by Tess Sharpe
Momma’s headstone is at the end of the long line that starts with the first McKenna, Franklin, his wife Mary Ellen, and their five children. I kneel down, brushing off the yellowing leaves that speckle the green grass.
Talking always feels silly, even though I’ve seen Uncle Jake do it, so mostly I sit instead. When I can, I bring her things from the forest. This time it’s an arrowhead I found last week when Will and I went fishing. Before I get up to go, I place it on top of her headstone, which is scattered with my other gifts: blue-jay feathers pinned beneath river rocks, a vial of gold flakes I’d panned from the stream under Uncle Jake’s careful instruction, a dried hornet’s nest she would’ve shrieked at and dropped if I’d put it in her living hands.
As I leave, I pass by the two spaces next to her.
They’re unmarked. For now. But I know who they belong to.
One is Daddy’s.
The other is mine.
I cut across the graveyard with the intention of going out the back exit. Will knows to meet me there. Even though Carl Springfield’s been locked up for years, I’m not allowed anywhere in town by myself, but when I’m on Will’s watch, he looks the other way.
As I make my way down the hill, I realize I’m not alone. About fifty feet ahead of me, a boy’s standing near a grave. Even in the shade of the great oak looming over him, his red hair shines bright.
I should stop. I should back away right now.
I know whose empty grave he’s standing over, and I know who’s responsible for that empty grave.
We both know.
Which is why I should go the way I came. Get out of here before he sees me.
You ever see one of those Springfield boys outside of church, Harley-girl, you back away fast.
I walk forward instead.
When he hears my footsteps, Bennet looks up. His lips press together and disappear into his pale skin. His freckles and pimples are like flashing lights against it.
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
I keep walking. All I want to do is get to the back gate.
“Bitch, I’m talking to you.”
I pause. I dig my heel in the hard red dirt and turn. He’s right up close, trying to use the few inches he has on me to his advantage.
“You’re not the only person who has family here, Bennet.” I turn back around, but he lurches in front of me, blocking my way. I fold my arms and try to look as bored as possible. He lays a hand on me, and all bets are off. But I’ll wait for that moment.
I’m not gonna throw the first punch.
“My dad would still be around if it weren’t for yours,” Bennet says in an icy voice, his words slurred a bit, and the scent of beer wafts over me.
Great. He’s drunk and angry.
He’s also fiddling with something in his pocket.
So: drunk, angry, and possibly armed.
“Lots of people would still be around if it weren’t for either of them,” I say carefully.
His face twists in pain, pure and simple, when he says, “We couldn’t even bury him.”
Later on, I’ll kick myself for that second when I lower my guard because I know what it’s like, visiting an empty grave.
There hadn’t been enough left of Momma to bury.
Bennet’s fist smashes into my nose. My head pops back, pain explodes underneath my eyes, and I can taste blood in my mouth, running down my chin, at the back of my throat. I stagger, losing my balance and catching my hip hard against a grave marker.
I gasp, but I force myself to ignore the pain. He’s coming at me again, and this time I need to be ready.
I sidestep his angry half-tackle, grabbing one of his outstretched arms with both hands. I knee him in the crotch to get him to behave before yanking his left arm out, getting him by the elbow. I should twist it up and take him down to pin him safely.
Cooper taught me how to fight. But Daddy taught me how to brawl.
I shouldn’t hurt Bennet bad.
“Cunt,” he snarls at me, finally finding his voice.
My fingers tighten on his arm. I pull, hard and fast, knocking him off balance enough to slam his palm to the ground and step down hard on it with my boot.
He gasps as his fingers crunch underneath it.
And then he screams when my other boot slams down onto his elbow, once. Twice.
There’s a horrible snap. The sound of a branch cracking, a gun going off, a bone breaking—they aren’t much different. It makes your stomach drop, just the same.
Bennet sags on the ground, dirt smearing against his forehead as garbled sounds come out of his mouth. Tears streaking down his face, he cradles his broken arm to his chest.
