Transcription (33 page)

“I can see,” Bo said.

“Great, then go back to your post,” Chloe said.

Bo did.

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“What’s happening?” Danielle asked.
 

Bo wasn’t tired anymore. His feet bounced on the floor as he stole glances over his shoulder. He could barely see Chloe, but it seemed like she was intent on whatever was out there in the woods.

“He’s staggering,” Chloe said. “It looks like he’s hurt.”

“It could be a trick,” Bo said.

“No shit,” Chloe said. “Trust me—if he’s not hurt, he’s going to be.”

A few seconds of silence passed. Bo felt like every one of his muscles was tensed, ready for anything.

“He’s out of the woods. It’s definitely a man,” Chloe said. Several more seconds went by. “I don’t see a weapon.”

“You can’t take a chance, Chloe,” Bo said. “He could have a gun strapped to his back or something.”

“I know,” she said.

With those last two words, Bo heard the sadness in her voice. He hadn’t noticed it earlier. It was the boy—she was thinking about the boy. Chloe was losing her nerve because she was thinking about the boy that she had accidentally killed.

Bo stood up. He would have to abandon his lookout. He didn’t have any choice. Chloe was going to lose her nerve. He backed through the house, banging into the corner of the kitchen doorway. From inside the closet where James was writing, he heard a click.

“I’m coming to you, Chloe,” Bo said.

“No,” she said. “Keep watch on that side. I’ve got this.”

“It’s all clear over here,” Bo said. “I’m coming to you.”

“What’s happening?” Danielle said.

When he reached Chloe, Bo turned. He saw the figure in the lawn. It was definitely a man. The figure had his head tilted to the side and he was practically dragging his left leg. Bo crouched down to get his face close to the open window.

“You out there,” he called. “Stop, or we’ll have to shoot you!”

Bo whispered to Chloe. “Give me the gun.”

“No. I can do this,” she said.

The figure did stop. He stopped and swayed in the moonlight.

“What do you want?” Bo shouted into the cool air that rolled in through the window.

“Help,” a distant voice said. “I’m hurt. I need help.”

“What do we do?” Chloe asked in a low voice. She pressed the gun towards Bo.

“You go take my post,” Bo said. “I’m going to fire a warning shot.”

“Is that a good idea?” she asked.

Bo took the question as a sign of her insecurity. She was equating a warning shot with an accidental homicide, and there was still a dead boy out on the front porch to prove her case.

“It’s fine,” Bo said. “You go. They could be sneaking up.” Some part of Bo’s brain argued that they might have already snuck up.

“Okay,” she said. He sensed her backing away.

Bo lifted the shotgun and pointed it at the man.

“We can’t help you,” Bo said. “Turn around and go, otherwise, I’ll be forced to shoot you. Don’t make me do that.”

“I need help,” the man said. His voice was weak and faltering.
 

Bo raised the gun when it looked like the man was taking another step forward. He wasn’t. The man was falling to his knees, and then flat down on his face. Bo heard him moan.

“What’s happening?” Danielle asked. She sounded panicked.

“Stay alert,” Bo said. “I’m handling it.”

His hands were tensed around the cold metal of the shotgun. He had it pointed right at the man. He used his thumb to ensure that the safety was indeed off. The idea of a warning shot left his head. At the very next sign of movement—any at all—he was going to pull the trigger. Bo’s jaw was clenched so tight that he thought his molars might explode under the pressure.

“Guys?” Chloe called.

“Shit,” Bo said, under his breath. He knew what she would say next. There would be men coming towards the house from the other side. Their attackers were executing a good plan—the one man had risked himself, faked an injury, and gotten to within a few paces of the house. When the others attacked, the first man would spring up and come for the window while Bo’s attention was divided. Bo didn’t know what to do. The safe thing would be to shoot the man on the ground.
 

“Guys?” Chloe called again. “Guys, you need to come here.”

