Part 8 (1/2)

My arms aren't anch.o.r.ed anymore. I throw them around her.

I clutch her bony frame and she strokes my hair, murmuring sweetness like she used to do when I was little. She smells like fresh baking and wood smoke. I don't want to stop hugging her, but I can't help but keep one eye on the stairs. My mama. Where is she?

Auntie follows the direction of my eyes and shakes her head. She runs her hand over my hair and tries to get up the courage to tell me. She doesn't have to. I can see it on her face.

”Where is she?” I ask, my voice trembling.

”They took her this morning.”

Pain slams into my chest. This can't be happening. She was supposed to be here. Hot angry tears spring to my eyes.

Auntie pulls me to her. Some tears escape down my nose before I wipe them roughly away. Auntie pulls back and traces a tear with her crooked finger.

”If I know your mama, she'll give 'em a fight. She'll be right as rain until you can get her.”

I gaze up at Auntie's face, wanting to believe, but I can see the truth in her face like when I was eight years old. She found me crying that I'd never get married. She held me and said the right man would come along. I shouldn't worry my pretty head about it. When I looked into her face even then, I could tell she was giving me the words I wanted to hear, not the ones she believes. She's doing that now.

”What will happen to her?” I ask, afraid for the answer.

She twists her mouth down and shakes her head slightly. Then she takes hold of my shoulders and peers into my face. ”You get to her. You do what you have to and get her out. And quick, darlin'. You have about a week before ...”

I stiffen. ”Before what?”

Auntie shakes her head. ”Just get to her. I know you can.”

”How? I don't even know where she is.” I set my chin on Auntie's boney shoulder. She snakes her arms around me. She pets her hand over my hair again and again, stroking in time with her words, spurring me on. ”That youngin' up there can sniff out where they tucked her. He's a good 'un. Useful. Looks like you already got him in your pocket if he'd risk bringing you here.”

”He's only helping because he feels bad about what happened to Arn. He said he'd help get you out. That's all.” I hate the childish tone in my voice, but I can't stop thinking of my mama in the clutches of monsters, their sharp teeth snagging at her flesh. I shake the image away.

Auntie stops and pulls me back. Her hands clamp tight around my arms. ”I'd bet a truck bed full a squealing piglets that's not the case, but no sense in all this talk. You got to go. Sheriff's due home any minute.” Auntie takes my hand and leads me back to the stairs.

I pull back. ”You're coming with me.”

Auntie squeezes my hand. ”Sorry, turnip, the old lady's staying put. Got too many bunions and my arthritis is flaring up. Road'd just make 'em worse.”

I shake my head. ”No, Auntie. You're coming.”

Auntie grips my arms at the wrists. ”Since when do you tell your Auntie what to do? You'd have to drag me kicking and screaming and I don't think you've got the taters to do it.” Her grip softens. She leans forward, a rea.s.suring smile spreading up her face. ”Sheriff's taken a liking to Auntie's famous bread. He doesn't mind if I swat at him or call him a dirt pie. I got my own bedroom and three squares and all I got to do is cook and clean up. Not a bad way to spin my last yarn.”

”I can't just leave you here. He's a murderer.”

Auntie takes me by the shoulders and gives me a dead-eyed glare. ”Listen up, young lady. I'm staying.”

I tuck my chin to my chest and pick at the hem of my jacket. It's hard to say what I really mean. ”But I need you, Auntie.”

She hugs me again. I smell the wood smoke in her silver hair. ”You don't need me, nor n.o.body. You got Auntie's s.p.u.n.k. Jesus, you broke into Sheriff's house for the love of Pete. You can get your mama from those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds.”

I stare at the concrete floor, but she lifts my chin until I'm looking at her.

”Don't even think about your old Auntie. I'm not done yet.”

”I'll get you out as soon as I find Mama. I promise.”

”Alright, punpkinhead. Now, go. Tell Ethan I love him.”

I hug her once more and she kisses my forehead. She leads me to the stairs and I shuffle up the steps and feel my way to the back door. In the small span of darkness, she's a million miles away. Leaving her feels wrong. I stand in the foyer and look back down.

The front door bangs 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 b.u.mp 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-s.h.i.+rt 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 h.e.l.l 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.d down to the Warden.”