Chapter Six: Breaking Away
Donald lay still and quiet, listening to the sound of the rain through the small hours of the morning. Just before dawn, as the sound lightened to a dripping from the eaves, he came to a decision.
It had been a long night, scant of sleep, as he turned things over and over in his brain. He glanced up from his battered mattress to the rope-strung cot that held his Pa, growling a steady string of snores. Pa usually slept light, with the ears of a lynx and his hand on his gun, but he'd been pulling on a bottle the night before and that always put him under - the snores were a sure sign that he was sleeping hard. There'd never be a better time - if he was going to do this thing then he'd better do it now.
Softly, slowly, he rose into sitting position and waited a moment to see if anyone stirred. Nothing. Satisfied, he levitated to his feet and waited another second. He had a lifetime of experience at making himself invisible and it stood him in good stead now. After another short wait, he padded noiselessly to the open cabin door.
He stood just outside, feeling the damp ground squish under his feet and pulling on his boots, staring up at the overcast sky - darkness heaped against darkness - then at the ground. He prodded the muddy earth with his boot toe until he found a stick that was still a little dry, protected by the slight overhang of the roof. He squatted by the stone that marked the entryway and, pulling a lighter from his pocket, lit one end of the stick, blowing on it until it smoldered to ember. While he watched the stick sputter, his plans solidified in his head.
He ran a hand over the stone, brushing it free of leaves and needles, then pressed the burnt end of the stick against it and wrote, Pa. Gone for supleyes. Back soon. D.
Pa would be fit to be tied o' course, and lookin' for someone to take it out on. The cop would be the only one available and he felt bad about that, but it couldn't be helped. And if everything went according to plan, well, this would be the best for everybody, in the end. Cop'd just have to hang tough for a bit. He seemed tough. It would be all right.
Almost convinced, he stood again and paced his silent way to the truck. He took it out of 'park' and pushed it soundlessly forward over the rain-softened ground, steering it away from the dirt road and Pa's booby traps. When he thought he had it far enough away to be safe, he slid onto the torn seat and started the engine.
There was no trail at all here, but he knew this place like he knew his own name and that truck was like him - toughened and unaccustomed to niceties like paved or even dirt roads. The pickup rocked its shockless way over the lumpy ground, finally bouncing down a suicidal incline until it came to rest at the edge of the highway. Only then did Donald allow himself a grin of satisfaction. So far, so good. If his luck held out, he could reach his destination sometime this afternoon.
Sloans' Deck
It was an unfortunate stretch that landed his foot in a stray puddle and woke him from a surprisingly deep sleep, and he lay for a moment, startled and disoriented. He noticed that he was lying on his stomach, his head pillowed in his arms, a position he rarely slept in; not since he was a kid and he had stayed up to watch forbidden horror movies late at night.
No matter how sure he had been that he was too grown up for the movie to get to him, he had always ended up sleeping on his stomach afterwards, with his head buried under the pillow and the blankets over his head. It had made him feel safe. He smiled grimly at the memory. Here it only made him feel stiff.
He shifted his forehead on his arms, wincing as he inadvertently nudged the spot where Donald had clipped him with the butt of his gun. He sighed gustily. Still, a blanket sounded pretty good about now. He stretched his legs out further, trying to get the kinks out, ignoring the tiny pools of water that had collected here and there beneath him, winced again as the manacle on his ankle grated at the raw skin underneath. Actually, even the horror movies were sounding pretty good compared to this.
He risked a surreptitious glance in the direction of the mattress and cot, was surprised to find himself alone, the cabin empty. With a sigh of pleasure this time, he closed his eyes again. Privacy. That might be the thing he missed most of all.
The respite was brief, almost immediately interrupted by a bark of guttural swearing.
Steve grimaced. Cletus. That man sure did like to get an early start on breaking up the peace. He opened his eyes, considering the wisdom of getting up. Resignedly, he began the slow process of pushing himself into sitting position. His back flamed in protest, he felt some of the scabbing sores crack and seep. He sagged against the wall, trying to absorb the pain and get it under control, giving himself some time to catch his breath. He rested his forehead against the rough bark of the logs, waiting for the worst of it to pass.
