Sticks and Stones (18 page)

“Nothing to worry about,” Danny said with cracked lips.

Jack kissed her and agreed.

~

Sandra spent more time watching them. Not like before, but more closely. They watched back, and she didn’t look away like them when she was caught, tongue-tied and stomach twisted with all the things that could go wrong. She couldn’t see it – couldn’t see what was to come – and it worried her. Their eyes looked the same, but she wondered if they really were, if she’d even be able to tell.

There was a picture in her bag, some shot Lem had taken ages ago, all three of them piled together in a tangle of gangly limbs, and her awkward, blushing smile. She took it out when they were gone, memorized the young faces, old eyes, and tried to determine if there were changes. But the photograph was so small and their eyes were squinted against the sun and no one’s had turned black yet.

Would she be able to tell before that happened? Would it be too late to stop it when she did?

For a while, they were careful. For her, she thought. But then Jack started to fight again. Daniel didn’t bring any woman back, and he didn’t exactly smell like them, but Sandra knew he was also up to something. He brought back improperly earned money and sometimes had bruised knuckles like his brother. They came home once, together, smiling and drunk, Jack slapping Danny’s shoulder and saying, “We showed them. Those fuckers,” as Daniel just smiled and her stomach sunk lower and lower.

“Wasn’t going to let them get the drop on you,” Danny said.

“I could’ve taken them.” Jack shoved away, left his dirty shoes by the door, and slumped onto the nearest bed. His jeans were full of stains and his shirt was smudged with mud and grease, but it wasn’t her bed so Sandra didn’t say a word.

“That blade was five inches long.” Danny didn’t take his shoes off, but he didn’t sit down on her bed either, so that was okay as well. “They had you pinned.”

“Pffft,” Jack said, disbelief tapering off as he waved a hand. “I could’ve taken them.”

“That why you were on the ground?”

“Shut up,” Jack said, without much heat, and it sounded more like
thanks
, but he was still riding more adrenaline than Sandra was comfortable with.

“They okay?” she asked, because she couldn’t leave it alone.

Danny grimaced and Jack looked at her like she’d sucked all the joy out of the room, which she supposed she had. “Jay-sus. What the fuck?” Sandra had the television on some nature documentary, turtles laying their eggs, and he made a face, still scowling as he reached across the aisle to steal the remote.

She didn’t ask again. But she noticed that they didn’t answer.

Five cities over, Jack punched a woman in the jaw. Danny broke some asshole’s arm. In Knox, Ohio, they nearly killed someone.

Then again in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.

When Sandra dreamed, the world was burning. It was charred, on fire. Smoke filled the sky. “You can’t stop it,” Danny told her and he looked like a skull, a demon head with black eyes and a pale face.

The fire raged.

It kind of felt like the end of the world. Except not really. As though the end had only begun. It was the future. And she dreamed of blood and death and fire and she knew exactly what she had to do.

She went and got the gun out of her bag.

Chapter Eighteen

They went
north.

They spent days heading upward and westward, meandering roads and browsing cities and sleeping against car windows. Sandra didn’t particularly care where they were going, as long as they were going far away. She couldn’t give a reason for her sudden, overpowering wanderlust, but the boys didn’t ask too hard.

The days turned cold. The trees became bare, leaves on the ground. The chill was particularly hard on Sandra’s lungs and they stopped at the first thrift store they found, buying sweaters and sweatshirts and warmer jackets. There wasn’t anything in Sandra’s size. Danny bought her a red scarf. She wore it even in the car, warm breath circling back onto her neck. Sandra fell asleep with a Kleenex in her hand. The world turned ash-gray and dripped blood and turned black.

She came awake with a start and found herself in another town. Sandra didn’t know the name, but it looked just the same as every other small town they’d pulled into. The buildings were old and weathered and looked a little like home, even if they didn’t have a home anymore.

“Going to go crazy.” Jack’s head was against the window, eyes wide and hands tapping restlessly at his knees. Sandra wanted to say that they were already there. Instead, she coughed, sharp and deep and sounding as though her lungs were coming up. “I need a drink,” he said, and Sandra was glad he didn’t see her tense. She wouldn’t tell them. She
wouldn’t
. But the gun waited for her in her bag. Waited and watched. “Can we eat first?”

“Yeah,” Danny said, “why not?”

The diner was a small place, homey, old and worn. Their platters were heaped with home cooking and, even though chicken noodle soup wasn’t on the menu, the waitress kindly brought Sandra some when asked. It made Sandra think about when she was nine, stuck at home with a cold, with her drunken mother throwing a box of Kleenex at her head.

Danny glowered at her until she ate her soup.

She liked Danny’s method much better.

Across the table, Jack inhaled his food like he’d been starved. Danny stared at the laminated tabletop, looking worried and lost in his head. He picked at his spaghetti and meatballs and drank enough coffee to fuel the entire state of Alaska.

