Finally, Jimmy was almost finished pulling the Bowie, coming up with it. More of a defensive posture than a killing stance. He really didn't want to hurt anybody. It was all show. Another stupid move. You don't pull a deadly weapon without meaning to use it.
Crease stepped forward and chopped the side of his hand down hard on Jimmy's wrist. The knife dropped and Crease caught it by the handle before it had fallen three inches. He decided to keep it.
His free hand flashed out and yanked the sheath off Jimmy's belt and put it on his own. He stuck the Bowie in its sheath while Jimmy stared at him in terror.
"Go away now," Crease said.
But Jimmy-like Reb, like Crease's father, maybe like Crease himself-could only compound the problem by making yet another bad move. The stupidity latched on and drove you further and further into hell. You hit the gas instead of the brake. You reloaded instead of putting your hands up.
Jimmy Devlin gathered up his remaining anger and lifted one of those large fists and swung it up from his knees. The fist rose and rose, the arm straightening as Jimmy hauled off. His body twisted and he let loose with a grunting war cry like he expected to kill Crease or be murdered in the next ten seconds. He actually closed his eyes and turned his face, afraid to see where the fist might go.
Crease thought, I'd have to wait here all night long before that punch came anywhere near me.
He stepped in and still had to wait before Jimmy's wrist came up far enough that Crease could snap his forearm against it. He tapped Jimmy twice in the solar plexus, twice more on the chin, and watched the guy's eyes roll up into his head.
An icy wind blew dead leaves across Crease's knees, the scent of the past coming on even stronger now. He turned away before Jimmy hit the ground.
On the walk, Reb stood unsure of what to do, which way to run. The cool acceptance in her expression had almost given over to an animal panic.
She struggled with it for a second before coming to the realization that Crease wasn't about to beat on her, wasn't even going to make her explain herself.
He opened the passenger door of the 'Stang and said, "I'll give you a lift home. Or do you want to stay here?"
She started to relax a little, and the adrenaline buzz she'd been on dissipated. The exhaustion flooded into her face and he had to sling himself forward as she pitched into his arms again.
He got her into the 'Stang and drove north toward Hangtree. Reb showed him her teeth, said, "Crease, goddamn you, it's been a while," and passed out against the dashboard.
Chapter Two
He drove easily through the back roads on the outskirts of town, the intimacy returning to him with the slippage of memories. They came to him sharply and ground inside him like broken glass, a particularly jagged recollection making him frown or tighten his fists on the steering wheel.
Reb didn't carry a purse, but he figured she still lived in the same house where she'd grown up. Where he used to climb the trellis to her window and ease into darkness, and she'd urge him on with faint murmurs and throaty laughter. With only a sliver of silver moonlight slicing through a broken pane to show him the way. He'd stumbled on the icy shingles once and busted the corner of the window with his knee. From then on, a cracked crescent shadow always hung across his back as he slid into bed with her. Her father would get up in the middle of the night and play videotaped reruns of old baseball games. Reb's fingers would be working through the sweaty folds of Crease's chest hair, and he'd hear the man cursing and thumping the arm of his recliner like he still had a bet on the game.
There was hardly any growth to Hangtree. He spotted an extra gas station, another street light, and about five acres of new housing development sidling toward the highway. Everything else was pretty much how he remembered it.
He parked in front of Reb's house, a little stunned to see the place in such sad shape. The rain gutters had collapsed and lay hanging against the sides of the house, swaying slightly in the wind. The porch had severe water damage, stairs and floorboards chipped and buckling. The screen door had busted off its hinges and stood propped under the outside light. Straw spun from disintegrating birds' nests jammed in the high corners of the veranda. The yard was overgrown, heavily choked with weeds and leaves. A maple had fallen and crushed a ten-foot portion of the back fence. It looked like it had happened at least a couple of years ago. He felt a strange tug of sorrow.
So Reb's parents were dead. Her old man, for all his faults, was always on the ball when it came to home repair and taking care of the place.
Crease looked over at her snoring thickly through her swollen nose. He knew she lived here alone with the ghosts of her mother and father cloying the rooms, wandering the halls, seated at the kitchen table.
He glanced up and saw the broken window. The crescent crack had spiderwebbed out to consume the whole pane.
Sometimes you found the symbols of your life, and sometimes they found you.
He got her out of the 'Stang and half-carried her to the front door while she murmured plaintive appeals. She muttered questions and answered them herself, crying out, "No way, hell no." He didn't know her body anymore and had trouble relating the plump, curvy teenager with this skinny, hard, lovely woman. Their combined weight bowed the rotted porch. The stink of fetid water rose from beneath the house.
The front door was open and the minute she got inside she relaxed again and went totally limp. She was easier to handle that way. He lifted her as she slumped into the crook of his arm, and he went through the place turning on light switches, her feet brushing dust from the furniture. On the walls, antique portraits with austere expressions kept an eye on him. The dead were always watching.
He got her on the couch, searched the bathroom and kitchen and found a dishtowel, ice, coffee, aspirin, bandaging tape, and hydrogen peroxide. Reb's breath whistled through her nose. He checked it and found it wasn't broken. He peered into her mouth to make sure her jaw wasn't dislocated and no teeth were cracked. She'd be all right.
The sink was stacked with dirty dishes. She didn't have a microwave or a coffee pot so he had to wash out a mug and pour the stale grounds in and fill it with hot water. He got the aspirin down her throat and made her take a few sips of coffee. He pressed the dishtowel full of ice onto her face, cleaned the torn earlobe, and got some tape on it. She could use a stitch but he figured she'd never go to a doctor. He did the best he could.
He sat beside her and looked at her father's chair. It was about three feet from the television, the arms pounded all out of shape. He wouldn't even have to ask her what happened. He knew the man had died right there, in front of the TV, screaming at the screen.
Her mother, a petite, weak-willed woman with sagging shoulders, would've died shortly after him. She probably spent his funeral feeling overwhelming relief and hope, thinking there was still time to do something with her life. Crease could just imagine her staring in the mirror, trying to force herself to accept the idea that she was still pretty enough to start again. Young enough. Strong enough. Almost. The world would've loomed large and mysterious for her after so many years in the house, acting out her role in carefully produced movements. The dishes, the dusting, the baking of pies, her existence defined by the concise repetition of endless minutiae. The thrill of freedom would begin to vanish, slowly at first and then more rapidly, as her despair mounted. How do you start? What do you do?
No wonder Rebecca cut loose like a wildcat. Her parents were gone but she was living in the vault full of their memories. She'd have nowhere else to go but she'd still never want to go home. She'd stay out all night long with anybody, just so long as she could stay away from the place. The sex and stealing and late-night slap-arounds would just make life a bit more fun and bearable.