The Tramp (The Bound Chronicles #1) (38 page)

Tyler lunged forward, grabbed a handful of her hair, and yanked it hard. Her neck snapped back and he slammed his body against hers.

The blade slid under her chin. “You’re a quick lil’ vixen, ain’t ya?”

His foul breath huffed against the back of her head, blowing wisps of her hair. She braced herself and felt the knife dig deeper into her flesh. All he had to do was whip it to one side to slit her throat. She stilled herself, barely daring to breathe.

“You been given that ole’ Sam goodies all along, wasn’t you? Think it’s ‘bout time I took some for me,” he snickered. Candy squeezed her eyes shut in revulsion. “Or, might be I should try again.” He moved his hand down to pat her belly with the flat of the blade. “Maybe it works better when you’s screamin’.”

Is he talking about Antonio?
Candy thought wildly. She suddenly knew, without a doubt, that it was Tyler who cut him up.
He went back later, and cut Antonio to pieces.

“Heck, maybe I do both. We got to bring her back.”

“Bring who back?”

“Shut your mouth, you little slut.” He ran his tongue up her ear.

The heat rose so fast in Candy she felt dizzy. How dare he. She tried to catch her breath over her fury. But, she knew where his filthy mouth was. She had a better idea where his eyes were, right behind her cheek. And as he struggled against the buttons of her jeans with his knife-hand, the point of the blade swung away from her. Candy Vale hadn’t grown up wrestling against three older brothers without learning how to deliver a few sucker-punches. She rammed two fingers backwards and felt at least one make squishy, wet contact with an eyeball. Tyler howled, and when he raised the switchblade, she grabbed his wrist and bit down as hard as she could. She tasted blood and heard the knife thud to the ground. He was still hanging onto her arm with his other hand, but he was leaning over in pain. She cracked her head against the bridge of his nose. He fell down, hollering in agony. She broke free, but tripped over a tree root.

“Shit!” As she scrambled to her feet she could hear Tyler on the move behind her. He grabbed her ankle and wrenched her back to the ground, twisting her leg so that she landed hard on her elbows. Her bones jarred to the top of her head.

“You bitch!” he screamed, blood spurting from his nose.

She saw her opportunity, partially blinded as he was with his own blood, and she wrenched herself around to grab his head in both her hands, delivering her rage through her palms with a howl. She had planned to knee him in the face, but he yanked his head back so violently she lost her grip. He wailed like a banshee and flailed away from her. His eyes rolled back in his head and his body convulsed.

“Aahnaah…” Tyler sat up, in control of his limbs again. His voice came out in a moan, “Ahnaanvwodi.” The last two syllables were produced deep within his mouth, guttural, but Candy understood the meaning perfectly.

“Where?” she stuttered, bewildered. He was gaping at her. “Me? I’m not the…”

He lunged at her, ripping at her shirt, her face. He tore at her hair in a frenzy, like he would claw his way inside.

“Get off—get off me!”

She kicked him away as hard as she could. A hulking shadow loomed over Tyler from behind, raised both arms overhead with a club held high. The club came down on Tyler’s head with a dull whack. His body crumpled to the ground like a sack of potatoes. She gaped at him in horror, not daring to take her eyes off the filthy beast.

A flip-flop clad foot kicked the switchblade away, and it skittered across the ground. “Are you alright?”

Candy sat up and turned to stare dumbly at her savior.

“Candy, are you hurt?”

The adrenaline coursed through her body. “Is he d-dead?”

John knelt down next to the stilled heap, feeling for a pulse. “No, just passed out. But, I think he’s going to wish he were dead when he comes to.”

“M-my g-g-god…”

Candy accepted John’s hand to help her rise, wincing in pain when she put weight on her left ankle. She bore the pain to administer a sharp kick to Tyler’s midsection, and ended up hissing and hopping on her good foot.

“The cup,” John breathed. He bent over to pick something up as it rolled away from the body.

The shakes were setting in, and Candy felt like she might collapse. “Can we g-get the hell out of h-here, before he wakes up?”

“Yeah.” John stuffed whatever he found in the pocket of his hoodie and reached out his hand again, “Come here, Candy.”

He wrapped an arm around her waist for support, but when she fell into him, sobbing and trembling, he hoisted her up with both arms. She looped her legs around him and held onto his neck, clinging to him like a scared monkey. He threaded his hands under her bum—exactly the way the Child Services officer had carried her away from the crime scene when she was seven. She had watched over the officer’s shoulder; her Uncle Brian was sprawled face-down on the pavement, the policemen shouting over him. Guns were trained on his head.