Jack didn’t pay attention to anything until the officer walked through the door. Then his fork skittered across his plate. It screeched so loud that the waitress and the policeman and the people sitting three tables away looked over. Jack kept his head down, but Sandra saw the tightening of his jaw, the white knuckled grip he had around his fork. She would’ve thought Danny hadn’t noticed, still weary and loose-limbed, perfectly natural except for the sudden tap of his fingers against the table. Jack glared down at his plate and Danny ate another forkful of spaghetti. Sandra’s eyes darted sideways, lifting a spoon of broth to her mouth, and tried not to think of a future where Jack and Daniel shoved a knife through that policeman’s chest.

It itched at Jack to let the man get around his back, across the diner where he couldn’t see him. They’d both taken seats facing the door, leaving Sandra facing in, and she watched the officer seat himself. He barely gave them a second glance. But nerves still danced low in her stomach. A careful shake of her head had Jack back eating. More slowly. He held his dinner knife like the dull blade would somehow protect them.

When her soup was finished, Sandra pulled her scarf up, wrapped it around her nose and mouth and hoped, when anyone remembered them, all they’d think of were two men and a woman with a faded red scarf. “Let’s go,” Jack said, voice so quiet that the din of the restaurant nearly washed over it.

Danny got up and headed for the register. It was close to where the cop sat and Danny stood there so long, staring into his wallet, that the cashier was getting annoyed.

Jack huffed and got up to join him, just as the officer leaned over. “Trouble?” he asked, and it wasn’t said unkindly, but Sandra saw Jack’s hackles rise. Danny unglued himself, like he could feel Jack’s oncoming storm and knew how unfortunate that would be. He smiled, whole face transforming into something trustworthy.

“No problem.” His voice was rough-soft, quiet with a bit of southern twang. Fake. Danny pulled two twenties loose and handed them over. Money was getting low and Sandra worried that they’d stop somewhere where the boys would hustle and gamble with their lives. Someplace where her nightmares would start coming true.

Jack sidled back toward the table, coming to a stop several feet away, trying very hard not to glare, hands shoved deep into his jeans and one eyebrow riding high. He tried to smile at the officer. He looked like he’d eaten something rotten instead.

“Passing through?” the cop asked, and Jack turned belligerent, immediately glaring at the floor. Sandra wished Jack had stayed in his seat. Danny was waiting impatiently for his change, lips pressed tight.

“Why do you want to know?” Jack asked, voice quiet and dangerous and the lawman frowned. Danny forced a smile when the woman wished them a good day, nodding to her and the officer, apologizing, too. Jack glared and Danny dragged him away.

The officer’s eyes followed them out the door.

“Stupid,” Danny hissed with enough anger that Jack didn’t say a word. Danny pushed the pedal down and drove, drove, drove as far as they could go. “We don’t need anyone’s attention.”

Sandra’s gun waited for her, down at the bottom of her bag.

~

They drove down south, closer to the eastern coast. The chill in the air came from the sea and smelled of salt and rain. They paused at a beach, abandoned in the early morning hours, and Sandra watched as Jack and Danny chased each other across the dunes and through the waves. Seeing them like this, she didn’t know how her dreams could ever come true. She wasn’t sure she could ever use her gun on them, no matter what she had promised Lem.

Saving the world should never have been her choice.

Brushing sand from her legs, Sandra picked up her shoes and followed them to the car.

They continued along the coast. They passed hilly, rocky fields, catching glimpses of fishing boats out on the sea. They stopped at a forested park, flashes of ocean coming through the trees, sneaking off the road to sleep uncomfortably and free in the car seats, doors swung open to leave room for Danny’s and Jack’s long legs.

There wasn’t much to eat in the car. Sandra’s cold had long faded and they rationed leftover crackers, shortbread cookies, and water – keeping the boxes away from Jack because that was a surefire way to have them inhaled. Danny was restless and irritable and Sandra wondered if he was in a bad mood because she was. She was spooked. Maybe that was what kept him driving, long after they should’ve stopped, past the sea and past the long lines of paved roads, onto back roads and farther away.

“Enough!” Jack finally growled one morning when his patience ran out.

It was Danny with the stubborn jut of his chin, Jack standing annoyed and furious.

“We’re going back to the city,” he said, deadly serious. “We’re going to get some real food, and then we’re getting a fucking room and some beer. Then I’m going to get drunk. And
then
you’re going to pull your head out of your ass and shut the hell up about it.”

Danny’s eyes narrowed. He breathed out once, sharp and loud. Sandra wondered if he thought about bringing her into the argument, about how he was apparently following her lead, how he was wary even if he wasn’t sure why. Because she was scared. And Jack was too oblivious to care.

“What’s your problem?” Jack asked. Danny’s eyes flickered to her. “You’re acting like dad,” Jack said, “You’re
not
him.”

“And you’re not smart.”

“Guys…” Sandra said.