You know, Jess, I might not fight you too hard on some of those painkillers you like to hand out about now? They actually sound pretty good.
What sounded even better was a little of Jesse's bright, smart-alecky company. He sure had a way of lightening up a rough moment. Or Amanda, with her soothing, playful presence. Of course, she'd probably be more likely to be in scolding maternal mode, buzzing around and making him comfortable, lecturing all the while. And then there was Dad…
No. His mind slid away from that. He had no desire to think of his Dad either with him in this situation or even finding him like this. Sorry, Dad, but this would be a pretty hard one to downplay…
"You!"
He froze, then hissed in disgust. It irritated him how quickly he had learned to be still at the mere sound of Cletus' voice, to avoid notice . Like a cornered rabbit, he jeered himself. He'd sure never been a man to hide in the background before.
He opened his eyes and forced himself to meet Cletus' wild gaze calmly.
Cletus had his ubiquitous companion, the shotgun, in one hand and one cheek was pouched out by a tobacco chaw, twisting his scowl into a grotesque semblance of a fairytale gnome or troll.
He looks like a cartoon, Steve thought idly. Under any other circumstances, it would almost be funny.
The one eye narrowed to a tiny slit over the tobacco stuffed cheek. "You kin read?"
Steve tried not to look surprised at the question. "That's right."
Cletus jerked his head toward the door, and Steve obediently pushed himself to his feet, using the wall as leverage. He took a step forward to follow Cletus and was surprised when the floor gave an unexpected heave. He slapped one palm against the wall to catch himself, sucking in a steadying breath. Hm. He was not getting stronger. He needed to watch for an opportunity to escape while he was still able. Sticking close to the wall, he followed Cletus to the cabin doorway, half listening to the drag-rattle sound the chain made along the floor in time to his progress.
Cletus was pointing to the slab of stone that formed a sort of front step. "What's that say?"
Steve stared down at the scribbled black lines, fuzzy with the dampness of the stone, now recognized them as writing. "Um - it says, Pa, gone for supplies, be back soon, D."
Cletus glared at the scribbles, as though he expected to see something there that would show it was a trick, prove Steve a liar, but after a minute he grumbled, "Supplies. We got supplies. Did I say to go get supplies? I did NOT. Someday that boy's gonna learn to mind me."
Steve felt something cold slide up his spine. The whole thing should have been funny, but somehow it was disturbing instead. He remained quiet, sneaking a look at the sky. Overcast, for the most part. The sun looked like it might try to peek through, but it hadn't yet.
"You obey your Pa, boy?"
Steve was not thrilled to be drawn into the conversation. He hesitated. "I respect my father. I'm a little old to obey him."
"Man never outgrows listening to his Pa. Always knows best." Cletus spit a stream of tobacco juice viciously at the wording on the stone.
"My father taught me to think for myself."
Cletus snorted. "Yeah, I'll bet that's what Donald thinks he's doin' - toolin' around in that truck with half a dozen police lookin' fer it. Dumber than a box of rocks sometimes, that boy."
"I'm sure he'd be pleased to hear that you think so." Steve could have bitten his tongue out, but it was too late.
Cletus' eyes narrowed at him. "I'll teach you to watch that mouth of yours yet, boy."
Steve stiffened, sending a ripple of fire down his back. It occurred to him suddenly that Cletus was in a temper, with only him as an unwilling volunteer to help relieve it. It wouldn't be an altogether bad idea if he did learn to watch that mouth of his. Another thought occurred to him almost as quickly - if he and Cletus were all alone, the odds were even for a change - one on one. Oh, it wasn't the one he would have chosen to be left with, but it was still about the best chance he was going to get.
Without seeming to, he slid his eyes to the dilapidated outhouse, scanning for the distance to the tree line beyond. The forest stretched behind it on two sides. Impossible to know what led where and which was the better choice - he'd just have to get away and worry about that part later.
He wondered what was on today's chore list - maybe patching the roof? Which wouldn't be all bad, if it would earn him a dry bed. Of course, Cletus would have to unlock the shackle for an extended time to put him on the roof. Odds were he wouldn't risk it and besides, he obviously got much too much fun out of watching him drag that chain around.
