We drive another mile or so until coming upon Studblatz’s red pickup and Tom’s blue Mustang pulled over to the side of the dirt road. White vapors wisp out of their tailpipes while their engines idle. As we slowly roll past, I see Wally Peters and Pullman in the passenger seats. Scott steers us half off the road and my side settles into the embankment as we park.
“All right. Let’s do this,” Scott says. As I get out of the car, the brisk air slaps at my cheeks, picking at my scars. I button up the collar of my raggedy coat.
“You going to a funeral or something?” Jankowski asks me. “What kind of hunting coat is that?”
“Didn’t know wuh-wuh-we were going hunting,” I say, never mind I don’t own a hunting jacket.
“Hey, Kurt,” Wally Peters greets me. “My dad told me to tell you good game last night.” Wally seems pretty happy at the moment. He’s holding a can of beer. So are Studblatz, Pullman, and Tom.
“Thanks.”
“Yeah, man, you dismantled their secondary,” Pullman says, then slurps from his can.
I nod in reply since my stuttering seems to get worse around Studblatz and Jankowski and I’m not in the mood for their jokes. Scott opens his trunk and starts rummaging. Along with the spare tire squatting in the center, there’s a Maglite, gas tank, sports bag, and a semi-deflated basketball. There are also two cases of beer wedged into the back corner and two long, skinny canvas bags, making an X across all the junk. Scott grabs the first canvas bag, silk-screened in camouflage green, and slides out a shotgun. He hands the heavy, cold thing to me. He grabs the other canvas bag, which is all black, and slides out his own shotgun. The only difference I notice between the two guns is the wood on his stock is a cherry red and mine is a plainer walnut brown.
“You boys ready?” Scott asks, resting his shotgun, barrel up, against the fender of his car. He reaches into the trunk to unwedge one of the beer cases when the barrel of his shotgun starts sliding along the Camaro’s smooth molded fender. Scott stops it from tipping over with his foot, balancing on one leg himself. “Here ya go,” he says, pulling out two beers, handing one to me. I put the cold can up to my lips and swallow back a big mouthful, hoping to wash down the alarm growing in my gut. The thought of drinking so early doesn’t make me nearly as sick as I imagined. At least I’ve already had breakfast.
“Now, the point of any good hunting trip is to get really shit-faced,” Scott says, cracking open his own can and sucking it down.
“Well, I’m about halfway there already,” Wally Peters chortles. He’ll be Studblatz’s replacement after Mike graduates. Wally will need lots more size and the temper of a rabid wolverine to equal Studblatz.
“Yeah, me too,” Pullman says. Pullman’s been ass-kissing his captains ever since Chandre Jackson beat him up and put Scott’s shoulder out of commission two weeks ago. Pullman knows he was manhandled all game. Might be my imagination, but I’m sure he’s already added more bulk in just the last two weeks. I wonder if our coaches had a private meeting about the powers of D-bol with Pullman as well. To make up for the loss of Jankowski next year, he’ll need something.
“Good,” Scott says. “Okay, rule one is the future captains have got to drink twice what the current captains drink. You’ve got to show us your fortitude, show us you have what it takes. Show us you’re men, not pussies. We’ve got plenty of beer here, so don’t be shy. Rule two is you’ve got to bag something before we leave. Lots of pheasants in the fields just past this tree line. They’d look real nice on the mantel. But if you get desperate and we’re all getting cold, then, there’s plenty of squirrels and crows hanging out, too stupid to run or fly away. It don’t get much easier than that.”
“All right,” Wally cheers. “Gonna bag me a mean ol’ squirrel.” He reaches into Studblatz’s pickup and pulls out his shotgun from the gun rack mounted against the back window. He starts waving it around in a way that makes me real nervous. Studblatz frowns as he snatches the gun away from Wally.
“How about we get past our cars before you start shooting,” he says.
“But that’s the spirit, Wally,” Scott encourages. “And I toast that. Drink up, men.” Scott holds his can up to his lips and empties his first beer, Adam’s apple working like a piston. Finished, he wipes his sleeve across his mouth and power belches. “You know what that means, right, future captains? You each have to finish two cans. Now let’s get drinking.” With a wink, Scott hands me another can, so I’m holding two. No way can I drink both of these this early, but everyone seems real interested in me at the moment. So I finish the first one, then make a face and belch. My headache does soften, though, I have to admit.
