She sprinted, her lungs greedily demanding air. She heard Cole shout something and heard Lexi scream again. She didn’t look back. Ahead, she could see the mansion with the warm light spilling out from the heavy drapes in the windows. She could feel the things behind her moving closer and closer. She refused to look back. She refused to think of the others. Run, run! As she got closer, she began to scream as much as her burning lungs would let her.
“Help! Please help!” she shouted, panting.
More gunfire. A rapid staccato of shots somewhere behind her and off to the left. The porch lights came on in the house. It was the most wonderful thing Ava had ever seen. The front door was opening. Ava’s feet were thudding on the wooden stairs leading up to the porch. An old woman stepped out on the porch. She was broomstick-slender and very old—in her eighties or nineties, easily. Her iron-gray hair was pinned up in a very proper bun, and she had sharp features, a wickedly pointed nose and chin but very kind blue eyes, almost blazing out of her wrinkled face.
“Down, dear,” the old lady said as she leveled a wicked-looking pistol in the general direction of Ava’s head. Ava gasped and dived for cover, hitting the porch as the old woman’s gun barked again and again. There was a hissing sound, and brilliant light everywhere. Streamers of fire trailed from the gun to the shadows as the old woman’s bullets struck three of them. The shadows fell soundlessly, dissolving into the ocean of the night, gone.
The old lady knelt, quite properly considering the narrow, ankle-length skirt she was wearing, and picked up the flare as she shot another shadow with the fire-streaming bullets. She tossed the spurting, hissing flare on the gravel drive and offered the now free hand to Ava.
“There we are,” she said. Ava now recognized a very pronounced and proper English accent. “Be a good girl and get up and inside, if you please.” Ava scrambled to her feet. She looked around for Cole or Lexi but saw neither of them in the yard or on the road. There were dozens of the shadow things now standing mutely at the edges of the stairs, out in the yard, and even down to the road. They were everywhere. A cold realization settled in her that her friends and her lover were gone. She was alone in this. She stepped inside the old house.
The old lady backed herself into the doorway after Ava, the still smoking gun in one hand. With her other hand, she presented the reversed peace sign to the assembled shadow people—the symbol in the U.K. that was used for flipping someone off. She shut the door and busied herself securing the numerous locks, bolts, chains, and bars that fortified the door. Completing her task, she turned to Ava, who was panting and sobbing on the floor of the foyer. The old woman nodded. “You’re safe, my dear,” she said. “You survived your first night. That makes you a citizen now. Welcome to Four Houses.”
FIVE
“10-7”
The afternoon was warm in Lenoir, warm enough to open a window, turn on ceiling fans, and think about where you stored the air conditioners for the winter. The achingly blue sky was clear and the sun bright as Jimmie’s rig, minus the trailer, rolled up Stonewall Street. It was damn good to be home. Jimmie had traveled to many places in this world, and a few other worlds he cared not to dwell on. He had seen breathtaking wonders and beauty traveling the Road, but no place ever filled him with as much joy as this little patch of two-lane that led to his front door.
He slowed and signaled as he turned left on to Resaca Street. His house was at the corner of the two streets, a barn-red, two-story farmhouse, built in the early twenties, with a wraparound porch. The weathered cement foundation and few basement windows peeked out under the porch. Wide cement steps ran from the porch to the yard, and Jimmie noted that he needed to run the lawn tractor; the grass had gotten tall since he’d been gone. He saw Layla’s little stone circles in the yard, filled with blooming purple and yellow wildflowers, and he smiled.
Jimmie tugged on the cord near the ceiling of his cab twice, two short bursts on the air horn. He always did that just as he pulled onto his street. And, as always, Layla was rushing out the door to greet him, as fast as her eight-months-along belly would allow. She was prettier than her flowers, Jimmie thought, prettier than anything he’d ever seen.
