Payton Hidden Away (31 page)

Ritchie stumbles forward like
he’d been shoved from behind. Then he squares up, planting his feet solidly on
the floor to keep from tumbling. The gun he’s holding slips to his waist, his
hand swinging loosely back and forth. He starts sucking wind, his chest
heaving. He tries to lift the pistol, but it only rises a few inches before
settling back at his side. He stumbles forward a few more steps toward her
ruined car, and through the cracked glass of her Pontiac, Kristie continues to
tug frantically against her seatbelt.

“Drop the gun!”
one of the cops shout, but they’re not shouting at Ritchie. They’re looking at
me.

“I’m putting it
down,” I answer, kneeling down and setting the shotgun on the floor before
raising my hands up over my head.

Ritchie is
gasping, but he manages to remain on his feet, his massive frame teetering ever
so slightly.

Kristie tugs at
her seatbelt one last time, and it finally comes free. She lunges at the
window, trying to crawl through the broken window, her eyes flashing, but she’s
still pinched beneath the steering wheel. “He killed my sister,” she shrieks,
her voice raspy. “He killed her…”

Ritchie is
wavering unsteadily on his feet. “Someone shot me,” he mumbles. “Who…” He turns
around, his eyes dancing. He’s looking—searching, a string of blood stretching
from his lip to his chin. His face has gone pale, but when he finds me, he
relaxes. Then he grins, that stupid ass smile of his spreading across his
stupid ass face and into his eyes. Not just any grin, but that famous Ritchie grin
of old. I see the man-child I knew as a boy. “Damn, man,” he says, spitting a
wad of dark red blood. “You do that?”

I say nothing. I
just glare at him.

“How’d you get
here so fast?”

I just stare.

Ritchie looks
around. “What’d you do? Hitch a ride in the back of my truck?”

I continue to
glare.

“That had to be
one helluva ride.” He snorts, and clears his throat, gagging as he hacks up a
wad of bloody phlegm before spitting. “Shot me in the back.”

“Put the gun
down, Hudson!” one the officers shout.

Ritchie winces,
gritting his teeth. “I can’t believe you…I can’t believe you really done it.”
He winces again and drops the gun. It clatters uselessly on the tile floor. He
crouches down, shuffling into a sitting position. The pistol is inches from his
hand, but he’s not interested in it anymore. Instead, he’s looking at the
shotgun I’d set on the floor. “Is that my dad’s gun?”

I say nothing.

“That damn
thing…” He just stares at it, his face wrinkling slightly as if he’d tasted
something sour. “The fucker keeled over,” he mutters, clearing his throat. He
snorts, hacks up, and spits another wad of thick blood that slaps the floor. “’Bout
ten years back.” He licks his lips. “I remember when me and him would go
hunting,” he whispers, grimacing. He breathes heavily for a few seconds, his
eyes tired. “I’m glad…” he says softly, blood dipping from his mouth onto
shirt. “I’m glad it was you that done it, and not one of them…”

Now I feel something.
Anger. Anger at him for ruining what had been the perfect friendship. Anger at
him for ruining what should have been the perfect childhood. Anger at him for ruining
my life and ending Joanne’s. After everything that’s happened, how dare he make
me feel something? For him or anyone else. How dare he…

He looks at his
bloody palms before lifting his eyes to me. Then he grins again, which is irritating
enough until I realize why he’s doing it. This is his moment—one last time in
the spotlight. He’ll make the local headlines tomorrow morning, thereby
inscribing himself in the history pages of a small town teetering on the brink
of extinction.

“You’re going to
jail, Rich,” I say, but tears are welling in my eyes anyway. I can’t tell if
they’re tears of pain, relief or anger. “For the murder of Joanne Lambert.”

He chuckles. “The
hell I am.” He sucks in a deep breath before settling onto his back, his chest
heaving as he struggles to draw air. “Kiss my grits, Triple A.” He clenches his
hands into fists, grinding his teeth, groaning softly. “You don’t tell me
nothin’.”

Presently, his
fists open up, his fingers relax, and his breathing stops.

Kristie looks at
me through the spider web windshield before burying her face against the
steering wheel. The lights overhead continue to swing lazily back and forth,
and outside lightning continues to flash as the rain continues to fall. There
are cops everywhere. One is kneeling. Two are standing. All are holding guns, and
all guns are trained on the deceased body of Ritchie Hudson.

I continue to kneel, my hands
locked behind my head. Around me, some are standing, some are kneeling, some
are crying. Guns remain pointed, people whispering, people sobbing. The rain
continues to fall beyond the gaping hole over my shoulder, thunder rumbling from
far away like a distant warning.