"You gonna stand there dreaming all day, boy, or you gonna make yerself useful?"
Steve was jogged out of his brown study by Cletus' unmistakable whine. Knowing it wasn't his best choice, but somehow unable to stop himself, he leaned deeper into the door lintel and folded his arms over his chest. "What, no breakfast?"
It wasn't that he really thought that the scrawny portion of oatmeal would even begin to fill the yawning hole that had become his stomach, what he was really looking for was his morning trip to the outhouse, but he didn't want to draw Cletus' attention to his interest in it by mentioning it. Even if it didn't make him suspicious, Cletus was contrary enough to refuse to take him just because he'd asked.
Cletus' tooth-shy mouth curled in a sneer. "You want breakfast, then I guess you'd dang well better fix it - for both of us!"
The thought of what his family and friends would have to say if they heard that someone had actually requested to sample his culinary expertise made Steve smile slightly. Before it could even register what he had done or how unwise that was, the predictable response came. He never even saw the gun butt shoot out this time, only felt the pile-driver blow in his stomach, seemingly straight through to his spine. His knees buckled and he folded over them, wondering if he was going to lose what little there was in his stomach.
Just as he thought he might have things under control, another vicious blow caught him under the chin with a crack, snapping his head back, setting off a pyrotechnic display behind his eyes. The lights darkened to red as he landed hard on his savaged back, his legs doubled under him, and the world disappeared, blotted out by a rolling wave of pain that sucked at him like a current, dragging him under, breathless and blind. He might have cried out - he hoped not, but he might have - at the suddenness of it. He was fighting to find his breath, one hand fisting and unfisting on the floor beside him as he struggled to keep his tenuous grip on awareness, when Cletus' whine cut through the haze.
"No breakfast for you," he piped cheerfully. Steve set his teeth against the derisive nudge in his ribs that was Cletus' parting shot as he shuffled past him into the dim interior. "But you're still makin' mine."
Finally sure he wasn't going to go under, Steve ran his hands over his face, blotting at the chill slick of sweat that had sprung out there, then tried to prop himself up, to relieve his back and free his legs. Using the wall again, he got himself upright and sat on his heels for a minute, his head hanging, trying to rediscover his equilibrium.
I'll fix your breakfast all right, he breathed fiercely to himself. And breakfast cooked by me is just about what you deserve.
Sloans' Deck
Mark slammed the trunk after stowing his medical bag and froze, one hand still on the lid. For a moment he was convinced that too much coffee and too little sleep had finally caught up with him, then the shadow in the small stand of trees by the driveway spoke.
"Doc Sloan?" It wasn't really a question.
Mark nodded, closing his mouth as an afterthought. "That's right. And you're - "
"Donald Baxter."
The figure took a step forward and Mark got a better look at the grizzled residue of beard, the rumpled clothing, the quiet, determined eyes. He also got a better look at the long rifle, held casually across his chest.
What could he want? Could he be taking him to Steve? Oh, Lord, Steve didn't need a doctor, did he? "What can I do for you?" Donald took another step forward, in Mark's full vision now, though still hidden by the trees from the road. He lifted the rifle and pointed it with deadly indifference, then jerked his head toward Mark's car.
"Reckon we need to talk."
Sloans' Deck
Steve placed the last of the meager supply of rudimentary dishware upside down on the counter to dry and wiped his hands on what was left of his shirt. He wondered how much time he had before Donald came back. There was no way of even guessing, and he still hadn't been offered his morning trip to the outhouse. Clicking his tongue in frustration, he braced himself against the sink, trying to loosen some of the tightness in his back.
Amazingly enough, Cletus had seemed to enjoy his attempt at oatmeal. Well, maybe "enjoy" was too strong a word, but he had eaten it without comment. Of course, it was really no more repulsive than any other meal they'd had so far. The man would probably eat garbage without complaining. And, he thought a little guiltily, at some point in his life, he probably had had to.
A grunt of pain exploded from him as something cold and hard jabbed unexpectedly at one of the broken scabs covering his back and he collapsed against the sink, lolling on his elbows. His brief moment of sympathy fled.
