by Laura McHugh
“Let’s go,” he said, and I followed him out the door.
Jamie had left his souped-up Charger just out of sight, around a bend in the road. Save the vinyl upholstery on the seats, the interior of the car was stripped to a bare metal skeleton. The engine roared so lustily that my internal organs buzzed with its vibration, and together Jamie and I sped toward Crete’s house beneath rapidly darkening clouds.
I hollered to be heard over the engine. “What do we do when we get there?”
“You don’t do anything but stay out of sight. If he leaves me alone with the girl, we throw her in the car and haul ass.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
He glanced at me, his hair swirling in his face. “You’re smart,” he said. “I figured you’d think of something.”
Honeysuckle bushes crowded the narrow road as we neared the turnoff to Crete’s. He would be heading home from Dane’s soon, if he were on his normal schedule. My nerves jangled, but Jamie maintained the drowsy expression he always wore, like he wasn’t the least bit scared by what we were about to do.
“You should get down,” he said. “Stay hid unless I need you.”
I crouched on the floorboards, wondering how I’d know if he needed me and what I would do if he did. I had nothing prepared, no magic spells, no plans. Jamie parked the car and unloaded something from the trunk. Emory greeted him—I recognized the voice from the time he’d yelled at me and Daniel by Mrs. Stoddard’s trailer—and Jamie, not much for social graces, moved right into negotiations.
“It’s a lot of product,” he said. “You know it’s worth more than a fuck.”
“You’ll change your mind when you see her,” Emory said. “Besides, it’s in your interest for us to develop a working relationship. There’s give and take, but you gotta consider the long term. What’s in it for you.”
Silence while Jamie pretended to think about it. “So how does this work?”
Emory laughed, a harsh scraping sound. “Don’t tell me you never had a whore, boy. I can see that’s a lie.”
Jamie, unruffled: “I just meant, do we trade up front? You take the stuff, and I take the girl to my place for a few hours?”
“Well, no.” Emory’s laugh dried up. “You’re not taking her anywhere. You come in and do your business, and I’ll be here, making sure you mind your manners.”
“How do I know I can trust you once I hand over my part and walk into that house? No offense, you understand. But I could be walking into a bullet.”
“Trust takes time, son, I get that. Trust’ll come from working together for our mutual benefit. But right now we both need what the other’s got. So what can I do to put you at ease and get this deal done?”
“I wanna see her,” Jamie said. “The girl. Bring her out so I know she’s really in there. That she’s everything you said.”
Emory groaned. Plainly, he wasn’t used to accommodating demands. “All right,” he said. “I’ll give you an eyeful. And you can give me a sample of your wares there. Insurance for both of us.”
I heard the door to the house open and close. Jamie stepped back and leaned against the car. “Get ready,” he murmured. The gun was nestled in his waistband at the small of his back, hidden by his shirt. I hadn’t gotten a look at Emory, but he surely had a weapon, too.
The door slammed again. Emory’s voice, off to the side: “I’ll help myself to that sample now. Go on and have your look.”
“Jesus,” Jamie muttered. “She even old enough for titties?”
I raised my head high enough to peer out the window, and there she was, behind the screen door, real and not real, Holly and not Holly. She swayed like a puppet on a string. I threw open the car door and sprinted toward the house.
“What the fuck is she doing here?” Emory howled, registering who I was.
If Holly was confused or scared or grateful when I yanked open the screen door, I couldn’t tell. Her eyes rolled, and she slumped against me as I reached for her, her body light and malleable. I locked my arms around her rib cage and pulled her out of the house. When I turned around, Emory stood in my way. Behind him, Jamie had drawn his gun, but he held it at his side, waiting to see what I would do.
“What the hell, little girl?” Emory said. “Crete know you’re out here?”
Wind gathered in the surrounding trees, shuffling the leaves and building into a low mournful keening. It swept over us with an unexpected chill. “I called the state troopers,” I lied. “You want to clear out, go now.”
His eyes narrowed, nearly hidden by tufted gray brows. “You wouldn’t turn in your own uncle.”
