by S. P. Shane
Perhaps, she heard one of my groans, or she's worried about leaving me alone with Lindsey. I pull my head back into my bedroom and wait for her to come to the bottom of the steps. Her shadow stretches up the stairs and halfway across the bathroom door. She hovers there—breathing loudly.
“Caleb?”
“Hey, Mom.” I stick my head out in the hallway again, doing my best to pretend that I haven't been eavesdropping.”
She scoffs, “are you dressed?”
“No, Mom. I'm completely naked and Lindsey's drawing the scales of Libra on my buttock with red lipstick.”
“Caleb!” Lindsey shrieks, and then lets out a cackle.
Mom gives me what would be an over-the-glasses look, if she wore glasses. Just to appease her, I step out into the hallway so she could see my utensils are covered. “Glad you're feeling well enough to be a smart Alec. And you should...”
While she's talking, Beecher mentions something about “to subpoena your account statements” and I only hear half of what Mom says.
“What's going on down there?” I nod toward the kitchen.
“You know... just church business. God'll take care of everything.”
There's little point in telling her that what God doesn't take care of the county attorney will—worse the D.E.A. Based on what I overheard the other day, it's safe to assume she's seen the writing on the wall.
My mouth curls into a sympathetic frown and I find myself channeling Josh. “You're gonna be alright.”
She smiles and her eyes seem to twinkle. It's probably been so long since she heard anything reassuring that she's forgotten how good it feels to let things go. “No, we're gonna be alright.”
But she's dead wrong on that part—if by 'we' she means the three of us, as a family. Even if Dad gets away with everything and finds a way to “close the books” for lack of a better term, there's always gonna be a part of me that harbors suspicion.
“Well, I should grab a shower,” I say.
She nods and scrunches her nose. “I wasn't gonna say so, but yeah. You must've been sweating ham salad all night.”
“Guess so,” is all I can think to say.
She puts her hands on her hips and looks at me skeptically. “And I thought you hated ham salad?”
“Uh... well... when you're a guest...” I stammer around.
“He didn't want to hurt her feelings,” Lindsey pops her head around the corner and adds her two cents worth.
“Hi, Lindsey.” Mom waves at her. “But no one else got sick? That's odd.”
“I got a little sick,” Lindsey says.
Mom glances back into the kitchen and listens to Sheriff Manson and my dad discussing a list of accounts. When she looks back at me, her brow is lower and her eyes narrow. The corners of her mouth turn slightly toward the ground. “I should get back.” Mom slips back into the kitchen.
Lindsey puts her arms around me. “You be careful.”
I'm not entirely sure what she means by that, but I pull her close to me. Her cheek presses against my shoulder and she plants a quick peck on my neck.
“You too.”
She lets go, grabs the railing and climbs down the stairs. At the bottom, she turns back and waves. Without even thinking about it, I flash the peace symbol. She raises an eyebrow and it dawns on me that I'm a douche-bag. She smiles and walks away.
Chapter 37
Holed up in my bedroom, trying to avoid Mom. A portable black-and-white television plays across from me on a make-shift stand. A fat lady's jumping up and down with Bob Barker on The Price is Right. It looks a bit scary for Bob. If she's spins anything higher than 30 on the Big Wheel, it could get messy.
My puny brain slips into overdrive, and all I can think is “What do I do? What do I do? What do I do?” With all the crap they teach you in school—fire drills, tornado drills, winter emergency plans—they don't run drills on what to do when mercenaries attack your house. For this, I have to ask myself, “what would MacGuyver do?” Somehow that settles it. I roll off the bed. Drop to the floor. Thud! Cover my head with both arms. And wait for the spray of glass to come at any moment.
My mind races ahead of me to my next steps: one, crawl on my belly to the hall; two, find a gun. Wait. Dad doesn't even own a gun. Okay, scratch that. Crawl down the stairs. This is complicated.
Outside, a car door closes. I cock my head to one side. Look with one eye. The red dot is gone. But are they gone? Maybe they're just waiting me out.