“ Attaboy,” Scott says. “One more to go. I’ll even let you bring it with us.”
I sip from the second can. “Guh-guh-gotta take a puh-puh-piss,” I announce, and walk down the embankment to the trees. Facing the trunk of a big oak, I unzip and tip out most of the second beer onto the bed of leaves at my feet while relieving myself. I return, still holding my can, sipping air from it. By now everyone has a can of beer in one hand and a shotgun in the other. Except Scott. He holds a shotgun in each hand.
“Let’s go,” Scott says.
I grab a dozen beers out of the first case and stow them in the gym bag Scott tosses me. Both Wally and Pullman sling their own bags of beer. I don’t know how many Wally’s already had before we arrived but he’s already weaving a squiggly path through the woods. I ain’t real excited about walking next to him while he swings around a loaded gun at anything that moves.
“All right, here’s where it begins.” Scott stops us about two hundred yards into the thin forest. From this point, you can see the beginning of farm fields to our left. “Each captain, take your future captain off in a different direction. Stud and Wally, you guys head that way. Tommy and Pullman, you guys go due west. Me and Kurt’ll go this way. Before we separate, another toast.”
Scott slugs down his can and drops it, forcing me, Wally, and Pullman to each take two cans for ourselves. Wally upends his and swallows it down no problem. He’s either going to be sick or pass out, but no way is he shooting anything other than a tree or a cornstalk or sky. Pullman drinks his first one a little slower, and while everyone focuses on him and Wally, I pour most of mine into the ground, pretending to tie my shoe. I stand up and tip the can to my mouth, swallowing what I haven’t spilled, about a quarter can.
“One more to go,” Scott says. Tom and Mike laugh. I drink half the next can and wait. Wally, it seems, isn’t really worried about pacing himself, which fascinates the other guys. By the end of his second can, he stumbles backward as he’s emptying it and falls on his butt. While everyone guffaws, I tip my can into the leaves. Pullman, too, starts to shuffle his feet while standing and swings his head around, trying, but failing, to track whoever’s speaking.
“Okay, men. Go forth. Bring me feathers of fowl ... or at least a squirrel pelt,” Scott commands us. “Mike and Tommy, look after these guys,” Scott says. “They’re the team’s future.”
I’m guessing Wally’s probably had a six-pack to himself already. Pullman maybe four or five. While I’ve emptied four, I’ve actually only drunk one and a half.
“Let’s go, superstar,” Scott says. He holds out the shotgun with the walnut-brown stock and I grab it like I do this all the time. The steel barrel is icy in my fingers. I watch Scott tuck his gun so the wood stock wedges under his armpit and the barrel rests over his forearm; his hands aren’t even touching it. I imitate him. It’s easy to carry this way and even lets me tuck my hands into my pockets to keep them warm. I figure shooting the thing just means pulling the trigger. Scott must be reading my thoughts.
“Shotguns are simple,” he says. “Like a camera. Just point and shoot. It’s a twelve-gauge, so you get a pretty solid shot pattern, about a foot across. There’s a little safety switch by the trigger. See that?” He holds up his gun and shows me a little thumb lever that he slides forward and back. I examine my gun and find the same
lever. “Push it forward and the safety is off,” Scott says. “Now you can shoot. Slide it back and the safety is on and the trigger is locked. That’s about it. Now time for another beer.”
I dutifully reach into the beer bag and hand Scott a can and take one out for myself. Scott chugs it likes he’s been in a desert for a week. I whistle like I’m impressed, my own can tipped upside down at my side, draining into the forest, while Scott’s still drinking. When he finishes I bring my own can up and swallow back the remaining mouthful in my can. “You got one more to go,” Scott reminds me. “Chugalug that bad boy.”
I’ve got no choice with the next can since he’s standing there watching me. I drink the whole beer and feel my stomach push out with air. I belch with gusto, like I’m calling out to a musk ox. Scott answers this by swinging his gun up into the air and not aiming or anything, just pulling the trigger.
KABOOM!
The blast punches my ears, almost leveling me. I hear nothing but mosquitoes buzzing for the next minute while my head tightens up. No way do I want to be near that again or shoot my own. Scott looks supremely satisfied, like he just taught my dumb ass how to make fire or something. Two boom-booms answer us from the direction of Mike and Wally and then another boom off to our left from the direction of Tom and Pullman. Scott raises his barrel to the sky again. I juggle my cold gun and clap my hands over my ears just in time.