“Not without warning,” I said. “He’s already left town.” I didn’t know the strength of their bond, didn’t know if he’d believe his partner would turn on him to survive. With each passing moment, Crete drove closer. If his truck pulled into the driveway, everything would fall apart.
Emory’s arm sliced through the air and dealt a backhand smack to my face, his knuckles smashing into my cheekbone. My grip faltered, and Holly sagged to the ground, a pale puddle at my feet. Jamie lunged toward us, but Emory was already on the run, slowing down just enough to grab the box Jamie had brought and toss it into the van. He peeled out, heading for the compound at Caney Mountain, I guessed, or maybe straight out of town. I wondered how much time we had before he called my uncle.
We had to go. Jamie and I hustled Holly to the car and laid her in the backseat. Her lips moved as though speaking, but not in a voice we could hear. Likewise, her eyes flitted to things we couldn’t see. She was drugged, adrift, her hair sliding across her face like a veil.
“Shit,” Jamie hissed as we piled into the front seat. “She’s a fucking kid, for Christ’s sake!”
Lightning stripped the world of color in one vivid pop. If thunder followed, it was lost in the rev of the engine as Jamie launched us down the road. Rain pecked the windshield, slow at first, then relentless, a barrage of firecrackers. We rolled up the windows.
“She should see a doctor,” I said.
“We’ll take her to Birdie’s.”
“No.” There was a good chance Crete would find out what had happened from Emory, or that he’d piece things together on his own, and I didn’t want anyone else to get hurt when he came for me. “The hospital in Mountain Home.”
“We can’t take her there.” Panic edged into Jamie’s voice. “I can’t drive some drugged-up kid across state lines. What do you think’ll happen? What the fuck are you gonna say when we sign her in?”
He was right. “Take her to Sarah Cole’s, then. You know where she lives?”
He nodded, biting his lip. We bumped off the gravel onto the main road. The blacktop steamed in the rain. Headlights ghosted by, but I couldn’t make out the vehicle through the downpour. We watched the mirror nervously but saw no lights behind us.
“Drop me at my house,” I said. He shot me a confused glance but didn’t object. “I’ll meet you at Sarah’s as soon as I can. Just keep Holly safe.” I placed my hand on his arm. His biceps twitched, and he made a loose turn onto Toad Holler Road, the car skidding and correcting as he braked and regained speed.
Chapter 39
Crete
Crete left a message for Carl, asking him to reconsider letting Lucy come back to work. He was sure he could wear his brother down, though it might require a bit of patience. He waited a few minutes past quitting time to see if Carl would call back, but he didn’t, so Crete locked up his office and let Judd know he was leaving. Rainclouds hung low as he left Dane’s, and thunder grumbled in the distance. He remembered how Mama used to say she could feel a storm coming. Her leg would ache along the seam where the bone had broken and knitted itself back together. She was right more often than not, but Crete suspected it was all an act. His nose had been broken twice, and after it healed, it never ached in any kind of weather.
He rubbe
d a finger over the twisted bridge of his nose, feeling hard knots of bone where it had fused back together. It had been that way for so long, he hardly recognized old pictures of himself where it was straight. He was twelve the first time it got broken, and it was all Mama’s fault. She had sat in the rocker in her bedroom for days, eating nothing but oyster crackers she lined up on the arm of the chair, using the toilet only when Daddy carried her across the hall. A bouquet of peonies browned on the dresser, petals dropping onto a doily and curling into themselves, and she did nothing except stare at those petals dropping, at the soft pile they made. Carl had taken sick, fever slicking his little body with sweat, and Daddy had driven him up the road for Birdie to take a look at, leaving Crete to keep an eye on Mama. She couldn’t be left home alone when she was having one of her spells. The year before, she had thrown herself out of an upstairs window and landed in a viburnum bush, breaking her leg. After that, Daddy had installed new screens and planted viburnums under every window to catch her if she jumped again.
Crete checked on his mother, who had fallen asleep in the rocking chair, and then he went to sit outside on the porch. The night was warm and breezy, perfect weather to roll his sleeping bag out in the yard. He liked sleeping outdoors, listening to the night sounds all around him. He wasn’t scared. Nothing outside bothered him, not even bugs, which rarely bit him. They didn’t like his flavor, Mama said. Crete worried she was right, that something in his blood was bad. The bugs smelled it and stayed away.
