by Lisa Henry
The sun was dipping lower, casting a gentle golden glow on Bolton Farm, making the weathered old barn look like the centerpiece of one of those paintings in the gallery downtown. The ones by local artists that made Logan look idyllic—open and free and yet at the same time quaint and tamed.
Daniel’s mother had liked to walk here when Daniel and Casey were younger. She’d taken them up to the fence of the cattle pasture and let them touch the cows’ noses.
There were worse places to have to fight for your life, Daniel thought. It wasn’t cold, and it wasn’t dark. Daniel felt good. Loose but alert. Grounded.
Clayton was already there, sitting on a rock beside the barn. So there’d be no waiting. No chance to get nervous. Daniel had felt his phone buzz a while back, but he hadn’t looked at it. Couldn’t deal with a reply from Bel. And who else would be texting him?
Clayton spat when Daniel approached, but his expression didn’t change. That hollowness again. Clayton was seeking a kind of peace too. Daniel didn’t let himself pity Clayton. But it helped to know he wasn’t facing a monster. Wasn’t up against something so purely evil it was indestructible. The hollowness made Clayton more dangerous, but it also made him more human.
Daniel nodded. Clayton got up. Daniel wasn’t sure what you said to the guy whose ass you were about to kick, so he didn’t say anything. Clayton was skinny. Strong, probably, but he looked manageable. Kenny had just been so fucking big, and Daniel hadn’t been ready for him. He’d tried to fight, but that first blow with the gun had left him stunned.
No sense remembering that right now. He was fighting partly out of anger, sure, and partly out of fear. But partly for love, too. So the world could see how strong loving Bel had made Daniel.
“Around back,” Clayton said, starting toward the back of the barn.
The ground was still soft from a recent rain. Clayton stopped when the barn hid them from the road. He spat again as he turned to face Daniel. “I’m doin’ this for Kenny,” he said.
For just a second, Daniel was afraid. There was a raw power in Clayton. Clayton didn’t assume a stance or do anything to ready himself to fight—he was always ready, violence coiled in his wiry muscles. He had an easy confidence, so far from the coldness, the open cruelty Daniel had seen yesterday. His hatred was quiet but consuming. He seemed resigned to what he was about to do rather than excited.
“I’m doin’ this because of Kenny,” Daniel said. “And I’m doin’ it for me. For me and Bel.”
One side of Clayton’s mouth twisted up. Disbelieving more than mocking. “You and Bel? Belman the cop?”
Daniel jerked his head in a nod.
Clayton spat once more. “Shit, I figured even Belman had more sense than to stick it in you, but I guess I was wrong about that. Or maybe you stick it in him, huh? Make the piggy squeal.”
Daniel clamped his jaw shut, his tongue finding that gap where his two back molars used to be. Maybe Clayton was trying to goad him, make him lose his temper. That wasn’t going to happen.
Clayton looked at his watch, and for a moment Daniel wondered what the hell they were both doing. Wondered if they could step back from this precipice they were standing on.
“Hey, Clayton, I’m sorry I killed your friend.”
“That’s okay, Whitlock. I’m sorry I helped him beat the living shit out of you.”
Daniel almost smiled at the thought.
The sound of an engine, of tires crunching in dirt, caught his attention. Clayton’s old red pickup swung around the barn, with R.J. at the wheel and Brock leaning out the passenger window. Brock whooped as he saw Daniel. “He came,” he shouted. “Yeah, you did, you dumb faggot!”
The truck rumbled to a stop, and R.J. and Brock got out, Brock dragging a bag.
If Clayton had been unexcited a minute ago, now his face changed. “What?” he asked Daniel. “You think you gave Kenny a fighting chance?”
“Jus’ wanted to end this,” Daniel said in a low voice, hoping he’d understand.
“It’s gonna end.” Clayton’s expression was hard. “I promise you that.”
Adrenaline flooded Daniel. Run, just fucking run.
“Hey, Whitlock!” R.J. called, reaching into the back of the truck and drawing out a hunting rifle. “Don’t you move until we’re done talking to you.”
Talking? Wouldn’t be just talking.
“Ask ’em what’s in the bag, Whitlock,” Clayton said with a grin. “Ask what they found out at your cabin.”
