You think you can kill me? You think my pa’ll just let it slide? He might be pissed at me, but there ain’t nothing he dislikes more than failure. And failing to bring back his only son days after his youngest dies is bound to put him in a foul mood. You know what my pa’s like in a foul mood, dontcha, Johnson?”
Johnson narrows his eyes. “Yer daddy don’t care ’bout you.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Clay says. “But if you come back without your compadres, makes it look like you murdered ’em all to make your share bigger. Sheriff won’t like that at all.”
Clay knows he’s hit a vein. Pa’s been known to execute men for less. He craves loyalty above all. Johnson knows this. He lowers his gun.
It’s the opening Clay needs.
His hand flashes down before Johnson can blink. Fast as lightning, a silver revolver flicks out. The gunshot crashes through the silence.
With his gun halfway up, Johnson looks at Clay, stunned. Then he looks down at the hole that pumps blood onto his chest. His eyes lock on Clay. “You—”
“No time for good-byes,” Clay says, taking Johnson’s revolver. He’s got quite a collection for a kid who started the trip with none. He reaches under Johnson’s arms, drags his limp body out of the Armadillo, and lays him in the dirt.
From the warehouse’s dirty floor, Johnson watches Clay climb back into the van, one hand over the gaping wound. Blood seeps between his fingers. “You can’t leave me.”
Clay looks down at the man who he once thought of as so big. On the concrete, his long hair splayed around his head like a dirty mane, Johnson looks small, weak. But Clay remembers his hand on Jess’ thigh last night. Anger has an amazing clarifying quality.
“Who can’t shoot as fast as his pa now?” Clay doesn’t wait for an answer. He slams the driver’s side door, starts the van, and peels out, leaving dust as Johnson’s burial shroud.
When he gets to the road, he sees the Breeders’ tracks clear enough. Sand may be a bitch to drive through, but it’s sure good for tracking. He drives east like a maniac. The Breeders have an hour, maybe two ahead of him, and there’s no way he’ll catch them before Albuquerque if he can’t make up time. Luckily, there’s only one major highway that’s clear between here and there. He’s driven it before with his pa, though not all the way. Pa has a strange rule about Clay not going into the hospital. When he was a kid, he thought the stories about the Breeders being baby-eating monsters were true. Now he thinks they’re monsters of a different sort.
Up ahead, he sees a vehicle. He slows down, his pulse picking up. Yes, there on the side of the road is a white van so new and pristine looking that it can only mean one thing.
“Breeders,” he breathes. He drives up slow, one hand reaching for his gun.
As he approaches, he sees a scuffle on the side of the road. There, between scrub brush and cacti, three people are fighting. Clay’s hand flexes on the gun at his lap. Soon, he can tell two are Breeders’ enforcers, but the other is small
and quick, dodging, kicking sand into their faces, biting, running in circles.
Jess. She’s giving the guards a run for their money. As he pulls up, she dives between the legs of one of the men and scrambles around the van.
Clay smiles.
A bullet pinging off the Armadillo’s paneling draws the smile from his face. The other guard raises a big, shiny handgun and aims at Clay’s head. He swerves, dust curling up one side of the windshield. The bullet bounces off the side panel with a pa-ting, but he’s lost sight of the girl. He throws the Armadillo into park, opens the door, and slips out, pressing himself against its protective side.
The Breeders shoot from the other side of the van. Another bullet finds its match with the Armadillo’s rigid panel and ricochets away. Clay’s heart is beating in his head. He holds both guns to his chest and readies himself.
He pops up, looking over the Armadillo’s hood, and fires. Two bullets wing out. Two bounce off the Breeders’ van. Of course they have the same protective paneling as the Armadillo does. Everything Pa has he gets from the Breeders. Clay ducks back down, and the Armadillo vibrates beneath him as it deflects the bullets.
Clay pops up, taking one shot. He needs to conserve bullets. He has more in the van, whole boxes given as payment for the girls, but they’re sealed and he’d have to dig for them, giving the Breeders time to kill him. He sees three sets of feet beneath the Breeders’ van. They must’ve caught hold of her and dragged her back with them. How can he possibly get to them without being shot? He has no doubt that the Breeders have more bullets and better guns. Pa would call this a Mexican stand-off. One that Clay is losing.
“Give up the girls, and I’ll let you live!” Clay shouts, channeling Pa’s bravado. He doesn’t feel brave. He’s pretty sure all of them are gonna die.
The Breeders answer with a volley of bullets, wasteful, careless, just to show him they can shoot all day.
“Goddamn it,” he mutters, checking the barrel of his gun. Five bullets in one, four in the other. Old fellas used to say, “There’ll be water if God wills it.” But Pa always changes it to, “There’ll be bullets if God wills it.” Like bullets and water are the same thing. They keep you alive, or they can take life away.