Damn him.
For the third time since he'd awoken, Steve struggled to get his breathing under control, to push away the pain. To hell with watching his mouth - it made no difference what he did or didn't do, said or didn't say - anything and everything was just a twisted excuse for Cletus to do whatever he felt like doing.
He was just a third-rate bully and there was no point in wasting any pity on him. Maybe he had suffered, but that was no excuse for taking it out on the entire world around him.
"You dreamin' again, boy?" Steve was really learning to hate the sound of that voice. "Reckon you're ready for your trip to the Necessary?"
It was so in line with Steve's own wishes that he had to hurry to control his expression, to keep it blank and indifferent. He met Cletus' gaze silently, but in his mind he was picturing the line of trees hemming in the outhouse on two sides.
"Well, shake a leg." Cletus prodded him again, in his much-abused abdomen this time. "Don't have all day. I got chores for you. Outside, this time."
Steve stared at him, wondering where he'd be able to secure his chain and manacle outside. Wonderful if he should take it into his head to keep him chained up outdoors like a dog, no matter the weather.
He moved forward before Cletus could be tempted to prod him again, was almost to the doorway when the chain suddenly pulled short and he stumbled, catching himself against the wall just in time. The sudden jerk tightened the abused skin on his back and cut into the abraded flesh at his ankle and he swallowed an exclamation of pain just in time. He closed his eyes for a minute to gather himself, then straightened his shoulders carefully and opened them again. He didn't really need to look to know that Cletus was standing on the chain, grinning snidely, but he looked anyway, meeting his eyes steadily, refusing him the satisfaction of seeing him riled.
"Shouldn't be in such a hurry, boy," Cletus cackled. "Cain't go nowhere 'til I've unlocked ya." He bent down to spin the combination lock and remove it, making a great show of dropping it in his pocket.
For a second Steve considered taking advantage of the situation to kick Cletus in the face and make a run for it, but he restrained himself. Too far from the trees. In his current state he'd probably never make it to cover before Cletus caught up with him. It could take him precious seconds to figure out how to work the ancient shotgun and then his chance would be over. No, it was better to wait until he was outside and close to cover. Too bad, because the thought of kicking Cletus in the face had a lot of appeal. He closed his eyes one more time and bit the inside of his cheek to keep from groaning as Cletus peeled the iron shackle away from his ankle. Felt as though it took some of his skin with it.
"Well, go on - " Cletus nudged him with the gun again, high on the back of the shoulder this time in what must have been one of the open lacerations, because the barrel seemed to sink inside of him and poke bare bone. He moved forward, half-expecting to hear a sucking sound as the gun barrel pulled free of his flesh. He tried to keep one step ahead of the gun, his eyes forward, scoping the land.
No, he needed to choose his moment carefully and to husband his strength until then. And to hold on tight to his temper. Because if he ever got his hands on Cletus Baxter, he was going to wring his neck.
Sloans' Deck
"Here is good."
Mark pulled into the lookout just off the Pacific Coast Highway and turned off the engine. Before them, the glorious expanse of the Pacific Ocean stretched out as far as the eye could see. He twisted to look at the man next to him, waiting.
The gun was no longer aimed at him, but it remained in evidence, held casually, as if to remind him that he didn't have to use it, but could if he chose to. The silence stretched between them, and at last Mark broke it.
"So. What did you want to talk about?" There were a hundred questions he was longing to ask, principal among them Steve's location and condition, but he was afraid that pushing would scare Baxter off and this was as close as he had come to Steve since his disappearance. He didn't dare risk it.
Donald studied him, his eyes keen and curious. "Your boy seems to think that you woulda helped us, even if we didn't do what we did," he said at last.
Mark nodded, his heart in tumult at the mention of Steve. "If you'd asked me."
Donald studied him as if he were a new and peculiar kind of specimen.
"Tuck didn't do it," he blurted finally. "I know my boy. He ain't no saint - I know that - but this? He didn't do this. He couldn't. Ain't in him."
"No." Mark nodded in agreement. "I don't think so either."
Donald's gaze became painful in its intensity. "You find somethin' out…?"