“Shit,” Bo said again. “What is it, Chloe?” He heard Danielle leaving her post. That was a mistake. They couldn’t afford to leave the front door unguarded. Of course the men would come for the front door. There were too many variables—too many ways for the situation to escalate, and it felt like it was gaining speed every second.

“Guy on the ground,” Bo said out the window, “you need to move away from the house. Move away or I’m going to pull the trigger. If you’re really hurt, you have to find help elsewhere.”

“Help me move this,” Chloe whispered to Danielle behind him. Bo whipped around, but he couldn’t see much in the dark. He only saw their indistinct silhouettes, combining and then splitting again. He faced the man again. Had he moved?

“Shit,” Bo whispered. He pointed the gun at the man’s leg. At least he thought it was his leg. He had lost track of the heap on the ground. It could be the guy’s arm. When he pulled the trigger, he might very well vaporize a man’s forearm and hand. He squeezed and felt the trigger slide a fraction of an inch. Bo’s teeth creaked under the pressure of his clenched jaw.

“Get up. Get up. Get up,” he whispered between his teeth.

Behind him, he heard a banging sound and the women struggling to scrape heavy furniture across the floor.

Bo closed his eyes.

CHAPTER 27: CLOSET

T
HE
CLOSET
STUNK
OF
sulfur from the match. The candle’s light didn’t seem to drive away the shadows as much as suck them in. It was siphoning the darkness to produce its light. James hunched over the end table. It was just taller than his knees. His back was already throbbing, and he hadn’t even started writing yet.

He took a deep breath.

This wasn’t going to work. His fingers were already starting to itch for a story, but Danielle’s notepad didn’t have the weight of one of his father’s stories. There was no potential energy there. His dad’s stories crackled with static electricity. Danielle’s notes were just the scribblings of a young woman. She was probably a fine writer, but she didn’t have deadly voices whispering in her ear, teaching her which secrets to write down.

It wasn’t going to work.

James wrote, “October 9
th
,” at the top of the blank page.
 

He flipped open Danielle’s story and saw her looping script. He blinked. He couldn’t even read her writing. He was out of time. He had to write this story, or let something flow into him. The second option was worse than the first. When a story gripped him, it felt like it had the potential to rip him apart. He would almost rather surrender himself to the curse. At least then, Chloe or Bo would shoot him. Maybe that would be for the best.

He blinked.

The words swam into focus. James deciphered the first one, and then the rest of the sentence seemed to fall into place. He began to do his strange blend of copying and composing. He took the words of her opening sentence and made them his own.

CHAPTER 28: STORY

Danielle’s Story — October 9

O
UTSIDE
,
A
WARM
WIND
blew through the trees, rattling the leaves. It was too warm for October. By now, the leaves on the pumpkin vines should be turning yellow at the edges. The air should have a crisp edge to it and an electricity. This kind of warmth in October was surely on loan against brutal cold that would rip open November. Sweet didn’t want to mortgage the future. She would rather take her lumps now, than have this useless warmth that she couldn’t use.

“Sweet?” her momma yelled from the porch. “Sweet? You come on out here. We have to talk.”

“Yes, momma,” Sweet said.
 

She gathered herself up reluctantly. She capped her tubes of paint and lined them up on the tray just so. Lately, she’d taken to arranging them by brightness, rather than by hue. When she wanted to highlight the edge of a rock, it made more sense to choose from the lighter colors than from the colors that…

“Sweet? What did I just say?”

“Yes, momma,” she said. She glanced at her palette. The paints were already beginning to crust around
 
the edges. She shouldn’t let them sit too long. She shook the thought away and rushed for the porch before her momma called a third time. The third call would come with consequences.

Her mother frowned when she appeared in the doorway. Momma’s eyes looked Sweet up and down, not finding a single detail to her liking.
 

“Have a seat,” she said.

Sweet settled on the edge of the wicker chair.

Her momma rocked in her chair precisely four times and then stopped again.

“I’ve arranged for you to work over at Mr. Longley’s house until spring,” she said.

Sweet brought her hands together in her lap. There was no sense in arguing. She had known this day was coming, and now it was here.