Layla Aussapile was a slender woman with long legs and arms. She was toned, not from hours at the gym but through the work of her days. Likewise, her skin held a healthy golden tan, somewhat wan now from the winter months, but Layla browned not by a conscious effort of lying in a tanning bed. She grew up fishing on the banks of the Yadkin River, working in the yard with her dad, and wrestling and playing tackle football with her three brothers, often getting the best of them. Layla was tanned because her life had been lived in the sun. Her blond hair was straight, and fell about halfway down her back. Silver was beginning to replace some of the blond, but Layla had no intention of surrendering to hair dye, telling Jimmie she had earned the gray, like medals on the battlefield. She had large brown eyes that could look like molten chocolate or the darkest storm, depending on her mood. Some might say her nose was a little too narrow, too sharp, her teeth not perfect in their alignment, but Jimmie would have punched them out for it. And, yes, she was named after that Eric Clapton song. Layla was wearing a pair of cutoff jean shorts and one of Jimmie’s old sleeveless white T-shirts as she raced out the front door and across the yard. The shirt would normally have fallen to her thighs, but now it barely managed to stretch to cover her round, swollen baby belly. She waved frantically with one hand, laughing, and held her belly with the other.
Jimmie pulled onto the grass beside the driveway that was in front of the detached garage. He avoided his pickup, Layla’s car, the trailer, and his Harley, which was covered with a tarp. The engine of the semi idled for a moment and then rumbled to silence with a hiss. Layla was running across the yard toward the truck, holding her belly. Jimmie climbed down out of the cab. Layla threw her arms around him, hugging him as tight as she could. Both of them were laughing. Jimmie lifted her and held her in his arms, her hands clasped behind his neck. They kissed, deep and long, and squeezed each other tight. Finally, the kiss reluctantly ended. She rested her head on his shoulder as he carried her toward the screen door at the rear of the house. Jimmie groaned a little, quietly, at the exertion.
“You say one word, Jesse James Aussapile, about my weight and no wild pregnancy sex for you tonight!” Layla said. “On second thought … yes, wild pregnancy sex tonight … maybe now.”
Jimmie approached the back door; Layla untangled enough to open it for him, and he carried her into the kitchen. There was a boy sitting at the kitchen table, eating Froot Loops. He was maybe sixteen and had a constellation of acne across his pasty face. His shaggy, dyed, ink-black hair fell across one of his eyes. He wore a black T-shirt with the logo of the band Sleeping with Sirens on it. Jimmie stopped and looked at the kid. The kid looked at him blandly with his one visible eye and slurped some milk out of his spoon.
“S’up,” the boy said in a monotone. Jimmie looked at Layla, who had a smirk on her face.
“Christian, this is Jimmie, Peyton’s dad,” Layla said to the boy. “Jimmie, this is Christian, Peyton’s … friend.” Jimmie slowly lowered Layla to the kitchen floor, and she headed out of the kitchen. “I’ll let you two boys get acquainted, and I’ll see if Peyton is ready yet, Christian.”
“Ready?” Jimmie asked, sitting across from Christian. “Ready for what? What, exactly, is my baby girl ready for?”
Christian seemed immune to the menace in Jimmie’s voice. “Uh, we’re going to this, uh, thing, y’know.”
“No, no, I don’t know. Explain it to me, English scholar,” Jimmie said, leaning forward across the table. “What grade are you in anyway?”
“Uh, I’m a junior.”
“You understand Peyton is only fourteen, right?” Jimmie said. “And you’re what? Sixteen?”
“Umm … I’m, uh, fifteen,” Christian said. “It’s cool, man, we’re just hanging out.”
Jimmie felt the blood thudding in his ears. “Cool? It�
��s cool that you’re hanging out with my little girl? Christian, do you know how many guns I own? More than I’m pretty damn sure you can count. What, exactly, are you planning to do with yourself after high school?”
“Uh, y’know … college and stuff,” Christian said. He lifted the bowl and drained the remains of the Froot Loops milk out of it. He stared at Jimmie like a coma patient. Jimmie had started to open his mouth when Layla and Peyton entered the kitchen. Jimmie was always amazed when he saw his wife and daughter side by side. Peyton had the long blond hair of her mother, except hers was almost platinum, flashing in the sun like sunlight reflecting off water. She had Jimmie’s green eyes, but brighter, and a hint of his nose, but the rest of her was all Layla. Peyton was wearing cutoff jean shorts that were way too short, in Jimmie’s estimation, and a yellow T-shirt with a Pokémon creature on it. His daughter squealed with joy when she saw him and rushed to Jimmie’s side.