Kaboom.
Scott’s gun arm jerks with the sharp recoil of the blast. My ears, protected this time by my hands, are still jarred, but at least the explosion doesn’t hurt.
“That’s the call of the wild, baby.” Scott laughs. “Call of the wild.” The last full can of beer I just finished starts making me feel light, but not light enough to fly away from him and the others.
“Give me another beer,” Scott orders. He drinks this time without noticing I haven’t pulled one out for myself. We continue walking through the woods. My hearing slowly returns. The ringing mostly disappears but the headache still hovers. After a while, I notice the sound of my footsteps again, crunching the dried leaves and snapping small twigs. The wind plays through the tree branches in shushing gusts that bring old leaves fluttering down on us like ashes.
“Where you going, superstar?” Scott calls out. I turn around. I’ve gotten about thirty feet ahead of him without trying. He walks a little unsteady, his gun tucked back under his arm, its barrel pointing down at the ground. “You trying to lose me out here?” Scott asks, then laughs at his own question. “I know this area real good and you’re just the rookie. You should be afraid of getting lost. Not me.” I ignore him, turn forward, and keep walking, maybe even moving a little faster. “You’re the one that needs my help,” he calls out again. “You think you can just waltz onto my team—my team—and take it over? You think Tommy and Studblatz will stand for that? You’ve got to pay your dues, rookie. You think just ’cause I’m on the bench, that I’m not the team captain anymore? The recruiting letters are still coming. Coach told me so. So I don’t need some freak shooting off his mouth and making up stories about me and Tommy and Mike. Hell, if it wasn’t for me, you’d’ve never gotten lucky with Marcia. Those girls drew straws and she lost. She had to down four vodkas at Mike’s party before I could convince her to go with you. And she’ll fuck anything.”
I say nothing. I continue walking, hoping he’ll shut up. For about thirty seconds my wish comes true. Then it ends.
“Gunderson killed himself ’cause he was weak, like Coach said,” Scott hollers out suddenly, like we’ve been discussing the suicide all morning. “Had nothing to do with us.”
I stop for a second, but don’t turn around. The sight of him, and that smirk I know he’s wearing, will be too much, probably make me want to tackle him and pound his head against the nearest tree trunk. I hear the rush of alcohol in his words, hear how it slurs them together, hear how he’s only able to speak Ronnie’s name because of it.
“You know what you duh-duh-did,” I shout over my shoulder plenty loud for him to hear. “You and Muh-muh-muh-Mike and Tuh-tuh-tuh-Tom. All of you know wuh-wuh-what you duh-duh-did.”
“Is that a threat, Mr. Wah-wah-wah-Wolf?” Scott shouts back. He must have stopped walking because he sounds even more distant. I still can’t bring myself to turn and face him. “Are you threatening to snitch on us? Because it’s your word against ours. And no one’s going to believe a murderer. We all know about you, K-K-K-K-Kurt,” Scott taunts. “Tom’s dad found out. You may be the superstar right now but no one’s gonna believe a psycho’s word against your captains’.”
“Yuh-yuh-yuh-you know what you did!” I shout again, unable to help myself. Wanting my words to hit home, I turn around in time to find Scott about seventy feet back with his shotgun lifted and aimed in my direction.
“What you did, Mr. Wolf. What you did!” he yells, and I know it’s coming then. I drop just as the blast roars out from his gun. Twelve-gauge shot rips the branches and leaves over my head.
Son of a bitch.
I lie there for a second, stunned, then hoist my gun up, intent on using it. I peek out from behind an old, rotted-out tree trunk and see Scott standing there, his gun tucked back under his arm, barrel facing down.
“Come on out, Mr. Wolf,” Scott shouts. “It was an accident. Hunting accidents happen all the time out here. Especially when guys are drinking and shooting. Probably more common than suicide, I bet.”
Son of a bitch! Son of a bitch! Son of a bitch! I stand up, my heavy cold gun trained on Scott. Slowly I walk toward him, keeping the gun as steady as my furious, trembling hands will allow.
“Don’t be mad, now,” Scott says. “It was an accident. I thought I saw a squirrel in the tree above you is all.” He starts giggling. “I wasn’t aiming for you. It just went off while you were near where I was aiming.”
