Everything else had just been practice.
Funny, how you could build up to something all your life and not even realize you were doing it.
He knelt beside Race, stroked his hair. The boy looked five years old, shivering, his eyes glowing with fear.
Samuel imagined one of those nights long ago, after Ali did his business. He imagined Talia—or was it Talia?—stumbling out and holding Race, and saying,
It's all right, honey. I'm okay. We going to get you out of here. You going to a good school. Samuel's going to help you. Ali's not going to touch us no more.
And Samuel had taken care of Ali.
Samuel always protected his siblings—because if he didn't, who would?
Years before, he'd tried to send his sister away to protect her from Elbridge, and when that didn't work, he'd taken Johnny Jay's gun out of the welder's box in the garage, waited in the bushes down the street for Elbridge to come home—Elbridge, who always walked home the same way from the pool hall, who had plenty of enemies and wouldn't be missed.
Samuel couldn't leave his sisters and brothers alone. He couldn't bear to see them hurt, any more than he could bear for Katherine to die, his only friend—the only one who ever understood the darkness inside him.
He touched the side of Race's face. “Where you think you were going?”
“After Mallory.”
“No. I got a better idea.”
“You'll kill her.”
“Now, you listen to me, Race. I'll take care of you, but you got to listen. Nobody else going to get hurt. Not your girl. Not you. Not anybody who matters.”
And Samuel painted a picture for him—simple and pretty. Lots of money, a new home in a faraway country, he and his girlfriend together, Samuel watching out for them, taking care of them. Samuel told him how it would work. He wanted Race to understand, to appreciate how beautiful it was. Race was a bright boy. He could figure the math.
“You can't,” Race said. “They'll catch you.”
“You crash here for a few days, all right? Nobody think to look for you here—last place in the world they look for Race Montrose. You wait for me. Your girlfriend going to be okay.”
Samuel could see in his eyes—Race desperate to buy into the dream. Samuel knew he was terrified, knew he wanted to run. But Samuel wasn't worried about that.
In the end, Race would come to him the same way the schoolkids did—crowding onto his lap to hear a story. Samuel could make him believe whatever he wanted. He would make the girl believe, too. And when it was time to change the story—to write the girl out of it, Samuel would make that go down easy. Race would get over it.
Because kids have survival instincts. They're like animals. They know who cares for them, who to trust. They won't climb onto just anybody's lap.
“Stay here,” Samuel told him. “And Race, I know your hiding places. Don't skip. Understand?”
“Yeah.”
“Now go wash your face. And while you're in the bathroom, turn up the radio. It's too quiet in here.”
Race stood, still shaky, and wiped the blood and mucus off his lip. He went to do as he was told, leaving Samuel staring out the window, down across the valley where the highway cut through like a bleeding artery, spilling bloody brake lights into the Bay.
Chadwick had disrespected him again.
If Samuel ever doubted God had a plan for him, he didn't doubt it anymore.
He had been given a sign. He must not leave without settling every score. He must not leave one brick on top of another in the rubble.
And, praise God, Samuel would obey.
6
“Zedman!”
Mallory wanted to yell something back. She chewed on all the bad names she could call this bastard, but she was thinking about what had happened to that last kid who used the F-word.
The instructor yelled her name again.
Mallory didn't look up. Boots crunched on the gravel.
“Simple instructions, Zedman.” The guy bellowed like he was talking to somebody across the river, like he wanted all the buzzards circling this fucking
Funny, how you could build up to something all your life and not even realize you were doing it.
He knelt beside Race, stroked his hair. The boy looked five years old, shivering, his eyes glowing with fear.
Samuel imagined one of those nights long ago, after Ali did his business. He imagined Talia—or was it Talia?—stumbling out and holding Race, and saying,
It's all right, honey. I'm okay. We going to get you out of here. You going to a good school. Samuel's going to help you. Ali's not going to touch us no more.
And Samuel had taken care of Ali.
Samuel always protected his siblings—because if he didn't, who would?
Years before, he'd tried to send his sister away to protect her from Elbridge, and when that didn't work, he'd taken Johnny Jay's gun out of the welder's box in the garage, waited in the bushes down the street for Elbridge to come home—Elbridge, who always walked home the same way from the pool hall, who had plenty of enemies and wouldn't be missed.
Samuel couldn't leave his sisters and brothers alone. He couldn't bear to see them hurt, any more than he could bear for Katherine to die, his only friend—the only one who ever understood the darkness inside him.
He touched the side of Race's face. “Where you think you were going?”
“After Mallory.”
“No. I got a better idea.”
“You'll kill her.”
“Now, you listen to me, Race. I'll take care of you, but you got to listen. Nobody else going to get hurt. Not your girl. Not you. Not anybody who matters.”
And Samuel painted a picture for him—simple and pretty. Lots of money, a new home in a faraway country, he and his girlfriend together, Samuel watching out for them, taking care of them. Samuel told him how it would work. He wanted Race to understand, to appreciate how beautiful it was. Race was a bright boy. He could figure the math.
“You can't,” Race said. “They'll catch you.”
“You crash here for a few days, all right? Nobody think to look for you here—last place in the world they look for Race Montrose. You wait for me. Your girlfriend going to be okay.”
Samuel could see in his eyes—Race desperate to buy into the dream. Samuel knew he was terrified, knew he wanted to run. But Samuel wasn't worried about that.
In the end, Race would come to him the same way the schoolkids did—crowding onto his lap to hear a story. Samuel could make him believe whatever he wanted. He would make the girl believe, too. And when it was time to change the story—to write the girl out of it, Samuel would make that go down easy. Race would get over it.
Because kids have survival instincts. They're like animals. They know who cares for them, who to trust. They won't climb onto just anybody's lap.
“Stay here,” Samuel told him. “And Race, I know your hiding places. Don't skip. Understand?”
“Yeah.”
“Now go wash your face. And while you're in the bathroom, turn up the radio. It's too quiet in here.”
Race stood, still shaky, and wiped the blood and mucus off his lip. He went to do as he was told, leaving Samuel staring out the window, down across the valley where the highway cut through like a bleeding artery, spilling bloody brake lights into the Bay.
Chadwick had disrespected him again.
If Samuel ever doubted God had a plan for him, he didn't doubt it anymore.
He had been given a sign. He must not leave without settling every score. He must not leave one brick on top of another in the rubble.
And, praise God, Samuel would obey.
6
“Zedman!”
Mallory wanted to yell something back. She chewed on all the bad names she could call this bastard, but she was thinking about what had happened to that last kid who used the F-word.
The instructor yelled her name again.
Mallory didn't look up. Boots crunched on the gravel.
“Simple instructions, Zedman.” The guy bellowed like he was talking to somebody across the river, like he wanted all the buzzards circling this fucking
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