I wipe away the blood dripping from my nose, flicking it onto the dirt. It’s swelling up already. Daddy’s gonna rage when he sees me.
“I’ll do more than break your arm next time,” I growl at Bennet, my throat clogged with blood and what would’ve been tears if I hadn’t been trained out of crying years ago.
I leave him there at the foot of his daddy’s grave, and as I pass the headstone, I press my hand against it.
A taunt?
No.
An apology.
Fourteen
June 6, 2:45 p.m.
I screech out of the nursing home parking lot. A part of me’s afraid of Will jumping on his bike and following. But after a few minutes with my eyes on the rearview, I relax. I manage to get through town, almost to the highway, before Busy’s whining makes me pull over.
“It’s okay,” I tell her as she butts her wet nose against my arm in worry. “It’s okay,” I say again, trying to convince myself.
Everything is going wrong. Jessa is hurt. Will is supposed to be three hundred miles away. But I can’t let it fuck me over. I need to adapt. Keep going.
“Okay,” I repeat.
Breathe, Harley-girl.
I can hear Duke’s voice, clear as day. It’s probably a sign I’m losing my goddamn mind.
I press my hand against my mouth, trying to keep everything I’m feeling from bubbling up. I can’t focus on Will and what seeing him does to me. I have priorities.
I push him out of my mind, ignoring the ache, like an open wound that won’t heal. I’ll deal with him later. I need to focus.
My plan’s always involved baiting the Springfield boys—I need the men on both sides not knowing what end’s up, because men on the edge make bad decisions, and that makes them easier to take down. But I’d planned on doing this a lot later. Jessa getting roughed up means I have to move up my timeline. But I can make this work—I have to. And if I push the right buttons, I might get some useful information out of them. Carl Springfield is a hard man to find—those years of running from Duke taught him well. I haven’t been able to pin down his exact location even though I’ve tried. The houses on the other side of the river are set deep in the wilderness, off old dirt roads that are kept in disrepair for a reason. You don’t want to drive down them unless you live there. You might not come back.
There’s a buzz coming from my glove compartment. I flip it open, pull out the black phone, and key in the code.
It’s a text from Buck: T and D headed to Jackson.
I have to text back, or he’s going to suspect something. I need him as oblivious as possible for as long as I can so he’ll just stroll right into my trap, none the wiser.
I memorized the codes Duke used with the men a long time ago, even though he didn’t realize it. It’s a mix of numbers to spell out words and Johnny Cash lyrics to mean certain things. Nothing genius, really, but no one’s ever caught on. Not that anyone’s really looking. Having the sheriff in our pocket is something of a family tradition for us McKennas.
I punch out 65 and press Send, then toss the phone back into the glove compartment.
I have an hour, and I’m going to make the most of it. For Jessa.
Blue Basin’s not much more than a truck stop straddling the county line. A place to fuel up for folks on their way
to Shasta or Weed. It’s right off the old highway, the skeleton of an old silver mine, the last relic of what was a flourishing town back in the Gold Rush days, now a scant handful of buildings: a crumbling RV park, a tiny post office with a trailer behind it where the postmaster lives, an abandoned feed store—and Springfield’s gas station.
This is where they’ve been banished. Driven to a town whose population is less than a hundred. Stripped of any power or influence their family once held.
Duke and Caroline’s truce sent Springfield here, and for the most part, he keeps to the deal his brother’s widow made.
But sometimes he just can’t help himself. And now he’s gone after Jessa.
Did he think I would let it go? That she wouldn’t tell?
Did he mean to kill her, and she got lucky and ran?
It doesn’t matter, I decide as I approach the exit. No matter what, he’s going to pay.
I’ve driven past Blue Basin many times, probably too many, but I’ve never stopped. I know better than to cross that invisible line between them and us.
But now I don’t think twice when I flip my turn signal and pull off the highway onto the potholed road that leads into town.
