The Breeders (11 page)

The front door bangs open. Loud footsteps thud on the wood floors. I freeze. The hulking shadow striding through the front door forms into my worst nightmare. It’s the Sheriff. I’m trapped. All I can do is watch from the shadows.

He sits on a fancy chair near the front door and pries off his boots. Then he looks around.

“Clay? You here?”

Clay appears from the hallway and strides towards the Sheriff.

“Right here, Pa.”

Chapter Nine

Clay is the Sheriff’s son.

The realization smacks into me like a wind-whipped barn door. Stunned, I take a step back and bump into a table with a vase perched on top. It wobbles. Shatters.

The Sheriff draws his gun. “Who’s there?”

Run.
I stumble over shards of vase and fumble for the door. Boots pound toward me. I yank the door open. Night air floods my face. I’ll make it out. Then a meaty hand grips my collar and yanks me back.

I tumble into the kitchen, knock over a chair and spill onto the tile. I slam to a stop against the cabinets. When I look up, my eyes find the barrel of a gun.

“Looky here,” the Sheriff says with a sneer.

The Sheriff looks like a bulldog that’s been in too many nasty fights. He’s got a dozen scars carved around his jowly cheeks and bald head. There’s a wicked crescent-shaped scar from his ear to his jaw, as if his sneer runs all the way up. He wears a white cotton t-shirt stained yellow at the pits and ratty blue jeans. My eyes trace over the holey socks with his toe peaking through. As he smirks at me, I can see the gaping hole where half of his teeth used to be.

“Bin a long time since we had ourselves an intruder,” he says, eying me. “’Bout time I got to shoot sumbody.”

My eyes flick from the Sheriff to Clay, who’s appeared over his father’s shoulder. He gives me fretful looks, but says nothing. The Sheriff reaches for me. I flinch. He rips the bandana off my face.

“Huh.” He examines me as he uses the barrel of his gun to scratch a bug bite in his chin stubble. When he leans in close, his breathe smells like raw meat. “Gonna ask you once, bender, what the hell you doin’ in my house. If I think you’re tellin’ tales or I plain don’t like yer answer, I’m gonna kill ya. But outside.” He smiles. “Don’t want blood on my tile. Travertine. Nice, ain’t it?”

My heart pounds out all thought. I glance at Clay for answers, but all he’s giving me are agonizing looks. My mouth flops open and shut like a fish. I can’t speak.

The Sheriff shakes his head. “Alright then, outside. We’ll make quick work of ya and I can get in for my soak.”

I tighten up, ready to fight off the meaty hands that reach for my jacket. Clay clears his throat.

“Uh, Pa, I need to … talk to ya. Can this wait? I’ll run the bastard down to the Warden.”

I stare up at Clay. Behind his father, he lifts his shoulders in a little shrug. Then he straightens his face as the Sheriff pushes up on his haunches and turns.

“Okay, take ’im. I wanna git in the tub anyway. Give me a whistle when you git back.” He hands the revolver to Clay and pats him on the back.

“Sure, Pa.” Clay grabs me by the arm and hauls me upright. “Let’s take a walk.” His voice is ice cold.

With his hand around my bicep, Clay pulls me forward and I struggle against him. His hand tightens. “One move, you motherless bastard, and I blow your ever-lovin’ brains out your ear.” If he’s pretended to hate me, he’s sure doing a good job.

Clay pulls me out of the house and down the porch. My eyes flick to his face, a mask of disgust. I keep waiting for him to smile, wink, but nothing. I’m about to give up hope when he yanks me into a dark alley. In the dirty crevice, his grip loosens from my arm.

“Jesus, we’re in a hot mess.” He leans against he building and rubs his hand over his face. “Goddamn. So much for plan A.”

I pull away from him and step back until there’s a good five-foot gap between us. I glare at his shadowed figure. “You never said he was your pa.”

“Yeah, well, he is. Didn’t think you’d be too keen on going with me if you knew.”

“Well, yeah,” I say, my voice too loud.

Holds a finger up to silence me. Then he nervously scratches his chin stubble. “Listen,” he says, gazing back at the house, “just because the Sheriff’s my pa don’t mean our deal’s off.” He sighs deeply. “I … I’m still in.”

“In for what?” I ask, flapping my hands. “Our master plan failed. We’re done.”

He glances back toward the house. In the glinting windows, I can make out the shadow of his father clomping up the stairs. Clay sighs heavily. “We don’t got a choice now. We’ll have to head out. He’s seen you.”