Jimmie stood and hugged her back. “Hi, baby,” he said. “How’s my girl?”
Peyton turned to Christian. “Dad, this is Chris,” she said. “We’re going over to Jen’s house and then go see a movie, okay?”
Jimmie began to speak, but Layla was already on it. “It’s fine, Peyton,” she said. “Home by eight, like we discussed. And answer your cell phone if you want to keep it!”
“Okay, Mom, I will!” Peyton said. She hugged Jimmie again and kissed his cheek. “Bye, Daddy! I’m glad you’re home! See you tonight!”
“Wait a sec…” Jimmie began as Peyton and Christian started to walk out the kitchen door.
“Hush,” Layla said, taking his arm. She waved to the kids, and the kitchen door crashed shut. The kitchen was silent except for the whoosh of the ceiling fan.
“What … was that?” Jimmie said, looking at his wife.
“That,” Layla said as she closed the box of cereal on the table and put it away in the cabinet above the microwave, “is ‘y’know,’ Christian, and he’ll be gone in a week unless you make a big deal about him.” She took the cereal bowl and spoon off the table and put them in the sink.
Jimmie sat down at the table. “Where does she find these guys?” he asked.
“He’s actually one of the better options out there right now,” Layla said. “You missed the gangsta’ wannabe who kept taking her to the mall food court to get frozen yogurt and talk about ‘thug life.’” Layla laughed, and it plucked a chord in Jimmie’s soul. This kitchen, the smell of her shampoo, and her pure laughter. He was home.
“Besides,” Layla said, pulling off his cap, wrapping her arms around his neck, and kissing his bald head, “I had ulterior motives—we got the house to ourselves till eight.”
They both laughed, they kissed, and slowly, hungrily, lovingly, they rediscovered each other.
* * *
That night, after dinner, after watching TV with Peyton, Jimmie and Layla held each other in their bed. The house was dark and quiet. The clock radio was playing “Remember When,” by Alan Jackson, softly.
“I missed this,” Jimmie said, kissing her head.
“You say that every time you come back,” Layla said.
“Yep,” Jimmie said. “Every time.”
“Well, enjoy it while you can, cowboy,” she said. “Remember feedings at 3 A.M.? Poopy diaper smell? No sex that lasts longer than three minutes—”
“Three minutes? Thank God,” Jimmie said, grinning. “I’m safe!” Layla tweaked his nipple. Jimmie responded with a grunt of pain, and they both wrestled and tussled and laughed. Eventually, it died down, and they were still, once again, tangled in each other.
“Bully,” Jimmie said.
“Hush or you’ll get another purple nurple,” Layla said.
“I missed Ale’s send-off,” Jimmie said.
“I know, baby,” Layla said. “But he would have understood, you know that. Besides, you did such a nice job at his service. Lizzie understands, I’m sure. I did expect you’d make it, though. Was there a problem on the run?”
Jimmie was silent.
“Did something go bad?” she asked. She felt him tense. “What happened, Jimmie?”
“I … I was late on the run,” he said. “I had to wait an extra day to get access to the loading dock because I missed the schedule. So that made it almost two days late. They paid me, but they said don’t expect another contract. I was expecting to have at least six more with them over the next few months. We needed that money.”
“What happened, baby?”
“Work,” Jimmie said. “The other work.”
“Oh,” Layla said. They were quiet for a little while. Then Layla spoke. “Can’t they leave you be for a while, Jimmie? They got other people they can—”
“That’s not how it works. I can’t talk about that,” Jimmie said. “You know I’m not allowed to.”
“Yeah, I know,” she said, untangling herself and sitting up in the bed. “Secret society, oath of silence, blah, blah, bullshit…”
“Shhhhh,” Jimmie said, sitting up as well. “Will you keep it down!”
“Who’s listening to us in our bedroom, Jimmie?” Layla said. “The NSA? S.H.I.E.L.D? Cobra Commander? Besides, you said that FBI guy already knew who you were.”