I stop across from it, the only gas station in fifty miles, just a few pumps in front of a dingy building with a sign on the roof that says SPRINGFIELD GAS & MINIMART in big rusty tin letters. I turn my key in the ignition, the radio cuts off, and I sit back and wait.
I stare at the station, cataloguing the people going in and out—the girl in Hello Kitty pajama pants and yesterday’s eyeliner, the old-school rancher driving a cherry 1930s Chevy, the obvious tweeker who comes out of the store with a paper bag instead of a plastic one like the other customers. The building’s windows are tinted, so I can’t see through them, but I know they’re inside.
My phone rings. Still watching the building, I answer.
“It’s Mo.”
“I was just about to call you,” I say.
“Paul and the Sons showed up. They’ve got a patrol going. Should I be worried?”
“I sent them just in case,” I say. “I found Jessa.”
“And…?” Mo asks, but with that one word, I can hear the dread in her voice.
“She’s beat up pretty bad,” I say. “She’s with Doc now. I’m going to need you to watch the kids.”
“Done,” Mo says. “You wanna tell me who I need to go after for hurting her?”
I smile at Mo’s fierceness as a dusty truck pulls up to the pumps. “I’m taking care of it,” I promise. “Just keep the women and kids calm. There’s nothing to worry about.” I watch as a rail-thin girl jumps out of the truck and walks into the mini-mart.
“It’s under control,” I say, keeping my eyes on the store. “I gotta go. I’ll call as soon as I’ve got news on Jessa.”
“Take care of yourself,” she orders.
“Yeah, yeah,” I say.
Before she can issue any more orders, I hang up.
The girl in the truck hasn’t come out of the mini-mart yet, so I figure I have enough time. I dial Doc’s number, and he answers after the fifth ring.
“It’s Harley,” I say. “How’s Jessa?”
“Six broken ribs. He busted all the toes on her right foot, too, for good measure.” His disgust radiates through the phone. He’ll be hitting the bottle tonight for sure, trying to drown out the blood and the bad. “Her jaw’s bruised all to hell, but it’s not broken, so that’s a small mercy. But she’s got a concussion. I’m keeping her here until tomorrow. You got someone to watch her kids?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Be careful with the pain pills, okay? She’s got a problem.”
“The teeth and the shitty veins clued me in, Harley,” Doc says. He sounds offended that I even bothered to point it out.
The skinny girl comes out of the mini-mart and hops into her truck. The store’s empty now, and there’s no one around.
“Hey, I gotta go,” I say. “Call me if anything changes.”
The girl drives away, leaving the parking lot empty.
I get out of my truck with Busy at my side. We cross the street and the parking lot. My hands don’t shake, but my heart skips in that bad way as I open the grubby glass door and step inside.
The little store’s rickety aisles are stocked with the basics. Despite Springfield’s jacked-up prices, the people who live in the woods around the Basin don’t like to drive all the way down the mountain whenever they need a box of tampons or stuffing mix.
Bobby’s behind the counter in his wifebeater and sagging camo pants. He’s older than me, around Will’s age, with a shaved head and full sleeves and neck tats on display. As I walk in, he’s leaning down to grab a pack of cigarettes, but when I reach over and lock the door behind me, the click makes him jump and look up.
He freezes.
I don’t.
Before he can lunge for the shotgun I’m sure he’s got stashed, I pull my .45. “Don’t even think about it, Bobby,” I say, pointing it at his chest.
His eyes widen, and he stays frozen.
“Bennet,” I call. “I know you’re in the back. You come out, nice and slow. Hands where I can see them. Or I blast a hole in your brother.”
There’s a pause, tense and thick, and for a second I’m sure he’s gonna come out shooting. I breathe deep, trying to stay calm. I need a steady hand.
There’s a shuffling sound, the door behind the counter slowly creaks open, and Bennet emerges from the back room, hands up, his right elbow permanently bent at an odd angle. His red hair glints in the weak fluorescent light
He looks just like his daddy.
“Hi, boys,” I say.
“You fucking bitch,” Bennet replies. But his hands stay up, where they should be.