Obviously, my dad pissed off one of the growers, but that doesn't make me a target. One of those little orange stickers hangs on my window, for God's sake—the one's that let the fire department know that this is a “child's” room. No cleaner/mercenary/whatever that's worth $50 is gonna mistake my window for my dad's window. But there's still someone out there.
My dad's over at his office. He's probably over there right now—destroying evidence and who knows what? They're aiming at the wrong window.
Alright. On three—if for no other reason than that's the way they do it on television. One. Two. Three. Leaping to my feet and flinging open the door, I somersault into the hallway. I quickly rock back up and draw against the wall for cover. Out of the corner of my eye, I glance down the stairs. Clear.
“Caleb? What on Earth?” Mom sticks her head out of the kitchen—the phone's receiver cradled in her neck.
“Mom...” It comes out as a gasp rather than a warning. I want to tell her to duck—to dive to the floor—to take evasive action. But she's just standing there all June Cleaver, as if she doesn't have a care in the world. And I can't manage to squeak out anything but “Mom.”
“Hold on, Dear. Caleb's up.” Mom sets the receiver down on the counter.
“That's Dad?”
She looks at me like she thinks I got hit in the head. “Tell him...” I bolt down the stairs, wheel into the kitchen, and grab the phone. “Dad!”
As I'm standing there—phone pressed to my ear—it occurs to me that I'm standing right in front of the window. They could have taken their shot already. The muscles in my neck tighten like piano wire. The hairs on my arms stand and tingle. I'm gonna look out the window—not because I've got balls of steel, but because it doesn't make any difference. I'm in their sights now. And I'm still standing.
My eyes pan across the kitchen and stop on the window. Kennon's Cadillac parks within view of the window. A thick figure sits behind the steering wheel, but with all the rain, it's hard to see if he's alone.
“Caleb? Are you there?” Dad's voice calls through the phone.
“I wanted to tell you...” And as I'm speaking it occurs to me that Marilyn wouldn't send anyone to get my dad. She needs him. And even if he pissed her off—if he crossed her—she wouldn't use Kennon. He's too close—too involved. “I love you, Dad.”
Silence. The sound of papers shuffling in the background comes through the phone. “Well, uh...” He hesitates, caught off-guard. “I love you too, son.”
My mom puts her hand on my shoulder. There are tears in her eyes and she| smiles widely. No matter how angry she is, there's not a mother in the world who doesn't get choked up over a father-son 'I love you moment'.
“You done?” She asks.
I hand her the receiver. “I'm gonna get some fresh air.”
She nods. “Just put on your jacket.”
Chapter 38
Kennon lowers his window enough to reach his hand out. Makes a come-here, wiggling his index finger back and forth. There's still something about him that I don't like—that I don't trust.
The shock of the cold rain makes me shudder, as I step off the porch. Mister Kennon lowers his window the rest of the way.
He nods. “Caleb.”
"Hey, Kennon. Uh, Mister Kennon."
“Ain't you supposed to be in school?” His voice is a low deadpan.
“I'm sick,” is all I can think to say.
He gives me this look that says “Who do ya think you're talkin' to?”
“Get in.
” Kennon's tone is clearly an order, more than a polite offer.
“No, thank you. ” I step back from the car. It's more than the fact that he's in on Dad's dirty money business. He has that look, like the greasy guy with the machine gun in the woods. He seems like a guy who's spent his life providing the kind of answers that no one ever asks questions about, because—at the end of the day—you really don't want to know what men like Kennon actually do.
“Now, boy... Ya can get your ass in this car, or I can drag you in. It's up to you.” He pounds on the steering wheel with the heel of his palm. As he does, I take notice of the white scar tissue on his knuckles.
“It's cool, Caleb.” Josh's voice comes from the back, but his presence raises more questions than assurances. Why's he in Kennon's car? And he sits in the back seat, instead of in the passenger seat, like some sort of prisoner.
Josh doesn't make eye contact with me. He keeps his head down.
“Josh, I thought you were helping your father today?” It's not really a question, or one that I actually want to have answered. “I am... We both are... Now get in.”