“He’s different,” Jimmie said. “They’re up to something with him, and he’s okay.”
“So you can tell some stranger, some FBI agent, what’s going on but not your wife? Really, Jimmie?”
“It’s not just me, baby!” Jimmie said. “If you’re not a Brother or a Squire, you can’t—”
“You honestly think that the men in your little club don’t tell their wives, their girlfriends?” Layla said. “Let me tell you something, Jesse James Aussapile, women are the first and most dangerous secret society. Do not cross us. We know, Jimmie. We know what our men are doing, and we don’t like it when you do stupid, dangerous stuff and try to keep it from us.”
“You think what I do is stupid?” Jimmie said, his face reddening.
“No, baby, I know you do good out there. I just hate when you clam up and won’t tell me what’s going on. You know you can trust me, right? You do trust me?”
“I trust you with my life,” Jimmie said. “Of course I trust you, Layla. I … I just … I made a promise. I swore a vow, like the one I swore to you, and if I break that, then what kind of man am I? What kind of husband? What kind of father?”
They looked at each other for a while. Layla rubbed her belly. Finally, she asked, “Did you get him, Jimmie? The dragon? The bad guy? The monster? The whatever-it-was this time? Did you stop him?”
“Yes,” he said, looking down, not meeting her eyes. “I did, and it cost you and Peyton, and the baby, some peace of mind, cost us a contract.”
She lifted his chin gently until they were looking at each other, eye to eye. “I’m proud of you,” she said. “You save lives. You help people who have no one else to help them. You stand by your friends and your family no matter what, and you keep your word. That’s rare in this world. Money’s gonna come and it’s gonna go, baby. We’ll eat PB and J and drink Kool-Aid if we have to. We’ve done it before, we’ll do it again. I’m proud of you, James. I’m proud of what you do. I love you.”
“I love you, too,” he said. They kissed and held each other. The kiss deepened, and there was no world outside of it, and in time the words didn’t matter anymore; the secret between them was lost to a lifetime of knowing. Eventually, they slept, and even in the depths of slumber they touched and held each other.
* * *
“Did you ever tell Mom?” Jimmie asked. “About the Brotherhood? What you did, what you saw out on the Road?”
“Hell, yes,” Don Aussapile said to his son. “Of course I did. You think I’m stupid or something? Hand me a three-eighths torque.”
They were in Don’s gas station—Don’s Wreck and Repair, located on Jennings Street in Lenoir, right at the corner of Morganton Boulevard. Jimmie’s father was a slight man in his mid-seventies. He wore his thin gray hair short, w
ith little regard for its appearance. Don was dressed in a light blue work shirt with his name in a white oval above the pocket and a pair of dark blue Dickies work pants. His face was weathered, lined with the ruts of life, but there were smile lines there, too. Don, while about a good foot shorter than his son, and a little frail-looking from age, had arms tight and rippling with compact muscles, covered with faded tattoo ink. Jimmie had no doubt that his father could still whup a man if he needed to and give his son a run for his money in arm wrestling. The USMC anchor was still visible on Don’s forearm. Jimmie had the same tattoo in brighter, sharper contrast on his arm.
“You actually mean to tell me you haven’t told Layla about what goes on out there? On the Road?” Don said, accepting the wrench from Jimmie. “You’re damn lucky you’re not divorced, son. I always told you she was a damn good woman.”
“But what about the oath?” Jimmie said. Don laughed and shook his head as he carefully tightened nuts on the section of the old Chevy Malibu’s engine he had been working on when Jimmie arrived.
“The oath”—Don grunted a little from the effort of the tightening—“is all well and good. A man puts a gun to my head, ties me to a chair and says he’s gonna slice me ear to ear if I don’t tell him about the Brotherhood, I’m ready, willing, and able to die to keep that secret. We all are.” He stood from his exertions under the hood and looked at Jimmie. “But, son, there are fates worse than death, and keeping secrets from your mama is one of them. I told her everything, every time I came home.”
“Everything, Dad?” Jimmie said. “Some of the stuff out there … the things that crawl in off the Road…”
The Brotherhood of the Wheel Page 10
