Fourmile (16 page)

It was late afternoon when we started back to the farm. The sun hung low and tired over the scrub pines at the edge of the beach road. I slid down in my seat between them and felt the wind through the truck windows lick across my sunburned face. Mother had the radio dialed to a country station and it was the first time I’d heard her listen to music in a long time. I closed my eyes and leaned against Gary and started to drift off.

After a while I heard him speak softly to her. “He doesn’t know where your parents live, does he?”

I didn’t open my eyes. I didn’t move.

“No,” she said.

Even in sleep I sensed us approaching Fourmile. I felt the rhythm of the turns and the worn blacktop through the seat. I knew when the truck slowed that it was about to make a gentle swing into the driveway. I heard the tires go silent on the dirt and the breeze across my face was gone. The smell of the pasture slipped over us. Mother downshifted and I started to open my eyes. Suddenly Gary jerked away from me.

I sat up and looked at him. He was turned and watching over his shoulder.

“Drive around back, Linda,” he said.

“What?” she said.

I spun in my seat and looked through the rear glass. The big Dodge truck I’d seen get the tractor was turning in to the driveway.

Mother saw it in the rearview mirror at the same time.

“Step on it,” he said firmly.

The Dodge was picking up speed, coming at us fast. Mother sped up and angled across the yard. I leaned forward and hung on to the dashboard.

“Don’t slow down,” Gary said. “Stop it in front of the back door, get out, and lock yourselves inside the house.”

I was too busy holding on to think about anything. Gary leaned down and reached under the seat and pulled out the Beretta. The side of the house flashed by and Mother leaned the truck into a hard turn. I was slung against Gary and I heard him grunt as his arm was mashed into the armrest. We fishtailed and slid sideways past the back door. Mother slammed on the brakes and we skidded to a stop and the truck coughed and died.

“Get out!” he yelled.

I followed Mother out the driver’s side and she grabbed me and pulled me around in front of her. I ran for the house and she came up behind me and fumbled through her keys. I heard the Dodge tearing around the side yard and Mother pressed against me like she wanted to push the door in. It seemed like she couldn’t find the key. It was taking too long. Then I saw a flash of blue roar past us and slide sideways, grass and dirt arcing into the air. The door gave and I fell inside and crawled across the floor. I rolled onto my back just in time to see Mother slam the deadbolt.

“We can’t leave him out there!” I yelled.

A violent crash of metal and glass sounded outside and I heard men shouting. Mother ran to the phone and started dialing.

“Help him, Mother!”

She turned to me with the receiver pressed to her ear. “Get in your room, Foster! Get under your bed!”

I backed a few steps toward the hall and stopped.

“Go!”
she screamed.

I ran into my room and opened my dresser drawer and dug deep under the clothes. I found the revolver and fell to the floor with it and slid under the bed. I lay pressed to the cool wood with my heart thumping against it. Shouts and footfalls came clearly through the still night. I hoped Kabo had gotten out of the truck.

“It’s an emergency!” I heard her scream into the phone. “I need the police! 1504 County Road 7!”

“He’s in the barn!” a man shouted from outside.

I heard her going through the drawers of the sideboard. “Where is it!” I heard her say.

I wasn’t going to tell her and I wasn’t going to give it to her.

I let go of the pistol and put my hands over my ears and squeezed my eyes shut. I saw my father’s face, his eyes blinking at me from somewhere far back in the patchwork of sticks and leaves and blood. A sudden rush of panic bolted through me hot and sick.

I grabbed the pistol and scrambled out the other side of the bed, got to my knees, and looked out the window. I saw one of Dax’s friends, the taller one, approaching the bay doors with a shotgun at his shoulder. The other, shorter and heavier friend was jogging around the back of the barn with a shotgun at his hip. My eyes darted to the left and I saw what remained of the farm truck, smashed and mangled before the Dodge. Then I saw Dax sitting in the passenger seat, craning his head to watch it all. His face was so swollen that it took me a moment to recognize him.

“Come on out, you son of a bitch!” the tall man yelled. He was stopped now, just before the bay doors, holding the barrel of the shotgun steady at the still interior. I lifted the window, brought up the revolver, and held it trembling before me. Then I heard Kabo barking from the pasture.