She didn’t sleep that night. She tossed and turned and thrashed in her sheets. Sometime during the night, Sweet got up and sat at the window, looking over the dark garden. The deer were out there, eating the sweet potato vines and crushing the gourds with their sharp feet. There was no dog to chase them away. Her momma wouldn’t let her get a new dog since Milton had passed. Momma had always hated Milton. Sweet went back to bed and sat, staring at her hands in the dark. She decided to stay there until dawn, and then she would run away. By the time her momma got up, she would be halfway to the mountains. They would never find her.

Sweet woke up to the sounds of her momma singing and pans banging in the kitchen. Sweet prepared herself in silence.

“What are you wearing?” her momma asked when Sweet appeared in the kitchen.

“Work clothes.”

“You go put on something halfway decent. You can work without being a complete slob, can’t you?”

“Yes, momma.”

Sweet returned to her room and put on better looking clothes over her old ones. The double outfit would be way too hot to work in, but she had no intention of doing that. Once she was down the road, she would shed her fancy clothes and wear her original, ugly outfit. That way she could blend in as a poor person when she fled for the hills.
 

Luckily, her momma didn’t spot her bulky outfit.

Sweet ate a quick breakfast and listened to all her mother’s last-minute instructions. She was told how to carry herself, how to address her superiors, and most of all to work every last second until she was excused. Her momma would not be accused of raising a lazy daughter. Not that her momma had ever worked. It was best not to mention that. Momma took great offense at the suggestion that she should go out and find a job to support them. Apparently, it was enough that she had once been married and had secured a house from the arrangement. Apparently, that was all the work that a momma ever needed to do.

Sweet left the house wishing she had eaten more. She hadn’t wanted to tip her hand by stuffing herself. Momma had uncanny senses for that kind of thing. Sweet hit the road with her brand new plan. She walked fast and light. Her feet barely touched down on the dirt road. Her heart beat fast in her chest—anxious to begin the next adventure.

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“Don’t be so anxious, girl. You don’t want to arrive before their breakfast is served,” Mrs. Jackson said.

The voice surprised her so much that Sweet nearly flew off in a run. She should have, too. Now that the Jackson clan had spotted her, she wouldn’t be able to take the turn at Collum’s creek. She wouldn’t be able to slip away unnoticed.

Sweet slowed down and the clan enveloped her. The youngest boy took the lead. His left shoulder bobbed with every stride, like his missing hand threw him off balance, or gave a buoyancy to his whole left side.
 

They all worked at the Longley house. The one-handed boy tended to the animals. The oldest sister was a housemaid. The twins serviced the laundry and gardens—a strange combination. Mrs. Jackson ran the kitchen for midday and supper. They were all barefoot. Emily, the housemaid, carried a bag with their shoes. Sweet looked down at her own shoes, already dusty from the walk. She should have carried hers. It would have saved the chore of cleaning them when she arrived. But she wasn’t supposed to arrive. She was supposed to turn off at Collum’s creek and head for the mountains. She was supposed to shed her good clothes and slip into the world of the tramps.

She could still do it.

“I’m going to walk ahead,” Sweet said. She picked up her pace a little. “My momma said I shouldn’t dawdle.”

“Girl, we’re not dawdling. You arrive before they’ve been served and you’re going to be an inconvenience. Who’s going to take their time away from breakfast just to attend to you on your first day? You slow down and walk with us. We’ll get you there at just the right time.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Sweet said. She wouldn’t have relented except for one realization—if Mrs. Jackson arrived and Sweet wasn’t there, the alarm would be raised immediately. They would begin searching for her and then catch her before long. Now that she had been spotted, her options were limited. She would have to go to the Longley house, put in some work, and then slip away when she could. At worst, she would wait until the Jacksons went home and then set off in the other direction.

Sweet slowed down and walked alongside Emily. She had always liked Emily, although they never played together when they were girls. It was strange. They were roughly the same age and lived so near to each other. They should have been friends.