Radical (26 page)

“Moral turpitude,” she says. “That group in Washington you think is so great? I went to their website today. Have you read it?
Really
read it? Sure, anyone, of any color, can join, who will swear their very fine-sounding oath. But did you miss the part about no moral turpitude? That means you and me. Queers.”

“They mean, like, drugs and stealing,” I say.

“No, they don’t.” I keep shaking my head, and her eyes bulge. “Look at yourself!” She waves her hand at me. “How can
you
feel comfortable with those kind of people?”

I have never felt more judged than I do right now. I swallow, try to regroup.

A week ago, I would have told her about the training, about being respected, about being part of something, finally, that was serious and mine. About girls who get it and don’t treat me like I’m a freak. About readiness. About not being in this alone. But now, after this week, after Mark and Dad, and last week with Riggs, I don’t know what to say to her.

“You think you can take care of yourself,” she says, her voice creaky and bitter. “You think you can, but you can’t. And you won’t know until it’s too late. You can’t . . .”

I feel her breath and then her hands, and realize I’m trying to cover her mouth.

“They’ll hurt you.” She keeps talking even as I’m trying to make her stop. “Eventually, someone will hurt you. They’ll rape you. That’s what men like that do, to women who won’t be like they want them to be. People who won’t look like they think they should look. You can’t —”

A knock, and we both jump back. A sheriff’s deputy, motioning for Lucy to roll down the window. We’re both breathing hard, flushed, and there are tears on her cheeks.

“You okay in there?” he asks, and she nods, gulping air, but her hands are shaking. Her whole body is shaking.

He leans down and looks at me. I clench my hands and hold still, meeting his eyes, trying to keep my face blank — calm but controlled. I’m in control.

“Everything okay?” he asks again, looking at Lucy like I might be making her not okay.

“Yeah, yeah,” she says, nodding, forcing a smile and wiping at her eyes. “Yeah, we’re fine.”

“Why don’t you step out of the car,” he says, and even as she is shaking her head, starting to say she’s fine again, he reaches for the door handle. “Step out of the car.” It’s no longer a friendly request. “You stay there,” he says, waving me off.

Screw that.

“Passenger, stay in the car,” he orders. He pulls her door open. “You,” he says to Lucy, “step out.”

Every bit of me is on full alert — my heart, my head, my gut. Every hair on end.

He motions her toward the back of the car and closes the door.

I strain to hear through the open window. Only catching a word here or there. Sounds like a laugh. I lean over the seat to see through the back windows, and she’s tucking her hair behind her ear, ducking her chin, doing all the things girls do to make men feel strong and cool and in control. My stomach turns. And then there’s a thud and she’s against the car, and I am out the door and halfway around before he shouts at me to freeze.

“Get your ass back in that car, passenger.” Lucy’s eyes are huge and panicked, and he’s got one hand on her, keeping her there. But I can tell, even from the other side of the car, that the other is on his gun. “I said, get your ass back in that car.”

I need to figure out what to do. Distract him. Draw him away. I could maybe outrun him. But toward his cruiser? Toward the field? He has to follow. Right? Then Lucy can get away. I look at her, try to tell her to be ready, but she’s frozen. She won’t go — I know it. And if he doesn’t follow, then I’m not leaving her alone with him.

He turns his face toward the radio on his shoulder. Listens. Then he turns back toward Lucy. “You’re sure you’re okay?” She nods, another duck of her chin. He says something I can’t hear and then he’s moving toward his cruiser. “Move on, now.” Then he’s got the lights on, peeling away from the shoulder into a U-turn, and he’s gone.

“What did he say to you?” I ask, but Lucy’s freaked and stumbling to her door.

She’s beyond shaking when she gets back in. Vibrating all over.

“Go.” I put her hand on the ignition. “Just drive.”

She gulps air.

“Okay. Move. I’ll drive.”

She pulls off the shoulder and onto the road with a gravel-spitting squeal, and drives like a maniac. She’s white-knuckled on the wheel and shaking.

“Lucy,” I say, and she speeds up until the car is trembling with the effort. “Lucy, we’re away. Pull over. Somewhere public.”

The car drifts toward the shoulder and then back. She eases off but keeps going. There are oncoming cars, and we’re heading into a town. There’s a parking lot on the right.