My eyes searched the darkness for him but saw nothing.

“Run, Kabo,” I muttered.

“Burn it!” Dax yelled. “Get the gas out of the truck!”

“He can’t have gotten in there that fast!” the tall man replied.

I held the pistol out and locked my elbows and peered down the sights at the tall man. The barrel was still shaking and I had to take a deep breath to steady my arms.

“Where the hell you
think
he went?” Dax continued. “He ain’t a ghost.”

“Is that his dog out there?”

“I don’t know, but I wish it would shut up.”

I began squeezing the trigger. The tall one hesitated, then started backing away. Then he lowered his gun, turned, and jogged to the truck bed. Meanwhile Dax was opening the passenger door, sliding out slowly like it pained him. I eased off the trigger and swung the barrel of the revolver toward the truck.

“Get your ass back in the truck,” the tall man said.

“I’m gonna go make up with her,” Dax replied. “You just do your job.”

The tall man frowned and reached into the truck bed and came out with a jerry can of gasoline. He gave it a slight shake and turned and hurried away with it.

Dax approached the house door and I lost sight of him. I heard him try the knob and beat on it. “Open up, Linda!”

Kabo was still barking.

I swung the revolver back to the tall man. I tracked him as he uncapped the gas can and began pouring it on the outside of the barn. When it was empty he slung it across the yard. Then he reached in his pocket and pulled out a cigarette lighter. I took another breath and tried to steady my nerves.

“Get ready!” the tall man yelled. He touched the lighter to the wall and flicked it. The barn woofed into flame and he stumbled back with his hand over his eyes. I saw Kabo standing beyond the fence in the firelight.

Dax yelled again. “Open the damn door, Linda, before I kick it in!”

I heard Mother whimper. I swung the revolver toward the back door but Dax was still out of sight. The fire cracked and popped, licking up the boards and crawling over the hay. The yard appeared in shimmering orange light, the pecan orchard casting long shadows over the pasture.

Suddenly the short man fired and dirt leaped in Kabo’s face. The dog spun and bolted toward the far trees.

“You hit it?” the tall one shouted.

“I don’t think so. But I got it to shut up.”

I looked back at Dax and then past him over the wrecked truck. Just where the shadows began something caught my eye. It might have been movement, but then I thought maybe it was just something out of place. Something only a person who’d lived at Fourmile for years would pick up. There was a fence post across the yard that nearly touched a pine tree. Nearly. There was always a gap. Now, there was no gap. And as the orange light flickered and reached this place, I thought I saw a hue of pale skin. I thought I saw a man standing there still as a marionette.

Wham!
Dax hit the door with his shoulder and I felt the blow through the walls. He backed away into the grass and doubled over in pain.

The tall man distanced himself from the barn, swinging his shotgun from one side to the other. I still couldn’t see the short man. The fire was growing bigger and louder, snapping and wheezing like a dragon.

“Damnit, Linda!” Dax shouted, straightening and rubbing his shoulder.

I turned back to the man in the shadows. For a brief instant, I saw Gary’s face in the light. It seemed he was staring right at me, but I knew he was really looking at Dax.

“Cox!” the tall man yelled.

I didn’t hear a response.

“No!” the tall man yelled again. “I don’t know where else he’d be!”

Wham!
I heard wood splinter and Mother scream. I knew Dax had kicked the door in. He backed away again and bent over with his hands on his knees, panting.

I saw the glint of the Beretta as Gary raised his left arm, smooth and mechanical.

He’s right-handed,
I thought.
He’s going for the men with the guns first.

A flash came from the barrel of the pistol. I didn’t even hear the shot through the noise of the raging fire. The tall man spun and dropped the shotgun and seemed disoriented. Another flash came and the man dropped to his knees and rolled over. Gary’s arm swung slightly to his left and the Beretta kicked and flashed twice more. I didn’t see the short man, but I didn’t doubt he got the same treatment. Mother screamed again. Dax was in the house.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said.

“I called the cops, Dax!”

“I’m sure you did. And it might just take a while for ’em to get out here … Where’s the little head case?”