I wonder what
she’s thinking. Will she ever be able to forgive me? I wonder who she loves, or
if she loves anyone at all. After everything that’s happened, and after all we’ve
both lost, I figure she probably feels more hate than love, though even now as
she sits pinched behind the steering wheel of her ruined car, blood running
from her nose, her hair plastered to her forehead, she’s suddenly the most
beautiful thing I have ever seen.

It’s over. The
tears run over my cheeks. I smile, but it’s not for her. It’s for me.

The weird thing
is, she’s smiling back.

Samuel and Ken keep kicking. I do
all I can to defend myself, but there’s two of them, and they’re both bigger
than me. I’m breathing dirt in through my nose and mouth, and it’s caking the
back of my throat like mud, so I curl up and close my eyes, wishing they’d just
leave me alone. I didn’t do anything. Not to them anyway. Mrs. Clymer gave us
all the same assignment. I just did what she told us to. I must’ve gotten all
the answers right, and they must’ve gotten ‘em all wrong, ‘cuz otherwise they
wouldn’t be so mad.

I retreat to my
safe place—that quiet space I think about at night when I hide from the
monsters that lurk in the shadows. In my safe place, I’m beside a brook, and
all the trees are green, and the stream is cold and clear like glass with
little minnows hovering over colored pebbles hiding in the sand. But the
kicking and the laughing doesn’t stop, and it hurts, and I can’t stay in my
safe place. I don’t want to cry, but I’m scared, and they’re bigger than me,
and—

Then the kicking
stops.

The laughing
stops.

The hurting
stops too.

I look up to see
Samuel and Ken fighting this other kid. The other kid’s all red-faced and
chubby, but he’s big too, and eventually he hits Samuel smack dab in the face,
and Samuel stumbles backward. He even starts to cry when blood starts spurting
from his nose. And then the red-faced kid looks at Ken, and Ken freaks out and runs
away. Samuel gets up and runs away too. The red-faced kid glares after them for
awhile, his fists balled at his sides, before he turns to me, this big angry
frown on his face. “You okay?” he asks.

I’m still
crying.

“Are you
crying?”

I shake my head.

“What are you, a
big baby or somethin’?”

I shake my head
again. I don’t want him to think I’m a crybaby. I want him to think I’m cool. I
want him to like me. He just beat up two other kids, which makes him the
toughest kid ever.

“Come on,” he says,
offering his hand. “Get up.”

I reach out, and
he pulls me to my feet. I wipe my eyes on my sleeve.

“Who were those
guys?”

I shrug.

“They’re
assholes,” he says all tough like, and I realize that this kid must be cool. He
swears, and kids that swear aren’t afraid of anything. “What’s yer name?” he
asks.

“Anthony,” I
answer.

“Anthony? You go
by Anthony?”

“Yeah.”

“Anthony what?”

“Anthony
Alexander Abbott.”

The kid
scrunches his face. “All your names start with ‘A.’”

“I guess so.”

“You like
baseball?”

I shrug. “It’s
okay.”

“I’m gonna play
in the pros one day.”

“That’s cool,” I
say even though I kinda doubt he’ll make it. He’s too fat.

He’s studying
me. “You got a best friend?”

I shake my head.

“You wanna be my
best friend?”

I shrug. “I
don’t know. I mean, it doesn’t really work like that.”

“Why not?”

I think about it
for a second, but I can’t come up with a good answer. Maybe there aren’t any
rules that determine how one goes about getting a best friend. “I don’t even
know your name.”

“Ritchie.”

I just stand
there.

“So?” Ritchie
asks.

“So what?”

“So, you wanna
be my best friend?”

“I guess.”

“Cool. So, why
were those kids picking on you?”

I shrug. “Maybe
‘cuz I get good grades.”

“You know what
you say to assholes like that?” He grins, and it’s a big, weird, toothless
grin. “You say ‘kiss my grits.’”

I frown. “What’s
that mean?”

He shrugs. “I
dunno. My dad taught me.” Ritchie turns away, steps up on the curb and starts
tight roping the razor’s edge, his arms out to balance him like wings. The sun
is over his shoulder, making him look just like an angel. He walks along the
curb, the sunlight bleeding through the trees and sprinkling him a weird
halo-like glow. He continues to walk the line, one foot after the other, his
arms outstretched to keep him from tumbling.

“Your dad?” I
ask.

“Yeah.” Ritchie
nods as he goes. “He’s the best dad in the whole world.”