I go around to the passenger door and, as Josh spreads a sheet of plastic across the seat. This doesn't ease my fears any. Yes, I can tell myself a story about how it's supposed to keep me from getting the seat wet. But who drives around with a sheet of plastic just in case? I'm trusting in Josh, but it's not like he's been completely honest with me.
The heat blows warm air and cigarette smoke in my face, as I slide onto the plastic. I check the mirror. No one's nearby.
“Those were some seriously fine ninja skills we just saw.” I look back at Josh and he can barely contain himself.
“I'd give ya a 10, but ya wobbled a little on the dismount,” Kennon adds, as he reaches in his pocket and pulls out an ink pen—points it at me. A dot of red light appears on my shirt and it dawns on me: it's one of those laser pointers.
“You saw me?”
“Just the part that was in front of the window,” Kennon says. He puts the car into reverse and drives a backwards 'J' in the parking lot, turning around.
“Where we goin'?”
“We're gonna take a little ride, Caleb.” He pulls the car out of the parking lot and heads toward the highway.
Several minutes pass with nothing but the sound of the heater, windshield wipers, and rain. He turns to me, gives a slight nod. “Caleb, I've been wondering how your dad's adjusting to life here in Crenshaw's Creek.”
“He's fine.”
“I just happened by your house this morning and noticed Beecher was paying y'all a visit.”
“Yeah, just welcoming us to town.” A paranoid feeling comes over me.
“That's awfully kind of him,” he says, but his tone implies that it was anything but kind.
“I guess you might have noticed there's a lot of stray dogs around here,” he says, rather randomly. Checks the rear-view mirror.
“I've seen a few.” I glance back at Josh to see if I can get a read on him, but his face is like stone.
“I wouldn't be scared of them if I were you.” Kennon shifts his gaze to me, and the Cadillac rolls blindly in front of him.
Shake my head. Shrug. “I'm not.”
“That's good,” he says, patting the seat. “A lot of dogs have a really mean bark, but dogs are smart, Caleb. They know that if they go biting the wrong people, bang! They get put down. You can fix all sorts of things with a bullet.”
“Well, why doesn't someone round them all up? Ya know, call a dog catcher or something?”
He nods, appearing to mull it over. “See, most of the time they're harmless. They just want ya to throw 'em a bone or two. But when they really start snapping at ya, that's when we gotta put 'em down.”
“Yeah, I'm not really much of a dog-killer. Sorry.”
“Well, Caleb, we all got different gifts, ya know, things that we're good at. Some men are good a plowing fields and some build houses. Me? I'm... What's that word you used.”
“A dog catcher?”A bit of attitude lingers in my voice, because it's really not a hard word.
“That's right. I'm a dog catcher. It's always been my lot to see to God's housekeeping.”
It's not a subtle statement that he's making. He's been doing Marilyn's housekeeping for quite some time.
I turn my attention to the rain-swollen gutters. “Crazy weather.”
“Really?” Josh finally chimes in. “The rain? We're talkin' weather now.”
“We got creek's comin' out of their banks and on top of all that it looks like the levee might leak a little,” Kennon says.
“I know. Saw the weather report.”
Blades of water cut through the air, as Kennon swings the Cadillac off the highway into what appears to be an empty field. But there's a crunchy texture beneath the wheels—gravel. A moment later, a familiar trail comes into view. He's taking me to the mines.
Chapter 39
Kennon pulls the Cadillac into the mining camp, and my eyes scan for Noah—the crazy old man, who lives up here. For what it's worth, his name's probably not Noah, but he sure looks like one. As we roll by his trailer, there's no sign of him—at least not from the outside. But something tells me that Kennon isn't bringing me out here to meet with Noah. Between the plastic on the seats, the scent of kerosene, and the fact that we're driving out here in a monsoon, I'd have to be a fool to not realize something is up.
Kennon pulls past the last trailer in the camp, slides the Cadillac into Reverse, and backs behind the trailer. He puts the car in Park, but leaves the engine idling. “Here.” He leans across the seat and pops open the glove box. I'm staring down at the gleaming white metal of a revolver—as if I should have expected anything else. He grabs it. Cocks it. Checks the safety. Hands it to me.
