The Breeders Part 8

My arms aren't anch.o.r.ed anymore. I throw them around her.

I clutch her bony frame and she strokes my hair, murmuring sweetness like she used to do when I was little. She smells like fresh baking and wood smoke. I don't want to stop hugging her, but I can't help but keep one eye on the stairs. My mama. Where is she?

Auntie follows the direction of my eyes and shakes her head. She runs her hand over my hair and tries to get up the courage to tell me. She doesn't have to. I can see it on her face.

"Where is she?" I ask, my voice trembling.

"They took her this morning."

Pain slams into my chest. This can't be happening. She was supposed to be here. Hot angry tears spring to my eyes.

Auntie pulls me to her. Some tears escape down my nose before I wipe them roughly away. Auntie pulls back and traces a tear with her crooked finger.

"If I know your mama, she'll give 'em a fight. She'll be right as rain until you can get her."

I gaze up at Auntie's face, wanting to believe, but I can see the truth in her face like when I was eight years old. She found me crying that I'd never get married. She held me and said the right man would come along. I shouldn't worry my pretty head about it. When I looked into her face even then, I could tell she was giving me the words I wanted to hear, not the ones she believes. She's doing that now.

"What will happen to her?" I ask, afraid for the answer.

She twists her mouth down and shakes her head slightly. Then she takes hold of my shoulders and peers into my face. "You get to her. You do what you have to and get her out. And quick, darlin'. You have about a week before ..."

I stiffen. "Before what?"

Auntie shakes her head. "Just get to her. I know you can."

"How? I don't even know where she is." I set my chin on Auntie's boney shoulder. She snakes her arms around me. She pets her hand over my hair again and again, stroking in time with her words, spurring me on. "That youngin' up there can sniff out where they tucked her. He's a good 'un. Useful. Looks like you already got him in your pocket if he'd risk bringing you here."

"He's only helping because he feels bad about what happened to Arn. He said he'd help get you out. That's all." I hate the childish tone in my voice, but I can't stop thinking of my mama in the clutches of monsters, their sharp teeth snagging at her flesh. I shake the image away.

Auntie stops and pulls me back. Her hands clamp tight around my arms. "I'd bet a truck bed full a squealing piglets that's not the case, but no sense in all this talk. You got to go. Sheriff's due home any minute." Auntie takes my hand and leads me back to the stairs.

I pull back. "You're coming with me."

Auntie squeezes my hand. "Sorry, turnip, the old lady's staying put. Got too many bunions and my arthritis is flaring up. Road'd just make 'em worse."

I shake my head. "No, Auntie. You're coming."

Auntie grips my arms at the wrists. "Since when do you tell your Auntie what to do? You'd have to drag me kicking and screaming and I don't think you've got the taters to do it." Her grip softens. She leans forward, a rea.s.suring smile spreading up her face. "Sheriff's taken a liking to Auntie's famous bread. He doesn't mind if I swat at him or call him a dirt pie. I got my own bedroom and three squares and all I got to do is cook and clean up. Not a bad way to spin my last yarn."

"I can't just leave you here. He's a murderer."

Auntie takes me by the shoulders and gives me a dead-eyed glare. "Listen up, young lady. I'm staying."

I tuck my chin to my chest and pick at the hem of my jacket. It's hard to say what I really mean. "But I need you, Auntie."

She hugs me again. I smell the wood smoke in her silver hair. "You don't need me, nor n.o.body. You got Auntie's s.p.u.n.k. Jesus, you broke into Sheriff's house for the love of Pete. You can get your mama from those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds."

I stare at the concrete floor, but she lifts my chin until I'm looking at her.

"Don't even think about your old Auntie. I'm not done yet."

"I'll get you out as soon as I find Mama. I promise."

"Alright, punpkinhead. Now, go. Tell Ethan I love him."

I hug her once more and she kisses my forehead. She leads me to the stairs and I shuffle up the steps and feel my way to the back door. In the small span of darkness, she's a million miles away. Leaving her feels wrong. I stand in the foyer and look back down.

The front door bangs open. Loud footsteps thud on the wood floors. I freeze. The hulking shadow striding through the front door forms into my worst nightmare. It's the Sheriff. I'm trapped. All I can do is watch from the shadows.

He sits on a fancy chair near the front door and pries off his boots. Then he looks around.

"Clay? You here?"

Clay appears from the hallway and strides towards the Sheriff.

"Right here, Pa."

Chapter Nine.

