Chapter 8 - Blood is Thicker Than Water
The door slammed shut behind Carver and for a couple minutes, we were silent. Sarah emerged from the bedroom, asking nervous questions that I didn't hear. My head was swimming, and just as words get stuck on the tip of your tongue I had memories coming back suddenly, piling up on the threshold of my mind, just bits and pieces, nothing specific to make out. All I knew is that I knew this man, and if I was right, I had to be sure.
I pushed off the banister and hurried down the stairs, grabbing Sarah's gun from the living room floor. Scout!" Clem hollered after me.
"Stay here!" I shouted, not looking back. I sheathed my knife and shoved the gun into the waistband of my jeans, wrenching the door open and blasting down the path. My sneakers pounded the ground but I felt as though I were running in sleepstate – like a nightmare where you move inexplicably slow. In a clearing I stopped to catch my breath, thinking I'd lost the man. I clutched my shoulder beneath my coat and my palm came away bloody. "Shit," I muttered. Finally pulled those stitches.
"You shouldn't stray so far from home, little one. There are dangerous folk about."
I straightened up, pulling my sweaty palms from my knees. Carver stood a few yards away on the other side of the clearing, smiling that strange way he did. I watched him, the way a hunter watches a prize animal: with a burning ache to shoot it down, but too much reverence for the creature to ever consider doing it wrong. Carver took a step toward me and I snapped out of my reverie as the fear crawled back up my spine. I pulled the gun from my jeans and took aim. Carver raised his hands. "Easy now." The wind kicked up, stirring the branches above us. Carver lowered his hands, his smile gone and countenance hard. He took a step forward, and I tensed, matching his movement. He wisely halted.
"You look like you got something on your mind, kiddo. Why don't you spit it out so you and I can go about our business."
There it was. A memory forcing its way over the threshold.
"Daddy?" I padded across the living room, my socked feet sinking into the stained, beige carpet. "Mama?" I could hear them in the kitchen, voices tempered just enough to sound angry, but quietly angry. Strategically angry.
"Make a choice," I heard Mama shout, a drawer of silverware clanging shut.
"He's my blood," Daddy replied, weakening.
I pressed my small hands to the door, ready to push it back, ready to ask for milk or water or another bedtime story, please. But before I could reveal myself, a pair of strong, warm hands gripped me around the torso, pulling me up. My uncle cradled me against his chest. I laid my cheek upon his shoulder, breathing in his uniform. He'd been out all day and smelled like the inside of his police car – cheap air fresheners and beef jerky. My thin legs dangled by his waist, my right brushing his holstered gun. "Come on, darlin.' No reason for you to hear this."
"Now, girlie, I hope you haven't gone formulating a bad opinion about me just because of my visit." Carver snapped me out of my reverie.
"Take out your gun," I demanded, using mine to gesture to his. He scrutinized me, slowly reaching for the pistol. "Slowly. Unload it." He obeyed, sliding the chamber open. The bullets fell free, clattering to the hard earth. Carver put his index finger through the trigger and extending his arm, letting the pistol hang limply free.
"Toss it over here."
The gun landed at my feet, gleaming in the sunlight. Slowly I reached down and picked it up, turning it over in my hands. On the inside of the hilt there was an engraved icon of the Georgia Police Department seal, for which the Colt Python was standard issue. My chest felt tight, like all the air had rushed out at once. Carver seemed intrigued.
Before I could open my mouth, I heard a click near my right ear and froze. The cold steel barrel of a rifle grazed the back of my head and I lowered my gun. "Drop them," my captor ordered. I let the guns fall to the ground. Without warning, the man wrapped his arm around my neck. I grabbed at it with my hands but his lock was strong. Carver approached, taking up his gun and reloading it, sliding the bullets back into the chamber with deliberate precision. I clutched at my captor, his arm crushing my windpipe.
"You know, you do seem a mite familiar to me." Carver humored. "Troy, let the kid go."
Troy released me drawing his camo-covered arm back from my neck. But not quick enough to dodge the elbow I jammed into his sternum.
"Augh!" he shouted hoarsely. "You little shit!"
"Enough!" Carver roared. Troy snarled but stepped back, clutching his chest. I stilled, watching Carver apprehensively, drawing back when he approached. He said nothing, only looked me up and down and then stared into my eyes with such intensity that I had to look away, shifting uncomfortably.
"Why are you following me?" he darkened. "And don't lie."
"Like you lied?" I retorted. His eyes narrowed. I rubbed my throat, coughing hoarsely. "Your name isn't George. What is it?"
"Something tells me you already know," he toyed. I stared daggers at him."What's your name, girl?"
"Scout," I replied. "Scout Carver."
"Well, I'll be damned," he muttered, smiling wickedly.