He heard a loud crash and ran back into the house. On his way up the stairs, he heard another crash, then a moment of silence before Mama started screaming. He flung open the bedroom door and saw her straddling the windowsill, half in, half out, waving her arms as a bat flapped around the room. He guessed that the crash he’d heard was Mama kicking out the screen, and the bat must have flown in as Mama tried to get out. If she jumped, it would be Crete’s fault, because he was supposed to be watching her.
Please, Mama, he said. Come back in. He grabbed her nightgown and pulled till she fell to the floor, cussing him. The bat flew back out into the darkness, and Crete closed the window. He tried to help Mama up, but she swatted at him.
I ought to throw you out that window, she sneered. You’re just like me, something wrong in that head of yours. I’d be doing you a favor.
Her words burned into him. He wondered what would have happened if he hadn’t come to stop her, if she had gone ahead and jumped.
Get out, she hissed, pulling herself to a squatting position and lurching toward him. Get out!
He backed to the doorway, and without warning, she slammed the door in his face. Blood spurted out of his nose. He went back outside and sat on the porch swing with toilet paper stuffed in his nostrils, listening, but nothing fell from the upstairs window into the bushes.
When Daddy got home, he handed a sobbing Carl over to Crete and thumped up the stairs to check on Mama. Daddy didn’t want Carl to see her, not until he took her back to the doctor in Springfield and got her fixed up with some pills. Heaven forbid Carl learned the truth about anything that might upset him. They had to tell him pretty lies about Mama and Santa and the Easter Bunny. Carl loved their mother because he didn’t really know her. It was different for Crete. He wasn’t sure that he could ever look at Mama again without seeing the meanness he knew was inside her.
Carl settled down when Crete took him, snuggling his sweaty head against his big brother’s neck. Crete took Carl’s stuffed bear out of his hands and, with little ceremony, drop-kicked it off the porch. Carl’s face quivered on the verge of a sob, so Crete set him down roughly on the swing and retrieved the bear before the crybaby could bawl loud enough to bring Daddy back down and get him in trouble. He would be in enough trouble when Daddy saw the busted screen. But Carl didn’t cry. Crete handed him the bear, and his little brother gave it an awkward punch, knocking it to the ground. Carl sniffled and looked up at Crete with a wan smile. Crete held out his arms and let Carl climb back onto his lap and rocked him in the swing long after the boy fell asleep, swatting away any mosquitoes that dared land on his brother.
Decades had passed since the night Mama broke his nose. He’d looked out for Carl all these years, and his little brother had stuck by him, even when the only thing tethering them was blood. Crete trusted Carl more than anyone else, which was not to say that he trusted him completely; Carl’s weakness—not of character but of constitution—could be a liability. Carl didn’t know everything, for example, about the girls. He knew Crete was invested in some sort of escort business, but the true nature and extent of the operation would have turned his delicate stomach. Crete hadn’t set out to hide it. He figured his brother would find out sooner or later, and then, as with most questionable things Crete did, Carl would manage to ignore it. Carl was good at blinding himself to what he didn’t want to see, especially where his brother was concerned.
But then Carl had gone and gotten involved with Lila. And Lucy had come along. Crete didn’t want Carl to know what he had done, because it might be the one thing his little brother couldn’t overlook. He didn’t dare work any of the girls in Henbane after that (Emory was to blame for the whole Cheri mess, proving again that it was a bad idea to traffic in your own backyard), though he brought new recruits to the farm as needed and kept them hidden for a few days or weeks until he could transition them to Springfield or Branson or other locations. He’d had girls in trailers and basements and back rooms, in the sticks, the city, the suburbs. It didn’t matter where they were, because men would find them, and the money would follow.
He’d learned the basics from Emory, a mentor of sorts who looked more like a senile moonshiner than a businessman. They had met at an Amway meeting, though neither of them was there to join up and start selling vitamins and detergent door-to-door. Crete was there to confront a guy who owed him money, and Emory was there to scout for like-minded individuals who could expand his territory. At the time, business was slumping at Dane’s, and Crete needed to make up for a few bad investments. Once Emory trusted him enough to talk details, Crete couldn’t believe how easy it sounded.