“Let’s get you home.” John kissed her forehead, stepping gingerly through the undergrowth.

“I d-don’t want. Want to. Go h-home,” she spluttered and hiccupped. Home was lonely; her dad droned on about his issues, if he was even there instead of hanging around the shop, gabbing with whomever. She didn’t want to go home, not that night. She blurted in a rush, “I don’t wanna be alone.”

“Spend the night at our place then. Grandma Pearl’s got plenty of room.”

“Okay.” Her blubbering increased with her gratitude, and John made quiet shushing sounds as they left the woods. His Mustang was parked up the road under an umbrella of elm trees. She snuffled wetly into his neck, “I had him, John.”

“Alright. It’s alright.”

“I don’t need s-saving.” Tears flowed and she pounded his broad back with a weak fist. “I don’t.”

“You could have fooled me, Candy-cane,” he sighed. She hugged him tighter. “You sure could have fooled me.”

epilogue

John sat in the breakfast nook staring at the table top. Looking up meant meeting more conciliatory ogling—sad eyes waiting to find his and search his expression. They sent sympathy like telepathy.

What a strange custom.
He listened to the funeral after-party. His grandmother’s endless recital of the last days before Grandpa Joe died droned on and on. Her story was filled with doctor comments, bodily details that should have been private, and her described shock of the “unforeseen.”

“We all thought he was doing better.” And then the final, terminal dig, “But I knew Joe wasn’t one to watch his health.” John hadn’t seen her tears once, even at the funeral. But who was he to question that? He hadn’t shed one either.

He watched Candy through the doorway to the front room, talking with his Aunt Beth. Candy wept freely throughout most of the service. In fact, her face was still puffy; she looked like she’d been crying all afternoon and could start up again at any moment. John was surprised at first, until he realized that she was crying not for Grandpa Joe, but for Antonio. It was a fair exchange: Antonio didn’t even receive a memorial service. Probably already en route from Europe, his parents had arrived soon after his body was found in the river. The poor mother was inconsolable, the father angry and frustrated. They insisted on a private cremation and went back to Italy, taking their son’s ashes with them.

After they left, John made inquiries about an honorary service in Antonio’s memory, but he was met with stone faces and locked jaws; no one wanted to recognize anything. The school staff was humiliated, the sheriff’s office was defensive and the Rotary Club was devastated. Mieke Walsh, in particular. John had spoken with her at Grandpa’s funeral, and judging from her red eyes and utter lack of grooming, she had done her share of mourning. Between the dual tragedies of both Antonio’s and Joe Robinson’s deaths, John could hardly blame her. She probably felt as bad as he did. When she started talking, he wasn’t sure whether she was looking to give or receive, but she needed some kind of confirmation.

“Whatever you may think,” she had said, smoothing and re-crumpling a wad of soaked tissues and glancing suspiciously at fellow mourners. “I loved your grandfather dearly. He loved you more than you probably realize.”

“I know he loved me.” John had looked away, unsure where the sentiment might’ve led.

“He thought of you as his savior.”

He hadn’t expected that. “Savior?”

“He was having those horrible visions.”

Then John snapped to attention, ready to listen. But he had to correct her, out of his own fear, “Nightmares.”

“Oh, you know? He told me he saw them while he was awake, too. They scared the shit out of him.”

“He actually said that?”

Mieke laughed bitterly, “Oh we weren’t ‘close’ like everyone likes to gossip. But we were very good friends, as hard as that is for the people of Shirley County to believe.” She narrowed her eyes at several of those people standing around the sanctuary vestibule. Then she cocked her head, thoughtful. “But you’re not ‘of’ Shirley at all, are you?”

“No.”

“Those nightmares stopped the night that you arrived and he never saw another vision. He felt like that was because of you, and he was grateful. More than you know.”

And John remembered that his own peculiar dreams began that same night, right before school started. Yes, it was all very interesting information, but what the hell did it mean? He reached for the newspaper across the table again; he had already read the front-page article three times, “Sendalee Nation Advances Claims to Big Joe’s.” He studied the young man in the accompanying picture, his jet black hair, his Armani suit, and the surety in his expression. In the text, Michael Wright talked of surety of purpose: his conviction that sacred Sendalee grounds be returned to their Nation. He was confident that, now that the tyrant was dead, the Robinson’s “stolen property” might fall into the hands of a more reasonable, “more forward-thinking individual.” Subtext: John’s grandfather was an asshole and his dad was a pantywaist.