“We?”

He looks back toward the pristine house and grinds his teeth. Finally, he nods. “Yeah, I’m coming.”

I search his face. His eyes look tired, his jaw tense. The stubble on his cheeks and chin make him look twenty-five instead of eighteen. “Why?”

He blinks and looks up at me as if coming out of a dream. “What? Get you out?”

I shake my head. “Risk your life for strangers. That,” I say, pointing to the house, “is your flesh and blood.”

Clay’s eyes search the night sky as if the stars contain some answer. He laces his fingers behind his head. His answer is slow in coming. “I don’t know. My pa … he’s been good to me.” He swallows hard. “But, he’s not a good man. He wants me to be his second. I can’t. Not after last month …”

I frown. “What happened last month?”

Even in the shadows I can see the sorrow running through his expression. “Nothing,” he says sharply. “I’m just not as tough-minded as my pa. That’s all.”

“Not as psycho, you mean.”

His brow darkens. “He’s still my family.” His eyes flick to the little squares of light at the front of his house. “I’ll disappoint him if I stay.”

I know what that’s like. I’ve let down my parents more times than I can count, and a man like the Sheriff probably isn’t as nice about failure. Clay’s answer is not great, but we need him. I walk to the edge of the shadows and look down the road that has once again plunged into silence. “Coast’s clear. We should go.”

Clay gives me a tentative smile and then steps beside me. “I won’t let you down.”

I don’t turn. It’s enough that he’s so close I can hear him breathing.

We jog in the shadows of the sleepy houses. We skirt around Sheriff Tate’s white picket fence. My eyes lift to the dark windows of the house. What will Clay leave behind?

When we reach the high wooden stockade at the back of the Sheriff’s yard, Clay runs his hands along the solid wooden structure as if searching for something. He must find what he’s looking for because he stops and beings working an object in his hands. Metal glints in the moonlight, a tiny padlock. He spins the combination like he’s done it a hundred times. He pops the lock and the little door opens, notched so neatly into the wood that no seams show. I would never have known it was there. We slip through to the other side of the fence. There’s our Jeep, idling with the lights off. In the driver seat, Ethan can barely see over the dash, but he’s never looked prouder of himself. Arn taught him to drive the Jeep around the yard, but how in the world did he get out of the front gate and around back? There’s no time to ask.

I grab the dented driver’s side door and yank it open. “Move over.”

Ethan pouts. “Ah, man. I wanna drive.”

“I should drive,” Clay says over my shoulder.

“No chance.” I turn back to Ethan. “Move before they start shooting.”

“Where’s Mama and Auntie?” he asks, as he scrambles into the backseat.

“Auntie’s fine, but wants to stay. We’re going to get Mama.”

Ethan eyes me, but doesn’t ask.

I jump in and Clay slides in the passenger seat, his face pale and slack.

“You sure you want to do this?” I ask.

He nods, but keeps his eyes on the dashboard. He doesn’t look back when I pull away from the wall.

The only thing that marks our exit is crunching gravel. We take the two-lane highway out of town. I drive with white knuckles, expecting headlights to appear behind us any second. It’s a half-hour before my shoulders relax.

Hitting the open road with the night air in my face makes me feel a bit better. I glance at my two traveling companions. Ethan sits in the back, his head lolling from side to side, fighting sleep. Clay’s scanning the pitted black top, his mouth twisted down, deep in thought. It dawns on me that all three of us are driving away from all we’ve ever known.

“Thanks,” I say to Clay. With the night wind lashing around the Jeep, I wonder if he’s heard me.

“Welcome,” he mumbles.

“Which way?”

“West,” he says, pointing. He tucks himself into the passenger seat and closes his eyes.

I drive into the night. The rutted blacktop is a mess with potholes, car husks, animal carcasses. My eyes are drawn up to a stretch of wind turbines in the distance. I trace the smooth white structures upward. Mom told me they used to provide electricity to this region. Now their tall, ivory forms remind me of bleached bones in the moonlight. When the wind stirs, the spinning blades moan wearily. I shiver and pull my eyes back to the highway.

Clay shifts beside me. His cowboy hat’s tipped over his eyes. His fingers twitch over the black stock of one of his revolvers in his sleep. What’s he dreaming about? How furious his pa will be if he ever finds out he helped us escape? He’s agreed to leave every luxury in the world. Until I can figure out why, Clay’s presence will always make me uneasy. He thinks I’m a bender and if he finds out my secret, turning me in would pay him enough to start a whole new life free of Daddy’s expectations. Even a remotely honest man might jump at the chance for those riches. No, Clay can’t know I’m a girl.

