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 bump 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-shirt 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 hell 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 bastard 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 bastard, 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. “Goddamn. 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
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 bump 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-shirt 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 hell 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 bastard 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 bastard, 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. “Goddamn. 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
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