Chapter 7 – The Stranger

I wasn't wrong about Carver, and neither was Pete. He was coming in, whether we wanted him to or not. The excuse he made about the unusually stifling autumn heat wasn't necessary – he just gave the door a push and stepped across our threshold like he owned the place. Clem and I gave ground and I heard someone scuttle through the living room. Sarah. George... Carver, that sly smile still on his unshaven face, glanced around, taking brief interest in a trout mounted on the wall. I don't know how I was so sure it was him, but I knew it wasn't what anybody else had said. I just knew it. Knew it in my bones.

"This is a nice place," he remarked. "Is there anyone else around?"

When I was a child, and I mean a child in the sense of having a child's mindset, I had an uncle that once told me, never con a con. Knowing unequivocally that this man was Carver I knew that he was not set up down the river, and that he knew full well who lived in this cabin. And Clem had been right – whether we were with this group or not, we were knee-deep in their shit, whatever that was. And for better or worse we had no choice but to stick it out.

Carver paced to the archway, staring into the living room. He carried himself with the air of someone well-seasoned, someone not easily budged or disturbed. Whether his calm was genuine or an illusion, something about it made me gravitate toward him. He runs a tight ship, Pete had said. If I had seen an ad for his 'compound' in some dime-store magazine (what a thought), I'd have been sold, for sure.

"We have a big group," Clementine replied. "Lots."

"Oh? How big?" He raised an eyebrow. Don't lie, Clem. He'll know.

"Dozens." Shit. "They'll be back soon."

"And they left you two here all alone? They must trust you."

My arm throbbed horribly, suddenly. I cringed, gasping under my breath. Carver noticed, furrowing his brow at me but otherwise ignoring my quickly-stifled pain.

"Well, I'll cut to the chase," his tone deepened. "I'm out looking for my people. Seven of them, to be exact." He paced into the living room. Clem and I followed. "They've been gone a long while and I'm worried they might have gotten lost. Maybe you seen 'em. Couple of farm boys and an old man, Spanish guy and his daughter. Quiet girl. Bit taller than you two. Big black guy."

"That's a lot of people to lose," Clem countered.

"Tell me about it," he humored. "This whole damn thing's a pain in the ass." Then, without prelude, he pivoted and opened the door to the kitchen, stepping inside to look around. Clem cringed, turning toward the stairs. Wherever Sarah was, she wasn't moving. We followed Carver through the swinging door, watching as he checked out the room.

"It looks like a damn tornado ran through here," he muttered, looking at the stacks of dirty plates in the sink. In ways I didn't like I was unwillingly reminded of my father.

"Must be like... close to ten people with you." He leaned against the counter, facing us.

"More," Clem continued her charade, mirroring his position to lean against the bar. I remained silent, the knife still in my hand. Carver pinned his gaze on me, eying the weapon.

"Hmm," he mused. "Just passing through or you been here a while?" I had a sense the question was directed at Clem, but he continued to stare at me, as if he could right into my soul. I forced myself to meet that gaze, his brown eyes devoid, but somehow bright, like they could be warm, to some people. Not to me.

"Hey, listen, kids, I hope you're not some of those nuts headed up north looking for Shangri-La." Wellington? "I'm not sure why you'd go anywhere after finding this place."

"None of your business," I found my voice, stepping forward, the knife glinting in the sunlight. Carver straightened, his face hardening.

"You might want to tell your attack dog to back off, Clementine," he drawled dangerously. "She's gonna get you into trouble one of these days." I clenched my jaw, all but baring my teeth at him. But Clem wasn't looking at Carver. Her eyes were on the counter. On the knife resting on the counter. She reached for it, but Carver was quicker, snatching it up and turning toward us. Clem jumped back.

"Where does this go?" he inquired, his amiability gone. The answer didn't matter – he took the knife and dropped it into an empty drawer, far out of our reach. Then he turned to us again. "Now I'd feel much better if you put yours away, too." It was not a suggestion.

"Make me," I dared.

"Oh, you don't want me to do that," he replied, that sly grin creeping back into his features. How he could have known I wouldn't do anything was beyond me... I didn't even know it. But he pushed past us back into the foyer, glancing around again and continuing his self-led tour. "This is a real nice place. Kinda cozy." He stepped up to the coffee table. A chessboard, its pieces frozen mid-play, barely garnered his interest. He stared at the sofa, where a crumpled shirt lay discarded.

"I knew a guy who always wore shirts like this," he remarked. "Doctor. Real smug son of a bitch."

"What's his name?" Clem inquired. I was crumbling inside. Any conversation from this point was surely futile.

"Carlos," he replied knowingly, turning to the chessboard again. "Well, well. White's in trouble."

My breathing almost gave away Sarah's slow, quiet ascent to the second floor. Carver pivoted, his back to her. "Three moves away from checkmate." Maybe he was a genius. Maybe he was just toying with us.

A floorboard creaked, and he didn't miss a beat. "What was that?"

We shrugged dolefully. I added Sarah to my mental shit list. Carver stood at the base of the stairs, glaring at us. "I thought you said nobody was here." His tone brooked no room for any more bullshit. Clem remained silent, as did I. Carver withdrew his pistol, heading for the second floor. Clem's eyes went wide and we followed him up. He scanned his options and headed straight for Sarah's room, opening the door and raising his gun. Clem and I looked around, and then Clem spotted her, lying prostrate under the bed, trembling in fear. I was unmoved, strangely, as though I were looking into the scene from a seat in the proverbial audience, only purely curious as to what would happen, caring neither for the welfare of myself nor any other character in the play.

"We told you, nobody's here," Clem folded her arms, glaring at Carver.

"Seems that way," he acquiesced, holstering his pistol and pacing to the window. "Didn't mean to be rude. Couldn't just leave you here in good conscience if someone was poking around, right?"

I wanted desperately to believe him. That maybe somehow it couldn't all be bullshit and the guy really was called George and had a nice family somewhere down the river, a family we could all be a part of. But my head and my heart burned with distrust and fascination. Here he was, the enigma Carver, and what power he wielded.

He smiled, bending down to scoop something off the floor. A piece of paper? Oh, shit. He rotated the Polaroid photo toward us, and we were met once again with Sarah's goofy-ass face. "Who's this?"

"Never seen her before," Clem replied, deadpan, folding her arms. Carver didn't answer, and I sensed we had reached the line in the sand.

"You have no idea who these people are, do you?" It was not a question.

"Do you know them?" Clem asked, and somehow I was grateful we weren't acting anymore.

"Lemme ask you this: when you met 'em, how much did they trust you?"

"They locked us in a shed," I found my voice, trying desperately to retain my sense of perspective. We shouldn't be choosing sides here. Of the people we'd met in the past forty-right hours, only Carver hadn't in some way wronged us. Scared us, sure. But maybe that was just him. In a world like this maybe an uncanny ability to make people uneasy made you a good leader. Put people in their place.

"If people don't trust you, how can you trust them?" he folded his arms. We didn't answer, and his expression softened. "Well, I think I've troubled you two long enough. I can let myself out." He headed for the stairs.

"Wait," Clem called, hurrying to the landing. "Who are you?"

"You girls have a real good day now."

It sounded like a threat.