“Were you smart when you killed that guy?” Jack leaned close. He sneered. He hadn’t been there back then. He hadn’t met Aaron James Anderson. His tone was so ugly that Sandra stopped breathing and Danny’s fists went tight. But it was Jack who threw the first punch. His fist landed on Danny’s cheek and when he made a sound – a breathy, little laugh mixed up with a jeer – Danny snapped. Jack’s smirk flew off with Danny’s right hook.

Danny was taller, but Jack was faster and had always moved like he had longer arms, ducking in and slipping out and feinting like a pro. He punched high and fought dirty and went low and got Danny’s knee. Danny went down. His shirt was full of dirt, a graze bringing up red down his left arm. His jaw was tight and angry and his shove made Jack’s next swing go wide.

By the end, Jack had a bloody lip and a swollen eye and Danny’s nose was bloodied blue, cheek swelling up purple and black.

They fought like they really hated each other, but when they were done, they clapped one another on the back and laughed. Sandra clenched her eyes and slammed the car door shut, flopping onto the back seat, pretending that her hands weren’t shaking. Outside, Jack whooped and brayed like a donkey.

~

They ended up in a bar. Sandra was pretty sure she looked horrible. She couldn’t stop her eyes from flickering, staring. The back of her spine was numb from the cold metal of the gun she had stashed in her waistband.

The alcohol stung Jack’s lip and he spent half the time cursing Danny, the other cursing the beer itself. They’d already swindled some college kids earlier in the night and the men had left angry and penniless.

“Here’s on Jim Motlow,” Jack snickered, flicking the credit card over to the edge of the table.

Sandra had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. Jack’s smile was messy, uninhibited and swollen.

“He was an asshole,” he told her. Danny was far enough gone that he just grinned silly, eyes bright and body loose even though she was winding tighter by the minute.

“Good ol’ Jimmy,” Jack said. “What do you want Jimmy to get for you, San?”

She shook her head and swallowed down bile, skin itch-itching. “You’re awful.” It wasn’t a compliment.

Jack grinned unrepentantly. “I know.” He waved a hand in the air. “Barmaid!”

Across the aisle, a burly man with a thick, brown beard gave Jack a dirty look. Danny made a soft sound that might have been a laugh. Sandra wished she could be happy like them. Danny reached across the table and took her hand.

When they stumbled out at quarter to two, Jack had trouble walking and Danny had taken to slinging his arm around her, smiling at her like she was one of his girls. She snuck the car keys out of his pocket and navigated them across the mostly empty parking lot. The potholes caught their soles, making them trip and weave.

Shadows shifted across the lot and Sandra tensed, felt Danny’s arm slip down her back. There was no time to move before someone slammed into her and she went down beneath Danny’s weight. There was a flash of shame and rage and a drunken haze before she rolled free. “What?” Danny sputtered as he pushed up on one gravel-lodged hand, jacket torn at his shoulder. He moved stiffly but his eyes were clear.

By the time she got to her feet, Jack was several yards away, on his back with a shadow crouched over him. It was one of the hustled college kids wanting his money back. He wore a dark canvas jacket and his blond hair glimmered in the bar’s dim outside light.

“Where is it?” he kept saying and Sandra’s stomach sank so hard that she had to close her throat, force herself not to throw up. She knew this. It had been in her dream.

She reached for the gun tucked into her pants.

“Jimmy,” Jack smiled through the fresh blood, mouth stretched wide and teeth glittering red.

“Where is it? Where’s my goddamned money?”

“You’re too late, Jimmy. We spent it.”

“You’re a fucking liar. Did you steal my card, too, huh?”

“You’ve never learned how to party, have you?” Sandra could only see half of Jack’s smarmy grin, but Jim landed another punch and Jack’s lip split for the second time that day. Danny staggered to his feet and Sandra was already across the lot thinking,
No, no, no
.

“Danny, don’t!” she called out.

Jack breathed in funny, like he was choking and Jim was calling him “Asshole,” and Jack’s other eye was swelling shut.

“Fucker,” Jack said, like words were the only weapon he had left.

“Stop it,” Sandra yelled and she was pushed away, a hit catching her in the stomach and her ribs. She fumbled with her gun, got it ready, spread her feet and steadied her arm.

And suddenly Danny was there and he had a piece of metal in his hands.

“Don’t, Danny,” she pleaded.

Sandra watched him bring the long pole down.

Jim sunk to the ground, unconscious and bloody at his temple. Danny breathed heavily and shook as he reached down to haul Jim off of Jack, fingers lingering to make sure there was still a pulse. He nodded at her. He didn’t even look at the gun in her hand.

She wasn’t even sure they realized.

She hadn’t been pointing it at Jim Motlow.

In her dream, Danny Sloan slammed the metal down and it went through Jim Motlow’s back. He died. She and Jack and Danny ran. And it was only the start.

Here, Danny ran inside to call 911. Sandra helped Jack to the car. She tucked the gun into the back of her pants.

It was only the start.