Clay is the Sheriff's son.

The realization smacks into me like a wind-whipped barn door. Stunned, I take a step back and b.u.mp into a table with a vase perched on top. It wobbles. Shatters.

The Sheriff draws his gun. "Who's there?"

Run. I stumble over shards of vase and fumble for the door. Boots pound toward me. I yank the door open. Night air floods my face. I'll make it out. Then a meaty hand grips my collar and yanks me back.

I tumble into the kitchen, knock over a chair and spill onto the tile. I slam to a stop against the cabinets. When I look up, my eyes find the barrel of a gun.

"Looky here," the Sheriff says with a sneer.

The Sheriff looks like a bulldog that's been in too many nasty fights. He's got a dozen scars carved around his jowly cheeks and bald head. There's a wicked crescent-shaped scar from his ear to his jaw, as if his sneer runs all the way up. He wears a white cotton t-s.h.i.+rt stained yellow at the pits and ratty blue jeans. My eyes trace over the holey socks with his toe peaking through. As he smirks at me, I can see the gaping hole where half of his teeth used to be.

"Bin a long time since we had ourselves an intruder," he says, eying me. "'Bout time I got to shoot sumbody."

My eyes flick from the Sheriff to Clay, who's appeared over his father's shoulder. He gives me fretful looks, but says nothing. The Sheriff reaches for me. I flinch. He rips the bandana off my face.

"Huh." He examines me as he uses the barrel of his gun to scratch a bug bite in his chin stubble. When he leans in close, his breathe smells like raw meat. "Gonna ask you once, bender, what the h.e.l.l you doin' in my house. If I think you're tellin' tales or I plain don't like yer answer, I'm gonna kill ya. But outside." He smiles. "Don't want blood on my tile. Travertine. Nice, ain't it?"

My heart pounds out all thought. I glance at Clay for answers, but all he's giving me are agonizing looks. My mouth flops open and shut like a fish. I can't speak.

The Sheriff shakes his head. "Alright then, outside. We'll make quick work of ya and I can get in for my soak."

I tighten up, ready to fight off the meaty hands that reach for my jacket. Clay clears his throat.

"Uh, Pa, I need to ... talk to ya. Can this wait? I'll run the b.a.s.t.a.r.d down to the Warden."

I stare up at Clay. Behind his father, he lifts his shoulders in a little shrug. Then he straightens his face as the Sheriff pushes up on his haunches and turns.

"Okay, take 'im. I wanna git in the tub anyway. Give me a whistle when you git back." He hands the revolver to Clay and pats him on the back.

"Sure, Pa." Clay grabs me by the arm and hauls me upright. "Let's take a walk." His voice is ice cold.

With his hand around my bicep, Clay pulls me forward and I struggle against him. His hand tightens. "One move, you motherless b.a.s.t.a.r.d, and I blow your ever-lovin' brains out your ear." If he's pretended to hate me, he's sure doing a good job.

Clay pulls me out of the house and down the porch. My eyes flick to his face, a mask of disgust. I keep waiting for him to smile, wink, but nothing. I'm about to give up hope when he yanks me into a dark alley. In the dirty crevice, his grip loosens from my arm.

"Jesus, we're in a hot mess." He leans against he building and rubs his hand over his face. "G.o.dd.a.m.n. So much for plan A."

I pull away from him and step back until there's a good five-foot gap between us. I glare at his shadowed figure. "You never said he was your pa."

"Yeah, well, he is. Didn't think you'd be too keen on going with me if you knew."

"Well, yeah," I say, my voice too loud.

Holds a finger up to silence me. Then he nervously scratches his chin stubble. "Listen," he says, gazing back at the house, "just because the Sheriff's my pa don't mean our deal's off." He sighs deeply. "I ... I'm still in."

"In for what?" I ask, flapping my hands. "Our master plan failed. We're done."

He glances back toward the house. In the glinting windows, I can make out the shadow of his father clomping up the stairs. Clay sighs heavily. "We don't got a choice now. We'll have to head out. He's seen you."

"We?"

He looks back toward the pristine house and grinds his teeth. Finally, he nods. "Yeah, I'm coming."

I search his face. His eyes look tired, his jaw tense. The stubble on his cheeks and chin make him look twenty-five instead of eighteen. "Why?"

He blinks and looks up at me as if coming out of a dream. "What? Get you out?"

I shake my head. "Risk your life for strangers. That," I say, pointing to the house, "is your flesh and blood."