“Sh-sh-sh-shut up!”
“Look, it’s okay. As long as we understand each other.
As long as you realize this is real serious stuff: you talking shit in practice, shouting the little fag’s name at Studblatz, defacing our lockers. And remember, their captain doesn’t even know what happened. Unless you told him. He didn’t see anything. He was tied up under the mats. It’s your word against all of ours.”
“Yuh-yuh-yuh-you’re wrong!” I continue walking toward him. His gun is still pointing down. I can’t remember whether the safety switch is supposed to be forward or back, so I keep my thumb on it ready to flick either way.
“Wrong about what, Mr. Wah-wah-wah-Wolf?” Scott taunts, that smirk of his returning. I almost pull the trigger just to blow that smirk away forever. “About the fact that it was you that came into that room and did all those things to that little fag? That me, Mike, and Tom tried to stop you but it was too late? That you learned all that dirty crap at the orphanage where you killed that kid? Once you do somethin’ like that you can’t quit. You’re a repeat offender. That’s what Tom’s dad calls it. And he’s a cop. He knows how your sick mind works.”
“Suh-suh-someone else was in that stuh-stuh-stuhstorage room. Hidden in the kuh-kuh-corner. Behind the muh-muh-muh-mats. Suh-suh-suh-saw all of you. He knows the truh-truh-truth and he’ll tuh-tuh-tuh-tell it.” My mind buzzes with possibility and threat. My clumsy words ricochet off Scott’s drunk forehead and it takes a moment for him to consider them. Then he shakes off his doubt.
“Sure someone was in that room.” Scott sneers. “They were using an invisible cape, I bet. Just hanging out, watching us drill that faggot and not saying anything, huh?”
“Duh-duh-duh-Danny Meehan,” I spit. “Suh-suhsophomore. Suh-suh-small as Ronnie. Afraid if he tuh-tuh-tuh-tried to suh-suh-suh-stop you, he’d end up like Ruh-ruh-Ronnie. Probably right.”
Scott’s face changes, doesn’t look so smug as he weighs the possibility I’m not bluffing, then wonders how screwed he might be. Injecting that doubt and fear into Scott is worth spilling Danny’s name; feels as powerful as casting a hex on Scott for how his lips pinch together and h
is cheeks turn white. “Duh-duh-Danny Meehan knows everything, suh-suh-saw everything. He’ll tuh-tuh-tell the world. It’s not thuh-thuh-three against one. It’s luh-luh-luh-liars against truh-truh-truth. And I duh-duh-duh-did not kuh-kuh-kill Lamar. He’s my buh-buh-buh-best friend. Ever! You duh-duh-don’t know about that. Neither does Tuh-tuh-tuh-Tom’s duh-duh-duh-dad.”
A ripple crosses Scott’s brow while he digests this new information. By now I’ve closed within a barrel length from him. When he starts to raise his gun, I leap at him, wrapping my cold fingers around the long steel barrel, ripping it from his hands same time it goes off.
KABOOM!
The barrel jerks in my grip as shot sprays off to my left. Eardrum feels blown and I can barely hear but I see Scott’s eyes widen in fright. His empty hands rise to his shoulders like I’m sticking him up. His mouth opens and the sounds he makes are dull, muffled.
“Easy, Mr. Wolf,” he says. “I was about to hand it over.”
That name again! It’s too much. I raise my own gun and aim it at the sky then pull the trigger. Nothing. I flip the safety switch and pull again. The hammer draws back and then clicks. Nothing happens. It’s not even loaded. Son of a bitch! I’m such an idiot! They all know it, too! I throw my empty gun like a spear, hurling it as far as I can into the woods, aiming for a tree trunk, hoping to smash it. The gun misses, sailing harmlessly into the underbrush. I flip Scott’s gun into my right hand and pull the trigger.
KABOOM!
The thunder splits my head wide open. My trusty companion, pain, wraps me in its arms. I pull the trigger again, ready to pull it ten more times, but the gun clicks dead. Deafness helps cocoon me. I swing Scott’s gun like a bat and let go, watching it fly end over end into the forest. I holler loud as I can, but my own voice sounds distant and cottony to my beaten ears. I search the forest for an answer or even a clue. Nothing comes out to greet me except high-pitched ringing.
Leverage Page 25