John was angry, not because of the man’s words or intentions, or out of fear that his threat might be real. He was angry with himself for having missed such important information, an integral part of his family history. He was ashamed that his power of observation had failed him so miserably. The article had come out that morning, headline splashed across the Sunday paper, and the funeral was buzzing with the news. That was one more reason that the after-party farce was driving him crazy—he would have to bide his time until everyone left and Grandma Pearl took a Valium to pass out for the night (she had already mentioned doing so several times) before he could investigate.

The wait was maddening, but at least he had secured one critical piece of the puzzle, and an avenue towards understanding it. The painted cup that fell out of the cave wall was locked in a metal box in the back of his closet upstairs, safe from Tyler Finley, and his meeting with a university student on the Native American Archeological Research team was in two days. He knew the dreams, the drawings, and the cup were somehow related; once he got a better look at the cup, he confirmed that the tri-lobe motif and the Swastika were almost certainly included in the crumbling, painted ceramic veneer. The girl at the research lab could tell him for sure. And the Sendalee guy’s interest in the Big Joe’s property couldn’t be coincidental. His dad called it The Kitchen now, but John called it The Mound in his head.

He refolded the newspaper and turned it over in disgust. He did that each time he read it, and each time he was confronted with the mug shot of Sam Castle at the bottom of the page. “Missing Youth, Still Wanted For Questioning.” A thirteen-year-old Sam glared at readers from an old juvie hall photo, next to a more recent snapshot, probably provided by his mother. He’d already turned eighteen, from the birth date on the mug shot. That was too bad; he was legally an adult, so things would be legally worse for him.

“Sam…”

He was beginning to feel differently about that guy, yet still conflicted. Sam had the symbols on his bedroom walls, and John couldn’t believe that was a coincidence either. Also, he was indebted to him for the way he handled things, after Antonio was injured. John was used to being the only levelheaded person in a trauma, but Sam had kept his cool, too.

Too well, actually. Not only did he retain the presence of mind to give orders, he knew exactly what orders to give. As if that weren’t the first time for him. John was sure he would deny it, but he noticed tears in Sam’s eyes. The sadness in his face and the tenderness in his voice were well beyond what he could have felt for Antonio, whom he barely knew. No, Sam was remembering. He had watched someone close to him die before, probably just as violently.

“Don’t look at that.” Candy snatched up the newspaper, tossed it into the garbage, and plopped down opposite John. “You okay?”

John finally looked up from the table. Candy’s was the only face he wanted to see and he felt comfortable having her close, after the episode with Tyler. He had looked up the Italian word Antonio was struggling to say at the end, “pericolo.” The pain he must’ve endured to get that word out meant he was desperate for Candy to hear it. And the word translates as “danger.”
No kidding, Antonio.
Candy was spending her nights at Grandma Pearl’s, and none of the adults were confused as to why, once the news of “the foreign boy’s” tortured corpse spread like wildfire. Better to stay in pairs.

“Yeah, I’m okay. You?”

She shrugged. Just past her, he saw a woman crossing the kitchen in their direction and he let out a tired groan. But Candy’s face brightened. “It’s Rachel.”

Oh, the glass artist.
John figured he’d let Candy handle it and zoned out.

After a few pleasantries and the predictable offer of condolence, Rachel skipped to the goal of her mission. “He’s safe,” she whispered, one eyebrow raised, then dropped something in Candy’s hand and walked away without another word.

Candy stared at it, her mouth hanging open. The little object Rachel gave her was roundish and colorful, smooth like a large river pebble or a worry stone.

“What’s that?” John plucked it out of her hand and saw that it was glass, with tiny strands of color streaking from the center. Gold, magenta, orange, red. It was like a tiny fireworks display exploding in his palm. “Pretty neat.” Then he saw the covetous expression on Candy’s face, her eyes glued to the treasure, and he dropped it on the table like he was holding a live cockroach.
Sam made it.

Candy caught the glass stone before it bounced to the floor and tucked it into her pocket with a scowl.

“Well, now we know where he is,” he said. “That wasn’t very smart.”

“It was if you keep your mouth shut, John,” she snapped. “He trusts me, and I trust you. I
can
, right?”

He put up his hands in defense. “Don’t worry, Candy—I don’t want his location revealed any more than you do.”