“No” is all I can say.
“Jesus, ya little shit! It's just a precaution. Someone comes along. You raise it in the air and fire a warning shot, okay?”
I take the gun from him. Nod.
“Then, you slide behind the wheel and haul your little ass outta here. Got it?”
“Where are you gonna be?”
A click comes from the back seat—the sound of a gun being loaded. My eyes drift to Josh. It's not an ordinary gun that he holds. A red dart sticks out the end of it, the barrel's longer. “Starting a small war,” Josh says.
“It's just tranquilizer, Calloway. No one gets hurt—at least not too bad.” Kennon leans forward and hits the trunk release. I don't even wanna know what's back there. He shoves his door open with his foot, climbs out into a deluge of water, and stretches his back.
Josh slaps my arm. “Be cool, dude.” He opens his door half way and pauses. “Hey, Caleb, have ya given any thought to Plan B?”
“Plan B? I'm still trying to wrap my head around Plan A.”
He pulls his door closed again. Leans forward. “I mean what you'd do if things go south? And your folks get... uh, sent away?”
A gnawing kicked-in-the-gut feeling spreads through my body. With the dart gun, the plastic, everything—it's hardly a good time for idle chit chat. Josh wouldn't have brought it up now unless it's a pressing issue. I mean he's right in the middle of—whatever this is.
“Uh... no.”
“Maybe it's time to give it some thought. Both of us.”
“Um...” I start to ask him what he knows, but then it hits me: I don't wanna know. As dumb as that may sound, there's nothing I can do with the information, except worry.
“Gotta go.” He opens his door and leaps out into the rain, as Kennon closes the trunk.
I'm not really on board with whatever this is, but I have to figure that I'm in the least amount of trouble if I stay in the car. In the rear-view mirror, I watch them walk away. Kennon's carries a 15 gallon kerosene can—the fumes linger in the car.
Halfway through the mining camp, Josh stops and looks up at a trailer. Kennon wanders a few steps ahead of him, then turns back with a question on his face. Josh pokes his thumb toward
a white double-wide trailer and Kennon nods.
They stand there for several minutes, just talking—about what I can only imagine. Josh points toward the back of the trailer and Kennon nods again. That seems to settle it, because Kennon heads off toward the rear of the trailer and Josh goes in the opposite direction—toward Noah's trailer.
My pulse thumps in time with every tick of my watch. My tongue turns to leather and beads of sweat trickle across my cheek. But this isn't an in-and-out operation.
I'm not sure how long I've been sitting here, but it feels like hours. I check the rear-view mirror again for signs of Josh or Kennon, but they are nowhere to be seen. In the distance, a headlight bounces off a water-filled pothole. My grip tightens on the gun as I turn my whole body toward the headlights. The car is not unfamiliar—a yellow convertible—and something tells me it's not unexpected. Me and Josh aren't the only ones missing school today.
My mind races ahead to the worst case scenario: I'm not sure if I have what it takes to pull the trigger—not even a warning shot. But then an image of Grant plays in my mind—the time I smashed his face with his helmet. All that rage begins to boil inside me again. My heart thumps harder.
My hand falls against the door handle and the latch pops open. Checking the safety on the gun, I slip out into the ice-cold rain. A puddle covers the tops of my shoes and it takes just a few seconds for my clothes to soak through. Squinting through the rain, there's no sign of Josh or Kennon, but Grant's car rolls toward me.
My bottom three fingers wrap around the handle of the gun and my thumb closes on the other side. I raise it into the air, my index finger caressing the wet trigger.
Flash. A pulse of energy shoots through my hand, down my arm, and into my chest. Everything around me slips into silence. Rain continues to pound the ground, the windows of the Cadillac shake, but I don't hear a bit of it. It's just motion before my eyes.
Grant's Karmann Ghia skids to a halt in front of Noah's trailer. He flips on his high beams, as if to get a better look at me. For a moment, he sits still, staring over the steering wheel. Then he reaches for his door handle, pauses, and looks over at his passenger.