A tire bites into a deep rut and the Jeep jostles Clay awake. He bolts upright, his hand tightening on a revolver. His face slowly registers where he is. He looks over at me with tired eyes.

“Want me to drive?” he asks. He rubs his eyes with the palm of his hand in a way that I would find irresistible if I didn’t have to keep from growing attached.

I shake my head. “Not yet, but I need you to tell me where I’m going. Where’s my mama?”

Clay stares, red-eyed over the moonlit road. He shakes his head. “There’s no use. You’ll never get in.”

I veer around a stretch of blacktop that’s completely fallen away and then meet his eyes. “I’ll get in.”

Clay snorts. “Sure. Let’s just break into the Breeder’s facility, shall we? Brilliant. Even my pa wouldn’t mess with those sons-a-bitches.”

I grip the steering wheel with white knuckles. “It’s your pa’s fault in the first place. If he hadn’t sold my mama to the Breeders, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

He doesn’t meet my eyes when he answers. “I ain’t sayin’ it’s right, but she was of fertile age. They pay good money.” He looks off into the star-filled horizon. “’Sides, if you don’t, they come burn the town down.”

I shiver in the darkness, thinking about the Breeders again. I picture men’s bodies with grotesque animal features—slitted snake eyes, forked tongues, arms that extend to scorpion pinchers. I shake the image out of my head. Those are just old wives tales. They gotta be.

“Have you ever seen a Breeder?”

He shakes his head. “Don’t want to.”

I drive around a charred car frame and fight off images of my mama being tortured. “We’re going to the hospital,” I say, my jaw tight.

Clay pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. “Are you gonna be this difficult the whole time?”

“Yes.”

“Fine. I’ll take you to the hospital, you’ll see it’s locked up tighter than a bull’s ass during mating season and then we can go. It’s 300 miles west in what’s left of Albuquerque. We’ll stop at my friend Bennett’s, fuel and water up. Get a decent night’s sleep before heading out.”

I straddle a crinkled car muffler between my tires. “We stay one night and then on to the hospital.”

He shakes his head. “We need time to come up with a plan.”

“One night,” I say. Suddenly, my eyelids droop and my vision’s doubling. The Jeep jostles as I pull to the shoulder. “You can drive. I’m tired.”

We slip out of our doors and walk around the Jeep. As I’m almost to the passenger side, I spot the eye shine in the distance. Three pairs of copper coin eyes glow in the moonlight. A black and white tail twitches up at our scent. It’s a mother skunk leading two kits on a hunt. One of the kits, curious and alert, sniffs toward me. The mother yaps once and the kit trots back in line.

As their bushy tails recede into the darkness, I ache for my mother. I used to think her rules were the source of all my problems. Now I have all the freedom I want and feel completely lost.

“You coming?” Clay removes his hat and runs his hands through his wavy brown hair.

I hop in the passenger seat, close my eyes and hope Clay will take us where we need to go.

* * *

When the Jeep lurches to a stop, dawn is spreading out in reds and oranges on the horizon. Next to me, Clay rubs his red-rimmed eyes.

“We’re here.” He pops out of the Jeep and walks toward the house in front of us.

At first glance the red farmhouse reminds me of home. The simple one-story ranch sits alone on a few acres of dirt. There’s a windmill in back for water and an outhouse in the side yard. When I look closer, the differences are clear. The yard could double as a junk heap. On either side of the walkway, rusted car parts, worn out shoes, a crooked bike tire and loads of other junk, discarded and forgotten. A beat-up barn cat with one eye slinks out behind a stalk of scrub grass and darts under the rotting porch. The stink of human waste wafts from the outhouse.

Clay hops up on the porch and knocks on the door.

“Where are we?” Ethan leans forward and brushes the hair out of his sleepy eyes.

“Bennett’s. Stick close to me. If I say run, bolt to the Jeep.”

Ethan furrows his brow. We watch as Clay peeks in the broken sidelights beside the front door.

I pull the bandanna up over my mouth and nose to disguise my face. I have to pee, but I’ll hold it as long as I can. Catching me peeing would uncover my secret for sure. The smelly outhouse might be my only bet. The dozens of flies buzzing around the back promise an interesting experience.