“What?” Daniel asked, dry-mouthed.
Brock whooped again and dumped the bag on the ground. “Oh man, you’re a sick motherfucker, ain’t you, Whitlock?” He ripped the zipper open and upended the contents in the dirt.
His cuffs and chains. His locks. The aluminum paddle. And—fuck no—the plug from the night before.
Brock kicked at the plug. “That really fit up you, Whitlock? You must be looser’n a pair of old boots!”
“My stuff,” Daniel managed. “It’s my stuff.”
The realization should have been followed by rage, but in that moment he was just too stunned to truly believe it.
“You like to be chained up, Whitlock?” Brock asked. “You like to have things shoved up you? Sick freak.”
Daniel stared at his stuff lying in the dirt. Stared at Brock, then past him to R.J. with the hunting rifle. Turned his head to look at Clayton. “Came out here for a fair fight.”
“Didn’t give Kenny a fair fight, did you?” Clayton asked.
“No,” Daniel agreed. A day didn’t go by without thinking about it. Kenny, sleeping in bed, as the place burned. Except he hadn’t been found in his bed, it came out at the trial. He’d been found near the back door. Must’ve woken up, the place thick with smoke, and tried to get out. Must’ve been terrified.
Daniel raised a hand to his throat and rubbed the skin there. BRAVEST MOTHERFUCKER IN LOGAN. He could still be that. Could still hold on to that.
Brock picked up a pair of cuffs and swung them on his finger. “You gonna put these on, Whitlock?”
Daniel shook his head. “I ain’t doing that.”
Brock grinned and looked to R.J.
Fuck. The rifle. They wouldn’t . . .
“Do it,” Clayton said.
Brock tossed the cuffs over, and Daniel caught them reflexively.
“No,” he said, and wished he could follow it up with a brave retort. You’re gonna have to shoot me before I do that, or something. But he didn’t, because there was suddenly no doubt in his mind that they’d do it. They’d shoot him. But the cuffs? Hell no. He couldn’t.
The guys were watching him, grinning a little.
“No,” Daniel repeated.
R.J. raised the rifle.
Fuck. No. Jesus. Daniel fumbled with the cuffs, dropped them in the dirt, and went down onto his knees after them. Heard their laughter like this was all a game. Just like last time.
I can’t, he would have said to Bel, or to Marcus when they wanted him to do something that scared him. You can, they would have said, and, just like that, it would be true. Because he trusted them. But he couldn’t do this. He didn’t feel like the bravest motherfucker in Logan now.
I ain’t gonna put ’em on. They’ll kill me anyway. Rather die fighting.
He lifted the cuffs and opened one.
“That’s right, Whitlock.” Clayton took a step closer. “Show us how good you look in ’em.”
That hit Daniel straight in the gut. Because Bel had said Daniel looked good tied up, and he’d meant it. Clayton didn’t get to mock that.
He lunged suddenly, swinging the cuffs by one end. The chain struck Clayton’s knee, wrapping around for a second. It must have hit a good spot, though, because Clayton’s leg jerked, and he doubled over. While Clayton was recovering, Daniel leaped at him and knocked him to the ground. Daniel straddled him, pulled back his arm and swung, nailing Clayton in the jaw. Clayton’s head snapped back, and he grunted. Part of Daniel was waiting for a rifle blast that n
ever came, but most of him didn’t care. He just kept hitting Clayton. He heard R.J. and Brock pounding toward him. Felt their blows, their efforts to pull him off. But they couldn’t budge him.
He struck Clayton one more time, and blood gushed from Clayton’s nose. He became aware he was yelling something, but he wasn’t exactly sure what. The butt of the rifle caught him across the shoulder blades, and he fell forward. Felt Clayton’s blood soak his shirt, felt Clayton gasping for breath. Then thick, sunburned arms pulled Daniel off Clayton. Daniel started fighting again, hitting and kicking anything he could reach. He was screaming too, and now he recognized his own words: “You animals, you fuckers, fucking animals . . .”
He bit one of the arms that held him, drawing blood. Brock—or maybe R.J.—yelled in pain. A fist connected with Daniel’s temple, stunned him so he couldn’t scream.
And then he was on the ground, his arms twisted painfully, his wrists pinned. R.J. had the barrel of the hunting rifle inches from Daniel’s groin.