Even with Emory’s guidance, Crete made mistakes at the start. He picked the wrong kinds of girls. Girls who weren’t desperate enough, hadn’t resigned themselves to their situations, wouldn’t cede. And he failed when it came to forcing them. He figured out quick enough that force wasn’t necessary when he picked the right ones. There were plenty of ordinary girls who were poor or dumb or lonely, abused, addicted, confused. No need to import exotic beauties. Emory had told him that looks didn’t matter—a guy would screw a goat if he got desperate enough—but that was another mistake Crete had made in the beginning, picking pretty girls, girls he’d want for himself. It had backfired with Lila in the worst way. He could admit later how stupid he’d been to think something would spark between them once she arrived. He had lost perspective, let himself feel spurned and jealous and vengeful. And instead of cutting his losses on a sour deal, he’d brought strife to his family, ultimately hurting his brother—the one person who had earned his love and loyalty. He wouldn’t let himself be tempted to make that mistake again.
He thought about quitting early on, but it was easy money—which he sorely needed to keep Dane’s afloat—and he couldn’t argue with the business model. You could only sell a cow once, but you could milk it every day. And no matter how much people drank, they would always be thirsty again. Demand was unceasing, and the supply was bountiful. There were so many girls, like milk cows, giving and giving until they gave out. He took them in, spoiled them with compliments and attention and clothes, and sometimes recouped his investment in under twenty-four hours. Someone told him that way back in slave times, a girl might cost you a thousand bucks. For reasons he didn’t question, women’s worth had plummeted, and Crete could buy one for a few hundred dollars. And he didn’t always have to buy them; sometimes he got lucky and found one on his own.
Afte
r a while, the thrill dulled and he didn’t touch the girls anymore, even when they tried to touch him. He’d slept with some of them after Lila, hard little creatures with broken parts inside that caused them to malfunction, to seek comfort in his lies, to kiss his stubbled neck, remove their clothes, and kneel before him, an empty offering to a false god. But that was how all gods were, he figured: blind, deaf, and dumb, unconcerned or unaware of what people begged of them. It wasn’t guilt that made him stop sleeping with the girls, it was the pointlessness of it. Sex with a broken girl was hardly better than jerking off. He wanted something he couldn’t find in girls as empty as he was. Nothing plus nothing equals nothing, he thought, an equation that served no purpose.
The only girl he truly cared about was Lucy. He barely trusted Carl to watch over her, doubting his brother could be ruthless enough or smart enough to protect her. And so he was there, always, for Lucy when she needed him. He was there rocking her to sleep while his brother drowned in grief. He was there, with his eye on her, while Carl wandered for work. Carl wanted to send Lucy off to college, but Crete wanted her to stay in Henbane and take over the family business—Dane’s, not the other, the buying and selling of girls. He would rather she saw none of that but the assets, the money he had set aside to provide for her and keep Dane’s running as long as she liked without worrying about its actual profits. That was a reason he gave himself for continuing in the business when he no longer needed the money; it was a better reason than the simple fact that he liked having control over the girls. The flip side was that Lucy wouldn’t want the money if she knew where it came from. She had the same moral compass as Carl but lacked his ability to ignore unsavory things.
When Lila was alive, Crete had been determined to find out if Lucy was his daughter. He was driven by selfish anger and a blind urge to claim what belonged to him. But with Lila gone and Carl floundering, things changed. No one stood between him and Lucy; she was closer to him than ever. He knew that after the loss of his wife, Carl couldn’t take a second blow, the one he would suffer if Crete took away his child. He wouldn’t do that to his brother. And this way, he didn’t have to face the possibility that Lucy wasn’t his. He would rather not know for sure. Though what would a test result matter? It was just a bunch of letters and numbers. It wouldn’t change his love for her. It was real love, true and effortless: stronger, simpler, and more important than what he had felt for Lila or his mother or any other woman. And she loved him back. He gave Lucy everything, and she was enough, a solace for all the other things he knew he couldn’t have.
