As I blink them away, Roosevelt pounces, ever the mountain cat, landing on my chest and using his full weight to pin my arms back with his knees. With his big paws, he holds my throat with one hand, then pins the stapler against my Adam’s apple. He learned this one talking to Ellis. He’s aiming for my jugular. And as hard as he’s pressing down, he’s gonna take a deep chunk of it.
“Lloyd, I see you!” Roosevelt calls out.
Back by the bookcase, my father leaps down from the chair and freezes with the carved horn in his hand.
“I need to know what you’re doing, Lloyd,” Roosevelt says in full southern drawl. “You got a real big decision to make.”
I wait for my father to panic. From where he’s standing across the room, I can only see him out of the corner of my eye. But he’s not swaying or stuttering or scratching at his beard. Worst of all, he’s not even looking at me.
“Dad, whatever he offers, he’s a liar!” I shout, barely able to get out the words.
Roosevelt presses the stapler even harder. “Your boy has a point, Lloyd. But do you really wanna go back to your old life? That old trailer? Or better yet, a second visit to prison? I can tell you right now, they’re not gonna have your fancy Michael Kors shirts there.”
My father stares at Roosevelt, never once breaking eye contact. My dad doesn’t hesitate.
“I found it. I want a finder’s fee,” my father insists, gripping the horn.
“Money won’t be an issue,” Roosevelt promises. “Now what about your son?”
“You don’t have to hurt him.”
“That’s not really one of the options, Lloyd. Try again.”
“I can stall him. I’ll stall him. If I don’t, then you don’t send me my cash.”
Roosevelt doesn’t smile. His eyes narrow.
“Thank you, Lloyd,” he says calmly. “I just need the weapon first,” he adds, extending his free hand. No question, this part’s a test.
But my dad again reacts quickly, passing with flying colors. Heading toward us, he holds the ancient brown animal horn from the bottom tip, like an ice-cream cone. The top of the cone—the wider side of the horn—is covered by a tan piece of leather that’s pulled taut as a drum. The closer he gets, the more clearly I can see that half the horn’s carvings have cracked off or faded away.
I fight hard to break free, but Roosevelt’s weight is too much. He presses the stapler against my jugular, and I can barely breathe. The far edges of my vision go blurry and the burning stars slowly return.
No . . . please don’t pass out.
I turn to my right, searching for my father. He’s just a few steps away, but he still won’t look at me.
Dad . . . please, I beg, though nothing comes out.
I can see the end. It doesn’t come with a fistfight, or macho banter, or even a quiet prayer. It comes with a desperate pastor from Tennessee flattening my windpipe.
Roosevelt grins, pressing even harder.
I take a final breath, ready to see my mom.
And my father loosens his grip on the bottom tip of the ice-cream cone, letting the horn slide down in his palm until he’s holding it from the wide side. Like a weapon.
My dad cocks his arm back and stabs the jagged horn at Roo-sevelt’s neck.
My father spent eight years in prison. He knows exactly where to strike.
The problem is, Roosevelt spent his years getting attacked by street drunks. He knows exactly how to defend himself.
In one fluid movement, as my father lurches forward with Cain’s birthright, Roosevelt grips my dad’s wrist and twists. Hard. Air returns to my lungs, blood to my brain, and my head starts to clear.
I hear the snap of muscle and bone. But it’s not nearly as bad as watching my dad hunch forward as Roosevelt sends my father’s wrist—and the jagged pointed horn—stabbing back toward the wound in my dad’s stomach.
Skrrrp.
My father’s eyes go wide as it rips his stitches and pierces deep into his belly. A small spray of blood soaks his shirt. He tries to yell, but all he musters is a toneless gasp.
“Dad!”
A shrill bell rings, screaming through the room. From the floors above us, we hear the metal ch-chunk of hundreds of prison doors slamming shut simultaneously. Lunchtime’s over.
Without a word, Roosevelt climbs off my chest, approaches my dad, and effortlessly tugs the blood-covered horn from my father’s stomach. I’m still catching my breath as my dad falls forward, crumpling to the floor. He’s not breathing . . . not moving . . .
“That wound needs pressure,” Roosevelt says coolly, wiping the horn on my father’s back, then heading for the door. He shoots me a look to make sure I get the point.
I can still catch him, but only if I leave my dad. And after what my father did to me . . . no question, it’s a simple choice.
I look at my dad, then back to Roosevelt, then down at my dad.
But there’s no choice at all.
I flip my father over. His eyes are open and rolled back in his head.
“That’s why you found it, Cal,” Roosevelt calls out, already at the door. “The purest soul gets the prize.”
With a sharp tug, he pulls open the library door. But instead of a hallway, all he sees are metal bars and the two prison guards who block his exit. That sound we heard before . . . the metal ch-chunk . . . The protective gate that rolled down from the ceiling doesn’t budge as he grabs it.
“That’s him! He stabbed me!” Ellis barks, hunched over and holding a thick gauze to his chest as he steps between the guards and points at Roosevelt.
Two enormously pissed guards reach through the bars, grip Roosevelt’s shoulders, and tug him forward, smashing his face into the metal gate and holding him there as if they’re about to physically pull him through the four-inch space between the bars.
It takes me a moment to process, until one of the guards steps aside, and I spot Ellis still wearing his Michigan State Police uniform.
“This what he stole?” one of the guards asks, snatching the animal horn from Roosevelt’s hands.
“That’s it,” Ellis says without even the smallest of grins as he holds open a clear plastic evidence bag and the guard drops Cain’s birthright inside.
“N-No!” Roosevelt screams. “H-He’s a killer! He killed two people in Cleveland!”
“Didn’t I tell you he’d say that?” Ellis asks, already out of sight.
“That’s not—! He’s lying!” Roosevelt explodes, spit flying from his mouth. “He’s not a real cop!”
“Ann Maura’s down! Plus we got a bleeder!” another guard shouts, staring through the gates at me and my dad. “Tell Henkel we need medical now!”
Down on my knees, I give my dad a few breaths and start CPR. He coughs, breathing quickly, but the bleeding in his belly won’t stop. The red puddle on his shirt swells and expands, starting to bleed onto the floor. I grab a rag from the sink and start applying pressure. We need paramedics.
“Ahuuh . . . ahhuh . . .” my father coughs, unable to lift his head as he turns my way. His voice is less than a whisper. “I—I didn’t mean to— I tried to do better, Cal.”
I nod, refusing to look down at him.
“I mean it, Cal. And when I—ahuuh—w-when I . . . in the car . . . what I said about Mom. N-None of that changes.”
His voice cracks and fades with each syllable. His face is pale, all the color running from the hole in his belly. He knows what’s coming. His last wound was superficial. This one is deep.