I stood and ran from my room into the hall. I saw him standing there. I leveled the pistol on his goat face and tightened my finger on the trigger. “Leave her alone!” I screamed.

He turned to me with a blank expression. His face was so black and blue and disfigured that it would have been hard for him to have any expression at all.

“Foster!” Mother yelled.

Dax smiled at me. It was an evil, pained smile. “You gonna shoot me, kid?”

“I will,” I said. I felt the give in the trigger, my sweat on the steel.

“You’re a pussy, kid. A momma’s boy.”

“Put it down, Foster,” Mother said calmly.

“He taught me how to shoot it,” I said. “And I liked fishing with him. And I loved him.”

“He’s dead. When are you gonna get your head around it?”

The metal sights came into view, blurry and aligned on his mouth. I shifted my feet and took a quick breath. I squeezed harder on the trigger.

42

Dax’s head snapped back like he’d been slapped on the forehead with a board. He fell out of view. I hadn’t fired a shot. Mother screamed something I didn’t understand and I eased my finger off the trigger. Then I heard men grunting in the kitchen and I ran down the hall and turned the corner and would have kept going had Mother not grabbed my shirt and yanked me back. I saw Gary getting off the floor, dragging Dax by the hair with one arm. Dax tried to scramble to his feet, but Gary yanked him off balance and whipped him around like a doll.

“Gary!” Mother yelled. “The police are coming!”

Gary didn’t answer. He didn’t seem to realize we were there. Dax reached out and grabbed a cabinet door handle and Gary stopped and raised his boot and crushed the hand against the wood. Dax cursed in pain and rolled and flipped. Gary jerked him forward and slammed his head sideways into a cupboard. Dishes and coffee cups crashed down over them and shattered against the tile floor. Mother pulled me to her and put her arm around my neck and held me there. She didn’t attempt to shield my eyes or turn me away. Both of us knew we couldn’t say or do anything to stop what was happening. Neither of us wanted to turn away from it.

Dax cried for help as Gary dragged him out the door into the night.

*   *   *

Officer Tate was young and fidgety and didn’t seem to know how to proceed. He kept his gun out and kept glancing at the windows. Officer Green, an older man, was outside walking around the house with two more policemen. Their cars were silently strobing blue and white across our yard.

“What’s his name?” Officer Tate asked.

Mother seemed stunned and distant. “Gary,” she replied.

“Gary what?”

“Conway.”

“How old is he?”

Mother shook her head.

“About how old?”

“Twenty-five.” Then she looked up at him and her eyes grew liquid like she’d gathered her wits for a moment and thought about it all. She said, “Christ.”

“You want me to take the boy out and put him in the squad car? I mean, just to sit there while we talk?”

Mother shook her head.

Officer Tate studied her. “Okay,” he said. “We know plenty about Dax Ganey and the Hadley brothers. What can you tell me about Gary Conway?”

“Not much,” she said. “He was in the military. He has a dog.”

“What branch of the military?”

“I’m not sure. He said Special Forces.”

“That’s all you know?”

Mother looked at me. “We have his dog tags,” she said.

“I’ll need you to bring ’em to me.”

“Foster,” she said.

I hesitated. There was no way. “You get them,” I said.

Mother got the tags and brought them to Officer Tate. He was looking them over when Officer Green appeared at the back door. He was sweating and breathless. “Lord,” he said. “They’re out there, Tom. The Hadley boys. They crawled a little ways into the pasture, but they’re shot up pretty good. Horace and Pete are keepin’ an eye on ’em.”

“They didn’t give you any trouble?”

Officer Green shook his head. “They weren’t armed. We didn’t see their weapons.”

“You all right?”

Officer Green wiped his face with the back of his hand. “Where’s the fire trucks and ambulances?”

Officer Tate didn’t have an answer. “She says he’s Special Forces,” he said. “I’ve got the dog tags right here.”

The older man dropped his hand and lifted his eyebrows. “No kidding?”

Officer Tate held out the tags. “That’s right.”

“That explains it,” Officer Green replied. “It’s clean. Real clean. Two shoulders and two kneecaps. I guess he got their weapons too.”

Officer Tate swallowed and shifted his feet. “You didn’t see the others?”

“No,” the older man said.