Mark shook his head. "No. Well, some things, but nothing conclusive yet. But after talking to him, I find it hard to believe that he killed Rico. Like you say - it's not in him."
"You seen Tuck?" Donald looked surprised, then sad, kicking irritably at the car's carpeting. "That's one big problem with this damned plan - can't even see my own kid - show him a face he knows while he's in prison. I wanna see my kid."
Mark sighed quietly. "I know what you mean."
Donald looked at him quickly and flushed, but he bobbed a nod. "Reckon you do." He stared through the windshield at the ocean. "How's he doin'?"
"He's scared." Mark saw his expression and smiled. "Oh, he didn't say that - just the opposite - but he is. He's just a boy. Prison is no place for a boy his age."
Donald nodded bleakly. "So you see my problem."
Mark nodded back, then asked softly, "And my boy? How's he?"
Donald turned his head away for a minute to stare out the passenger window, and something about his face made Mark's stomach clench with fear.
"He's doin'." Donald answered vaguely at last. "He'll be okay."
Mark drew in a deep breath. Steve was alive, then, and that was something. "You don't sound very sure."
Donald shrugged uneasily.
"I see." Mark watched him, hungry for clues. "Then you see my problem, too."
Donald winced. "Reckon." He was silent a long time this time, running his hand up and down the gun barrel. "Your boy seems to think that this don't have to end too bad. That we kin clear Tuck and maybe not go to prison for it. He seems real sure."
Mark raised his brows. "If things haven't gone too far, then, yes - it's possible that we might straighten things out."
Donald kept his eyes on the side window, avoiding his gaze. "He said you'd help."
"Well, that depends," Mark kept his voice steady, fighting hard against the urge to yell at him, to shake him until he told him exactly where they were keeping Steve. "What is it that you want?"
Donald sank back in the seat, thinking hard. "I want my boy to have a chance," he decided. "He's good with cars - he gets out, he can go to school, get a good job, live decent. I want him to be all right."
Mark nodded encouragingly. "It's not too late. No reason why that can't happen."
Donald barked a short laugh. "Yeah, right. What do you know about folks like us and how it is for us? What do you know about boys like my Tuck?"
"More than you think. My son - " His voice caught on the word, and he broke off, rubbing absently at the left side of his chest. When he could talk past the tightness in his throat he continued, "…has done quite a bit of work with at-risk boys like Tucker. I've seen many of them turn their lives around."
"You don't say." Donald looked sullen. "What is it with you folks, anyhow? You ain't got enough troubles of your own to work on?"
Mark shrugged. "Offering a helping hand is a way of helping yourself too, Donald. Makes it that much more likely that there'll be someone around to help you when the time comes. And it just plain makes the world a friendlier place."
Donald snorted. "First I heard of it."
Mark smiled. "Maybe you should give it a try."
Donald pursed his lips, his eyes devouring the window without seeing it. "Reckon I - want for your boy to be all right too."
Mark's heart constricted painfully. "Sounds like we have mutual goals." Donald squinted hard at him and he gestured apologetically. "Uh - I mean that it sounds like we both want the same things."
"Yeah." Donald nodded, his face scrunched wonderingly, then he huffed a laugh. "Well, I'll be damned."
Sloans' Deck
Steve rubbed his hands ineffectually against his jeans, stalling. "I don't suppose," he began dryly, "that there's anywhere that I can wash my hands?"
"They're plenty clean enough for what you'll be doin'." Cletus gestured with his shotgun for him to get moving.
Steve ignored the gesture. "I guess that nobody ever told you that cleanliness is next to godliness?" he drawled.
Cletus' squint deepened. "Yeah, I know your kind. Always powderin' and primpin' like some gal. Some of us ain't got the time, boy - some of us are too busy scratchin' together a livin' for us and ours. But you wouldn't know nothing' about that." He spit a long stream of tobacco juice, just short of Steve's shoes.
Steve didn't even flinch. "Oh, I know all about it, believe me. Hear the same song and dance all the time on the job. There's always some whiner who thinks that a little bad luck gives him the right to trample over everybody else. Well, I've got news for you, Baxter - the world is full of people with bad luck and they don't all decide to let it ruin them - don't use it as any excuse to turn everybody else into a punching bag. But that takes strength. Excuses are for the weak ones."