“Pull in there. Now.”

She makes a sharp, wild turn into the lot and sort of into a spot, before stopping hard. I bounce back against the seat.

I reach over to touch her. “Are you —?”

“What the hell were you thinking?” She slaps me away. “You could have gotten us both . . .”

“What? Gotten us both what?”

“I don’t know,” she yells, throwing her hands into the air. “But he said to —”

“He had his hands on you. Screw staying in the car.”

“What were you going to do? Jump him? Fight him?”

“Not with him armed. And twice my size. But I was going to draw him away so you could get out of there. I was just —”

She starts laughing hysterically. She’s hysterical. When I try to touch her, she flings my hands away like she should have done with him.

“Don’t touch me! What the hell is wrong with you?”

What the hell is wrong with
me
? She’s the one who let him touch her and flirted and whatever with that asshole. But I’m the wrong one, again.

I can see the goose bumps popping out on her arms. The adrenaline leaving her.

“Bex . . .”

I wave away whatever she was going to say.

“I want to go home.” She sounds like a little girl.

“Okay. Are your grandparents home?”

“Where do you want me to drop you off?”

I look at her face. At the streaks and dirt and fear. At how scared she still is.

I should get out and walk back.

“Bex?”

I don’t want to be in this car for one more minute. But I can’t. I’m so tired, and my legs are like jelly. It would be miles, and I can’t call anyone to come get me. But I don’t want her anywhere near the access road. He might double back.

“Home. We’ll go the long way. Pull back out and go through town. We’ll pick up one of the county roads on the other side. Takes us far out of Deputy Creep’s way.”

I don’t talk except to give directions. She doesn’t talk at all.

“This is close enough,” I say when we near the turnoff.

“I don’t mind.”

I do. But she’s already turning down the drive, and then I see Dad’s truck.

“Here’s close enough.
Really
. Stop.”

She finally stops and then notices the truck. She knows I don’t want her to be seen.

I don’t even look at her. But I don’t get out, either.

I’m sorry
, I think, but I don’t say it. I’m not really sure what I should be sorry for.

“Grandpa wants me to help him with some things around the house. And then my parents are coming and . . .” She scrambles for something to say. “I’ve got college stuff to get ready, so, so I’m not going to be around as much. And I think I’m going to head to Chicago early, to check out —”

“It’s fine.” We both know that whatever this was is over.

“I’ll give you a call when things calm down.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Sure.”

She won’t. And I won’t. But it’s better than saying good-bye.

“Go home the long way,” I say. “If that guy tries to pull you over, call —”

“He won’t. He thought I was in trouble.”

From me.

I can hear her say my name when I open the door, but it’s just for show. She doesn’t really want me to stay.

The walk to the house feels longer and dustier than ever. I fight the urge to look back.

I can’t tell if I’m devastated or relieved. Or if any of this even happened. I can barely feel my body. Not my feet walking step-by-step up the drive. Not my arms or legs. Nothing.

The hood of Dad’s truck is still warm, so he hasn’t been home that long. I try to keep my face calm. I just want to escape upstairs and lie in the dark and think. If I seem tense, he’ll know something’s up. He might decide to care.

“Dad?” I call from the kitchen. There’s a partially empty can of beer on the counter, a puddle of condensation under it. I can hear footsteps upstairs but not in Mom and Dad’s room. Overhead, then toward the stairs, then on the stairs.

That’s not Dad.

Mark bounds off the bottom step, stalking through the living room. He’s trying to look casual, but his face is giving him away.

The hairs on my neck stand up. Goose bumps break out along my arms. Everything in me is saying run. It’s like yesterday but worse. Like he’s on something. The look in his eyes. It’s even worse than with the deputy. But my feet are rooted to the floor, firmer with every step he takes toward the kitchen. Too late to move. If I run, he will chase me. I know he will.

He shoulders me aside on his way to the fridge. I wait for Dad.

There’s no sound upstairs. I strain to hear. Nothing.

“Where’s Dad?”

“Shut up, freak.”

Dad’s not here.

“Why do you have Dad’s truck?”

He doesn’t answer. He stands in front of the open fridge like he’s taking an inventory of the contents, like he didn’t already do that. Like he didn’t already eat. The beer has been there a while.