“Yeah, yeah.” I keep them both in my sight. They know better than to charge. Not with Busy next to me, growling low in her throat. “I’m looking for your uncle. So tell me where he is.”
“Fuck you,” Bobby hisses. He’s sweating bullets. “We’re not telling you shit.”
Most of the contact I’ve had with the Springfield boys is at church—one of the few places that’s considered neutral territory by both our families. Bennet is my age, so we would’ve been in the same grade, but Duke never let me go to school.
Still, these past fifteen years, I’ve learned a lot just from watching them across the pews. Bobby talks big, and he likes the fear his name makes people feel because it doesn’t take much effort on his part. He resents his momma, treats her pretty shitty, even in church, which is just the cherry on top of the asshole sundae.
And he’s not very smart.
But Bennet is. Bobby hates me because it’s simple. Because that’s what he’s been taught to do. He doesn’t put much thought into it because he doesn’t put much thought into anything. He’s a follower. That’s why he latched onto Carl’s neo-Nazi shit in a way Bennet never seemed to.
Bennet hates me because he sees how we’re alike. How we’ve been marked by men with bloody hands and shady hearts. How we’ve already lost more than we’ve ever been willing to give up to this world we were born into.
He sees himself in me the way I see myself in him. The difference between us? He’s been raised up with a grudge hanging over his head.
I’ve been raised up with a mission hanging over mine.
“Tell me where Carl is,” I say.
“Harley—” Bennet starts, stepping forward.
Busy barks in warning, the sound echoing through the store.
I point the gun at him. “Stay where you are. And tell me where your goddamn uncle is.”
“Look—” Bennet starts again, staying where he is this time. Busy snaps her teeth in the air and bares them at him. Her growl is a continuous, present thing that comforts me like a cat purring. “You’re—what the fuck are you doing, Harley?”
“I’m looking for Carl. Seems that trailer he had near Castella’s been moved. Where is he living now?”
“You’re
breaking the rules,” Bennet says, like he can’t quite believe it.
He’s clearly decided to try to appeal to my sense of reason. Well, it’s too fucking late for that. It was too late for that months ago.
He doesn’t know what I know. And he won’t until this is all over and I’m home free.
I’ve made a plan. It’s going to work. I just need to figure out what the fuck happened to Jessa first. If I get Carl’s address out of them, well, that’s even better.
“Your uncle already broke the rules, Bennet,” I say. “He fucked up one of the Rubies. So you’re going to tell me where he is. And he’s going to pay for what he did.”
“What?” Red splotches rise in his freckled cheeks. “Wait—which Ruby?”
I frown, but I keep my gun steady. “Jessa,” I say, watching him closely.
His color deepens—but it’s not guilt, it’s anger.
“What?” He spins around to stare at Bobby. “Did you know about this?” he demands.
“Shut up,” Bobby growls, looking away.
“What did he do to her? Did you help him?”
Bobby doesn’t say anything.
“Answer me, Bobby!”
“Bennet!” Bobby hisses, a warning.
But it’s too late. I’ve figured it out.
“You’re the guy she’s been fucking.”
“Harley…” Bennet licks his lips, the guilt pouring off him. I want to take him down. He’s the reason she’s in this mess. “Jessa—is she okay?” he asks in a voice I’ve never heard him use before, soft and worried. Oh, Jesus Christ. I can see it clearly now. He’s totally gone on her. Razzled by Jessa’s spark. It makes me angrier. It makes me reconsider my previous thinking: Bobby’s stupid, but clearly Bennet is a fucking moron.
“No, she’s not okay,” I snap. “She’s got broken ribs and broken toes because that’s what happens when a man twice your size stomps on your feet while the other guy holds you down.” My gaze flicks to Bobby and I can see in his eyes that’s exactly how it went down. My finger twitches. I want to shoot him so fucking bad. “My guess is that Bobby did the holding down. Carl did the stomping.” I shake my head. “Jesus Christ, Bennet—what were you thinking? You both knew what would happen if you two were found out.”