“You move again, I’ll blow your dick off!” R.J. shouted.
Daniel stilled.
Animals. Fuckers. You’re the freaks, not me.
Clayton walked over, his nose pressed to the crook of his arm. When he took his arm away, his face was smeared with blood. He crouched and picked up the cuffs. Daniel kept his gaze locked with Clayton’s, breathing hard, trying to put all the hate he felt into his expression. “Give me your hands,” Clayton said quietly.
No. Fuck no. Bel said, “Give me your hands.” Said it softly, and Daniel obeyed, put out his hands so Bel could cuff him. Clayton wasn’t allowed to say it.
Clayton nodded at Brock, and Brock wrenched Daniel onto his side, pulling Daniel’s arms behind his back. Daniel’s crotch pressed against the end of R.J.’s rifle. Daniel gave a furious cry and spat, the glob of saliva hitting the barrel of the gun. He felt the cuffs lock around his wrists. The click of the padlock. Brock shook him.
“Shut the fuck up, Whitlock.”
He was rolled onto his back again, his arms underneath him. He stared up at Clayton.
“You play your cards right, you might live through this,” Clayton told him.
Daniel didn’t believe him, but he wasn’t about to fight with that gun pointing at his dick.
Clayton took out a pocketknife. Daniel closed his eyes, but Clayton only pulled his shirt up and cut through the damp, bloodstained fabric. He handed the shirt to Brock. “Tie his ankles.”
Brock moved down to bind Daniel’s feet. Clayton rested the knife blade on the skin between two of Daniel’s ribs. Daniel didn’t breathe. Clayton met Daniel’s gaze, just holding the blade there. His eyes were blank. His thin mouth quirked, and then he slipped the knife back in his pocket. Leaned over and picked something else up. The aluminum paddle.
“What the fuck is this?” he asked Daniel, his voice still quiet. When Daniel didn’t answer, Clayton raised the paddle and struck Daniel hard on the chest with the edge of it. Daniel couldn’t get enough air to make a sound.
“That hurts,” Clayton said. It wasn’t a question. He tapped the flat of the paddle against Daniel’s nose, then raised it and swung down. Daniel closed his eyes as it descended.
But nothing happened. Daniel opened his eyes to see that Clayton was twirling the paddle in the sunlight. No expression on his face.
Daniel panted, trying to dig his fingers into the earth. Trying to anchor himself. Why wouldn’t they kill him already?
Clayton tossed the paddle aside and stood. “Get him to the river,” he told Brock and R.J.
Brock grabbed Daniel by the hair. With his other hand, he gripped the chain between Daniel’s wrists and hauled him away from the barn. R.J. followed with the rifle. Clayton walked beside Daniel but didn’t look at him. Daniel wasn’t sure what hurt worse, his arms or his scalp. His chest was still throbbing where Clayton had hit him. He had to gather his strength. Had to get ready to fight again. Couldn’t be afraid of that fucking gun.
“You play your cards right, you might live through this.”
How?
Daniel thought about Bel.
I wanna go walking with you tonight, Bel. I want this to be a dream.
Bravest motherfucker in Logan. How did Bel figure that?
He thought about Bel’s hands on him. Bel holding him, touching him. Bel’s hand on his hair when Daniel knelt for him.
He had to keep fighting.
They dragged Daniel to the river. The water was stagnant here, swampy. There was shade now, and Daniel was glad. He was sweating something awful. He ought to be scared, but he felt not quite here. He blinked several times when Brock dropped him. He didn’t hurt anymore.
Love you, Bel. That’s what he should have said in his text. That’s what Bel ought to know.
Clayton held something over Daniel’s face. The keys to the cuffs. “Here’s how this is gonna work,” Clayton said. “Look here.” Daniel watched as Clayton threw the keys into the center of the river. They disappeared with a little plop. “They’ll be in there with you. You find ’em; you get yourself out—we’ll let you go.” His smile seemed hollow.
Daniel blinked again. Stared at the surface of the water. He couldn’t remember where the keys had landed. Not that it would have helped.
They were gonna drown him. Water. Not fire.
Brock and R.J. laughed.