“Why do you have Dad’s truck?” I ask again.

“Mine crapped out. Again. Skip’s work is for shit.”

There’s sweat on his forehead and the back of his neck. It’s not that hot in here, and he’s standing in front of the open fridge.

He closes the fridge and then turns to face me. He cracks his neck, leaning back against the counter, all pretense gone.

“What do you want?” My voice gives me away, my nerves. He smiles.

“To see you, Sister,” he says with an even bigger fake smile. “What did you say to Riggs?”

What?

“You said you two had a little chat. What did you say?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” He squints at me, like he’s trying to decide where to strike. “You had to have said
something
.”

Leave. I should leave. Now. “He asked how you were, and if you got a job or . . . because you haven’t been around, or not working with Darnell, or . . .” I need to leave. “I didn’t know what to say, so I said you got a good job, and . . .”

That fight-or-flight thing is still sounding in my head and shooting down my spine.

“Had to be more than that.”

His voice is weird, like it’s not even him.

I look at the clock. I don’t know where Uncle Skip is or when he’ll be home. Or Dad.

“One more time. What. Did. You. Tell. Him? He said you told him ‘everything.’ That I could trust him.” He steps toward the table, cracking his knuckles. “Kept saying I needed to talk to him.”

“Nothing, I swear.” Even I can hear the panic in my voice.

I edge around the table with tiny steps. As if I’m distracted, or still waiting. Anything to keep the table between us. He mirrors me. Breaking for outside won’t help. It’s too long across the coverless lawn to the trees, and there’s nowhere safe in the workshop. The locks won’t keep him out.

Stall. I need to stall. “What’s going on? I can help, if you’re in trouble, or . . . I can help.”

“I don’t need your help.” He stops the cat-and-mouse around the table. He smiles. I need to run.

My only chance is upstairs. Bedroom. Good lock. Shove the bureau in front of the door. Or I might be able to climb out and around on the roof. Buy enough time for Uncle Skip or Dad to come home.

“Then let’s try something else. What did
Riggs
say to
you
?”

I’ll only get one chance. “Nothing. I told you, about the job and . . .” I break left and he matches me, jerks me off my feet, tries for a hold, but I don’t let him get his arm around my head.

I feint left, and when he moves, I duck and move the other way. He’s stronger and faster than the last time we wrestled. I deflect and slap and try to maneuver my back to the living room door.

“Your girlfriend’s cute, for a dyke.” Shit. “Stupid to park somewhere people might see you, though.” He smirks. “I got some good pictures.” One e-mail and it would be everywhere by morning.

His phone rings. I jump, and he jumps at me. Lunges around the table. I get him in the nose with the heel of my hand, but not a sharp enough hit.

“Dad would love to know about the stealing, the beer,” I gasp, kicking his leg and shoving him off balance, get the table between us again. “Uncle Skip would be more interested to know about Zach’s truck parked behind the station after hours. That you’ve all been going there, and here. That you were here. I’ll tell, I swear I’ll tell if you don’t —”

He shoves the table into me, knocking me into the wall. He’s there, hitting the wall next to my head. I almost get away, but his forearm is against my throat, pushing, pressure. His eyes. He’s not stopping. I try to talk, to reason, grab at his arm, but I can’t. I can’t breathe!

“If you don’t tell me . . .” he says, pressing harder, his eyes bulging.

I kick, scratch, claw. I aim for his eyes until he lets go. But he grabs me again. I twist, break the hold, slam my hand into his shoulder, turn, and drop him to the floor, stomp at his balls. He wails but grabs my leg, and I kick, kick until I’m free. Knocking chairs down behind me. Take the stairs as fast as I can.

I don’t hear him following, but I’m not taking any chances. I lock the door, push the bureau, using my hip to get it started and then the adrenaline to shove it a few inches in front of the door. In the closet, I push my duffel and stuff out of the way. The loose boards aren’t right. Shit. The Bobcat is gone. And the cash I had there. And some of the ammo. I move to the other side and pull up another board. The lockbox is still there with the rest of my cash, and next to it Grandad’s revolver. I grab a box of bullets with shaking hands as I hear his feet on the stairs. Slow. He’s walking.