She scrutinized him doubtfully and kept her hand in her pocket, protecting Sam’s gift.

“Look, I have no intention of giving him away.” He reached for her other hand, but the two of them were interrupted again.

“You guys, how are you doing?” Amanda Jameson was standing in the entrance to the dining nook. Candy looked to John, letting him take care of that one.

“Holding up,” he said, figuring he couldn’t go wrong with a cliché in a mourning environment. Even with Amanda.

“I know how you feel,” she said. “His picture is still in the paper, and it bothers me every time I see it.”

“Um—” Candy started, confused. Amanda ducked in to give her a hug before she could say more. Stiff arms returned the embrace, fingers tapping her back in reluctant obligation.

“We could all use an extra hug right now,” Amanda said. She turned to offer one to John. “Don’t worry, guys. I know they’ll catch that creep Sam Castle.” Inexplicably, she choked on a sob and wiped a tear, then turned and left the room.

John and Candy stared at each other for several seconds, speechless.

“I thought you said—” John was bewildered. When he had run back along the tracks that night and found Antonio shot dead, it was obvious that Tyler pulled the trigger, even though Sam was holding the gun. Candy confirmed that Sam took it from him (forcibly, by the look on Tyler’s face), and John was relieved to know the gun was out of play. But there was so much going on at once that night. “You said Sam didn’t…”

But the next words wouldn’t come.

Candy nodded. “I did. I did say that.”

“Tyler sh—” John stuttered. “Tyler w-was… Shit!”

“I know,” Candy nodded fervently. “You can’t say it now, can you? I can’t talk about it either, John.”

Watching her face scrunched in vexation, John realized he wasn’t imagining the reason for the tongue-tied past few days. He had tried to pretend his trouble with words was due to reticence or indecision. They were all sworn to secrecy, because anyone could’ve been implicated in Antonio’s death. John knew it was stupid to get rid of the body in the river—it hadn’t worked anyway. He was ashamed that he agreed to it, but Candy’s dress was soaked with blood, her neck gouged by Antonio’s fingernails. She was desperate to protect Sam, whose “evidence” was all over Antonio, since he had held him in his arms and bunched his jacket under him for cushion. Amanda was frantic with thoughts of her father’s involvement—the damn sheriff. John wanted to find Lindsay before something happened to
her
. In fact, the train had taken her all the way to Tenakho Falls and it took John half the night to get her to Amanda’s house. The whole thing was a clusterfuck.

But, after Tyler attacked Candy in the woods, that animal had to be restrained. John went to his father first, which was fortunate, since that decision saved him from making a fool of himself at the sheriff’s office. When he tried to speak of the event with Dad, the words wouldn’t come.

“When I tried to say something after that disgusting creep pounced on me, it was like I went dumb,” Candy said, echoing his thoughts. “I tried to tell my dad, but I couldn’t.”

“I did the exact same thing,” John laughed, though there was nothing funny about the chill creeping up his spine.

“You don’t think it was the stupid ‘binding spell’? That thing Amanda made us do?”

John understood the horror in her expression; he couldn’t fathom being held under Amanda’s spell either. That night by the river, she insisted that they all prick their fingers and shake hands while promising to keep silent, and as ridiculous as that seemed to most of them, the fact that her father was sheriff carried weight. When they put their hands together (John kept his bloody digit clear and washed his hands in the river later), he was annoyed to hear her chanting something under her breath about “binding.” He repressed a tense smile when Candy jerked her hand away in revulsion.

“No,” he shook his head. He thought Amanda was just as tied as they were. She wouldn’t like being silenced, and by the dark circles under her eyes, John guessed she hadn’t been sleeping much. “From the conversation I overheard between her dad and mine, she hasn’t said anything. I think if she could turn someone in, she would. She obviously has plans for Sam. Poor guy.”

Candy’s face went crimson with that comment, then her eyes widened. “What’s going on, John? I don’t want to sound melodramatic, but when I try to say anything about…” and she pounded her fist on the table in frustration, unable to produce the name or concept she needed, “…anything specific. It’s like someone—something—reaches in and takes the words right out of my mouth. I can almost feel it.”

Terror wafted off of her. John studied him palms, hating what he had to say—he hated to see her so scared, but he knew he could protect her against anything. He had to. And he needed to be honest with her, because they had to figure it out together or not at all.

“Candy, it’s the same for me.” He looked up from his hands with apology in his eyes, and watched the blood drain from her face. She was looking past him.