Cletus locked his gimlet stare on Steve. Steve met his look, cool and unruffled. Without a word, Cletus swung the gun around and lifted the rifle butt.
Steve's eyes blazed. Paydirt.
This was exactly what he'd had in mind - that gun barrel turned the other way. It took about a second for Cletus to realize he'd been maneuvered, but by then it was too late - Steve's hand clamped around the gun butt before it could land and pulled, simultaneously kneeing Cletus with all his remaining strength. Cletus emitted a thin, wailing wheeze and dropped like a stone.
Steve held onto the gun, trying to shake it from his grip, but despite his state, curled in a tight ball, keening, Cletus clung to it tenaciously.
It's as if the damn thing really is another appendage,Steve thought, cursing in frustration.
Well, much as he hated to leave it, he couldn't waste any more time over it. Who knew how quickly a tough old bird like Cletus would recover, and the thought of what he might do to him to exact his revenge if he ever caught up with him made his decision. He let go of the gun and took off for the trees at a shambling parody of his usual run.
Every step jolted his back with ribbons of fire, the shackle score on his ankle burning and ballooning, but he heard Cletus' howl of rage behind him, gathering steam, and knew that pain would take on a whole new meaning if he didn't hurry. The trees were just ahead now. Desperate, he tried to pick up the pace. Cletus' howl grew to a roar.
The grass was thinning under his feet, scattered with needles from the trees. Cletus yelled his name. He sounded strong. Just a couple of more steps…
He almost had it when his feet betrayed him.
His damaged ankle hit the needles covering the rain-slick ground at an awkward angle, skidding in the mud and shooting out from under him, slamming him into the earth just as he heard the booming concussion of the old shotgun. He hit the mud on his stomach with a force that reverberated through his tattered back. The pain was blinding, squeezing the air from his lungs and the sense from his head. For a moment all he could do was lie still, dazed and dizzy.
Cletus is up and around, a voice inside reminded him. Move, move, move…
He dug his fingers into the earth and dragged himself forward, toward the trees. He wasn't sure how fast Cletus was, but he was lugging along that damned heavy shotgun…he pulled himself into a half-crouch…but of course, he really only needed to get near enough to get off a good shot…
He scrambled awkwardly forward on all fours, into the shadowed shelter of the trees, his shoulders and thighs ricocheting off the branches as he struggled to create some distance, to find some cover. He spotted a thick copse of chaparral and crawled under it to catch his breath and listen for Cletus.
For a moment all he could hear was the thunderous sound of his heart in his ears, the tortured catch of his breathing; hoped that he was the only one who could hear it. Gradually, he became aware of a prickling sting at his right elbow and rubbed at it impatiently, listening for sounds of pursuit. His hand touched wetness - the wrong texture for mud - and he glanced at it curiously. Frowned. Even in the dark, cool shadows he could see that the wetness was red. He stared, then twisted his arm for a better look. That wasn't a bullet hole, but there was something…
He saw the small peppering of wounds and almost whistled. Maybe that slip of his had been lucky after all. Might have saved him from a back full of birdshot or carpet tacks or gravel - whatever it was Cletus was using. And lucky him that Cletus was too cheap to spring for real ammo. Didn't look serious - just painful and inconvenient.
A twig snapped not far off and he gritted his teeth. Of course, Cletus wouldn't be far behind. Those drag marks he'd left by the tree line would be obvious to a blind man, never mind a seasoned tracker like Cletus.
"So, boy," Cletus caroled as Steve tried to gauge exactly how close he was, "You like huntin'?" Steve heard to the snick of the old shotgun cocking. Probably had one barrel left, he calculated, then he'd have to take the time to reload. And that would be the time to make his move. "'Cause I like it fine. I'm real good at it, too."
Steve smiled grimly in his hiding place. I'll bet you are, you bastard. Bet it doesn't make any difference at all to you whether you're hunting a deer…or a man. Well, I've played hide and seek with the Viet Cong and lived to tell the tale, so I'm no slouch at this myself.
Guess we're going to find out who's better at the game.