Clay's eyes search the night sky as if the stars contain some answer. He laces his fingers behind his head. His answer is slow in coming. "I don't know. My pa ... he's been good to me." He swallows hard. "But, he's not a good man. He wants me to be his second. I can't. Not after last month ..."

I frown. "What happened last month?"

Even in the shadows I can see the sorrow running through his expression. "Nothing," he says sharply. "I'm just not as tough-minded as my pa. That's all."

"Not as psycho, you mean."

His brow darkens. "He's still my family." His eyes flick to the little squares of light at the front of his house. "I'll disappoint him if I stay."

I know what that's like. I've let down my parents more times than I can count, and a man like the Sheriff probably isn't as nice about failure. Clay's answer is not great, but we need him. I walk to the edge of the shadows and look down the road that has once again plunged into silence. "Coast's clear. We should go."

Clay gives me a tentative smile and then steps beside me. "I won't let you down."

I don't turn. It's enough that he's so close I can hear him breathing.

We jog in the shadows of the sleepy houses. We skirt around Sheriff Tate's white picket fence. My eyes lift to the dark windows of the house. What will Clay leave behind?

When we reach the high wooden stockade at the back of the Sheriff's yard, Clay runs his hands along the solid wooden structure as if searching for something. He must find what he's looking for because he stops and beings working an object in his hands. Metal glints in the moonlight, a tiny padlock. He spins the combination like he's done it a hundred times. He pops the lock and the little door opens, notched so neatly into the wood that no seams show. I would never have known it was there. We slip through to the other side of the fence. There's our Jeep, idling with the lights off. In the driver seat, Ethan can barely see over the dash, but he's never looked prouder of himself. Arn taught him to drive the Jeep around the yard, but how in the world did he get out of the front gate and around back? There's no time to ask.

I grab the dented driver's side door and yank it open. "Move over."

Ethan pouts. "Ah, man. I wanna drive."

"I should drive," Clay says over my shoulder.

"No chance." I turn back to Ethan. "Move before they start shooting."

"Where's Mama and Auntie?" he asks, as he scrambles into the backseat.

"Auntie's fine, but wants to stay. We're going to get Mama."

Ethan eyes me, but doesn't ask.

I jump in and Clay slides in the pa.s.senger seat, his face pale and slack.

"You sure you want to do this?" I ask.

He nods, but keeps his eyes on the dashboard. He doesn't look back when I pull away from the wall.

The only thing that marks our exit is crunching gravel. We take the two-lane highway out of town. I drive with white knuckles, expecting headlights to appear behind us any second. It's a half-hour before my shoulders relax.

Hitting the open road with the night air in my face makes me feel a bit better. I glance at my two traveling companions. Ethan sits in the back, his head lolling from side to side, fighting sleep. Clay's scanning the pitted black top, his mouth twisted down, deep in thought. It dawns on me that all three of us are driving away from all we've ever known.

"Thanks," I say to Clay. With the night wind las.h.i.+ng around the Jeep, I wonder if he's heard me.

"Welcome," he mumbles.

"Which way?"

"West," he says, pointing. He tucks himself into the pa.s.senger seat and closes his eyes.

I drive into the night. The rutted blacktop is a mess with potholes, car husks, animal carca.s.ses. My eyes are drawn up to a stretch of wind turbines in the distance. I trace the smooth white structures upward. Mom told me they used to provide electricity to this region. Now their tall, ivory forms remind me of bleached bones in the moonlight. When the wind stirs, the spinning blades moan wearily. I s.h.i.+ver and pull my eyes back to the highway.

Clay s.h.i.+fts beside me. His cowboy hat's tipped over his eyes. His fingers twitch over the black stock of one of his revolvers in his sleep. What's he dreaming about? How furious his pa will be if he ever finds out he helped us escape? He's agreed to leave every luxury in the world. Until I can figure out why, Clay's presence will always make me uneasy. He thinks I'm a bender and if he finds out my secret, turning me in would pay him enough to start a whole new life free of Daddy's expectations. Even a remotely honest man might jump at the chance for those riches. No, Clay can't know I'm a girl.

A tire bites into a deep rut and the Jeep jostles Clay awake. He bolts upright, his hand tightening on a revolver. His face slowly registers where he is. He looks over at me with tired eyes.

"Want me to drive?" he asks. He rubs his eyes with the palm of his hand in a way that I would find irresistible if I didn't have to keep from growing attached.