The driveway leading to the home of Dominick James was a long, single lane framed by live oaks dripping with Spanish moss.
When she saw the saltbox in the distance, Maxine accelerated to a sprint, Luther calling out for her, begging not to be left, but she didn’t even look back once.
Luther came to a full stop and sat in the middle of the gravel road, watching the shadow of his mother running toward the house.
He wrapped his arms around his knees.
He’d been apart from Katie before—when she’d spent the night at a friend’s house, when she started school three years ahead of him—but it had never felt like this.
Like he’d left a core, integral piece of himself behind.
Like he wasn’t Luther apart from her.
He was less than. Or some new version of himself he didn’t know or understand.
In the distance, he could hear his mother banging on the screen door, her voice shouting, echoing through the live oaks, descending back into hysterics.
Ten seconds later, the porchlight winked on.
Maxine’s legs gave out.
She was crying, screaming Katie’s name over and over.
Sheriff James stood over her in a dark-colored robe, and as he reached down and put his hand on Maxine’s shoulder, Luther heard him say, “We’ll find her, Max. We’ll find her. I promise you we’ll find her.”
The next morning, one of the half-dozen deputies sent out to scour the island found the Kite’s Dodge pick-up truck abandoned in front of the Tatum dock on Silver Lake Harbor.
The Tatum’s Island Hopper had been stolen during the night.
Thirty-six hours later, the Tatum boat was discovered beached in the swamps east of Swan Quarter, on the mainland of North Carolina.
No Winston.
No Ben.
No Katie.
The going theory was that the two convicts, now escapees from a South Carolina prison, had crossed the Pamlico Sound under cover of darkness and fled into the mainland of North Carolina.
They’d be caught, probably within the week, Sheriff James assured Rufus and Maxine as they sat in their living room like a pair of broken figurines in clothes they hadn’t changed in five days, staring at the lawman standing before them with his hat in hand and a somber intensity in his eyes that belied the optimism he was trying so desperately to sell.
Nearby, Luther crouched in the darkness under the staircase, beside the little door that led into the basement, listening to every word.
But days and weeks and months crept by.
Then years.
They didn’t find Winston and Ben.
They didn’t find Katie.
And a dark cloud came down upon the House of Kite.
The One That Stayed
Gary, Indiana, 1983
“Don’t leave,” Alex Kork said, tugging on her brother’s shoulder.
The cramped bedroom was warm, and the August heat brought a funky smell. The only light came from the bedside lamp, which was shadeless, its thirty-watt bulb making the siblings look jaundiced.
The battered, thrift-store suitcase on the bed was half-filled with meager possessions, all belonging to Charles.
A pair of jeans with a hole in the knee.
A striped necktie, ten years old and twice as wide as the fashion of the day.
Black leather dress shoes, another Good Will purchase, half a size too small.
A lonely, bent toothbrush.
Tube socks, gray from repeated washings.
Half a box of salt.
Rubber gloves.
Duct tape.
A straight razor.
A soldering iron.
A cheese grater.
Needle nose pliers.
Alex eyed the pliers and felt herself shiver, remembering the first time she and Charles had used them.
Uncertain times. Good times.
Charles smiled. His hair was a bit longer than the current trends, and the faint mustache on his teenaged upper lip reminded her of Father.
“There’s a whole wide world out there, Alex. I wanna see it. Don’t you?”
Alex did. More than anything. But she wasn’t ready yet. Charles was comfortable with himself. Unlike Father, whose every waking moment was wracked by worry and guilt, Charles owned his identity. Proudly. Unabashedly.
“I’m scared,” Alex said.
“Of what? We’re the ones people need to be scared of.”
Alex didn’t want to tell him the truth. That the thing that scared her most was herself. Of what she was capable of. This shithole town was like a cage. Small. Defined. Everyone knew everyone else. Easy to get into trouble, so Alex and Charles had to restrain themselves.
There would be no such restraint Out There.
It was an exciting thought. A sexy one. To be able to unleash their appetites on complete strangers. People who wouldn’t be missed. Who wouldn’t leave trails for the cops back to their front door.
“You want to be a mole your whole life, Alex?” Charles said. “Like Father? Or do you want to be a lion?”
They called Father a “mole” because he hid from people. Constantly caught in worry and doubt. Always self-loathing. Burying his shame and his nose in the dirt. Yes, he killed. But he spent so much time planning, and then later hating himself. He was a slave to his own urges. They owned him, when Charles insisted it should be the other way around.
In contrast, lions killed their prey out in the open, stalking and slaughtering with pride and freedom. They occupied the top of the food chain, and knew it.
“I want to be a lion, Charles. But I’m not ready yet.”
Charles stared at her, hard.
After a few seconds of silence, he nodded. “When you’re ready, look me up.”
Alex felt an urge to throw her arms around him, to kiss him, to beg him not to go. But instead she reached into the suitcase and grabbed the pliers. The tool gave her strength.
“Remember how Mother screamed when you used those on her?” Charles said.
Alex nodded. Her breath quickened, and her throat went dry. She brought the tips to her nose, but only smelled the faint traces of rubbing alcohol used to clean them. Unable to stop herself, she touched the tip of her tongue to the metal.
Cool and tangy.
“Keep ‘em,” he said.
Now Alex did hug him. So tight he grunted.
“Easy, Sis. You’re gonna break a goddamn rib.”
Alex eased off, but kept holding her brother’s hands.
“What if you get caught?” Alex said. She knew she was talking like Father, but the fear was real.
Charles smiled. “The cops will never catch me. Like that kiddie book. I’m the Gingerbread Man.”
He winked at her, then closed his suitcase and walked out of the room.
Alex fought down her sadness, but she couldn’t control her anger.
Storming through their ramshackle house, weaving through the stacks of garbage piled everywhere, she reached Father’s bedroom and threw open the door.
Father was sitting on his bed, naked, the sheets under him dotted with blood. He had a pin cushion in one hand. In the other, he held a needle, which he was sticking into his pale, flabby inner thigh.
“He’s gone,” Alex said.
Father stared at her, his eyes glassy, tears glistening in his stubble.
“I’m a sinner, Alex,” he said, voice quavering.
“Yes you are. You’re a very bad man, and you should be punished.”
Without being told, he assumed the position, getting on his knees, making a temple of his hands in some obscene parody of prayer. His back was a patchwork of old scars and new scabs.
Alex went to the cabinet, looked at all the implements, and chose a leather riding crop.
“I’m a murderer, Lord,” Father moaned. “Help me atone for my sins.”
Alex didn’t believe in God. Though part of her still feared Father, and the things he’d done to her and others, he was weak.
Their kind shouldn’t be weak. They shouldn’t be afraid or ashamed.
Their kind should rule.