Clayton nudged Daniel with his toe. Said, so quietly it almost seemed tender, “You think about Kenny, all right? You think about Kenny when you can’t fucking breathe. You think about him as you die.”
Clayton and Brock lifted Daniel. Waded out until the water was at their waists, until Daniel could feel it cool against his back. Farther, until the water was to their chests and Daniel was half-submerged. He didn’t fight yet. He’d need his strength to stay afloat. He just let them hold him. Felt the water lapping his skin.
They let him go suddenly. Didn’t say anything else to him, just shoved him away. Kept shoving him, kicking at him underwater, forcing him to the center of the river, where the water was deep.
He tried to use his bound legs like a tail to propel himself toward the opposite bank. But with his hands chained behind his back, he couldn’t get his upper body above the surface. He had a glimpse of Brock and Clayton heading back to shore. He didn’t try to shout. Didn’t struggle. He worked on getting his head up. Each time he slipped under, he felt for rocks or weeds or anything he might be able to pull himself across to the opposite bank. When that didn’t work, he tried to kick the shirt off his ankles. If he could free his legs, he had a chance.
He was running out of air. He had to get a breath, a full breath. He pumped his hips, but the cuffs were making his body corkscrew, keeping him from treading water.
So I’m stupid, Bel. And I’m sorry. If I got to know you for a little while, that’s maybe enough, yeah? ’Cause with you, I was awake, and with you, I was alive, and with you, I’m brave.
He closed his eyes.
There were worse things than dying. The hard part was over. Now he just had to give up.
That meant saying good-bye to Bel.
He imagined Bel’s hands lingering on his wrists after he’d put the cuffs on. Bel gave him a light squeeze, then let him go.
“Good night, Whitlock,” he whispered.
’Night, Bel.
Daniel let himself go under.
Bel pulled up the drive to Bolton farm. Daniel’s car was parked to one side of the old barn. A truck was parked nearby. Clayton’s truck. Bel jerked his key out of the ignition. “Stay here,” he said to Jake. “Don’t fucking move.” Bel threw the door open and got out. Slammed it behind him and ran for the barn. “Daniel,” he shouted. “Daniel?”
No answer.
“Daniel, where the fuck are you?” he shouted, as loudly as he could.
In back of the barn was a roughed-up patch of ground—flattened grass, an indent in the soft earth. And something glinting.
The aluminum paddle. And beside it, a plug.
What the fuck?
He heard a car door close and ran back to the front of the barn. It was just Jake. “Kebbler! What’d I tell you?”
Jake was freaking out, red-faced, hands waving. “The river! They’re down by the river!”
Bel ran, one hand on his gun and one on his radio.
He saw three figures on the bank. One of them was holding a fucking rifle. Holding, not pointing, but that could change in a heartbeat. Bel yelled into his radio for backup, but didn’t stop running. Not when he couldn’t see Daniel. Not when he needed to know he was okay.
The three guys—Clayton, R.J., and Brock—bolted. Could have picked one to chase, could have caught one, but Bel’s gaze was fixed on the river now. On something in the water that was thrashing one second, then not.
Years ago and not too many miles away, he’d walked up to Daniel Whitlock on the riverbank.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
So fucking nervous of Casey’s big brother, because he was weird, because he was smart, because he was older, and because he was cute.
“You coming in? It’s real nice.”
He could hear Jake shouting behind him, but couldn’t make out the words. Just fixed his gaze on the point in the muddy water he’d last seen movement, hoped to fuck he wouldn’t break his neck, and dived in.
Daniel must have been sleeping, because sunlight hit his face, and Bel was there. Arms around him, the pair of them soaking wet just like when they’d skinny-dipped in the river when Bel was supposed to be working. Laughing and wrestling. Kissing.
He must have been sleeping, because he didn’t know what was going on.
Bel was holding him.
Had to be a dream.
“Now I know that your firearm is mostly plastic and all,” Uncle Joe said at the hospital, “but that doesn’t mean it likes to go swimming.” He clapped Bel on the shoulder and tightened his grip. “You good, Little Joe?”
Bel managed a nod. “I’m good.”
“How’s your—ah, how’s Whitlock?”
“They’re checking him over now,” Bel said. “Okay, I reckon. Swallowed a lot of water, but he’s okay.”
