The Last Days of Summer (39 page)

Jasper's mouth goes dry. He does not rise to the insult. Eddie looks to his young friend and catches his eye. The young man grunts, nods and takes a long swig before he sets his bottle down. Cracks his knuckles as he rises. The dust stirred up by his boots as he steps forward swirls into Jasper's face and makes him cough again.

‘Maybe you don' recognize Ben, here,' Eddie says. ‘Ten years can alter the appearance quite a bit when a boy becomes a man.'

The young man looms over him now. Face deeply shadowed, blocking out the light from the kerosene lamp behind him, he is tall and lean and toned. Mid, maybe early twenties. Sandy brown hair cropped short. Jasper
closes his eyes, then opens them. The resemblance is there. He knows who this must be.

‘I'm not sure we've formally met.' Ben Saunders spits on the ground beside Jasper, just narrowly missing his thigh.

Jasper opens his mouth to speak, but Ben's right hook spins him round instead so that he's on his hands and knees, facing the back of the shed.

‘I was just a boy,' Ben says, ‘when you done what you done to our sister.'

Jasper spits blood onto the sand before him. ‘Well, ain't this sweet,' he growls. ‘Y'all should have brought Rose down. Had a whole goddamned family reunion.'

Ben kicks him in the ribs before he can rise and turn and for a moment all Jasper sees is white. Then the pain sets in, splitting his side, and the dark-cast shadows of the dimly lit shed again loom up around him. Another hard boot to his side knocks Jasper over, and he lies clutching his ribs, coughing in spite of his pain. It is a long moment till he is able to rise onto his hands and knees again. Frantically, but still trying not to be noticed, he paws through the sand, hoping for something, anything, he can use.

Ben laughs and grabs his beer and takes a long swig. Eddie pops open another can, Joanne still pressed against him, perched there on his knee. A can of Bud hurtles through the air above them. ‘Here, Chuck!' Eddie grins.

Chuck catches the beer in one hand. He leans back against one of the supports holding the shed roof up. The Winchester still points down towards Jasper, but lowers slightly as Chuck pops the can open and swigs. The crisp
click of the top popping somehow seems to linger in the air. Almost echo-like. Jasper feels a rusty nail beneath one fingertip, hidden in the sand.
It will have to do
. He glances quickly round the room, checking he is not watched. Masking his movement with another wave of doubled-over coughing that shoots long fingers of pain around his ribcage, Jasper palms the nail, keeping it cupped and hidden inside his hand. From its size, it feels like a roofing or maybe even a masonry nail. He struggles to conceal it in his single hand. Its large flat head presses into the soft flesh below his thumb.

He rises to kneel, the pain of moving again colouring the world momentarily white. ‘So what's this all about, Eddie?' he hisses, through his pain. ‘Tit for tat? Revenge? Or tryin' to show your little brother that you're a
real
man now?'

The laughter falls from Eddie's face. ‘He was twelve when you raped Rose. You sick fuck. You took that boy's innocence. You ruined our family. And now I'm gonna ruin yours.' He turns Joanne's face roughly to him and holds her in place by her jaw. She tries to scream. Tries to struggle. But the ropes that bind her won't let her push him away. Her gag won't let her scream. His tongue plays with her ear. Runs up and down her cheek. Fallen strands of dark blonde hair spill from her ponytail to fall round her face and shoulders. Tiny beads of sweat moisten her skin, run down her throat to pool in the nape of her neck. Eddie lifts her easily and lays her down on the workman's table. She screams against her gag and tries to struggle, but he hits her hard across her temple, and after that she goes all quiet and her limbs are limp.

Jasper struggles to hold his growl in. The rusted nail held in his palm presses into his skin lightly cutting it. There is something strangely comforting about the texture of its rust held against his skin. The length of its shaft. The large round circle of its rusted head. Nothing smooth there. Nothing polished. A feeling kin to pain.

Eddie smirks. ‘I must say, I would have enjoyed this more if it was her sister, but she's a fine little thing all the same.' He takes a sip from a bottle of tequila before placing it down on the workman's table, then chugs the last of his Bud and tosses the can aside. His belt buckle jingles as he pulls the leather through its clasp.

Jasper has no time to think. He spins fast as he is able and faces the barrel of the Winchester full on. He shoves the rusted nail up the barrel a fraction of a second before Chuck Ryan pulls the trigger. Jasper rolls quickly and hides his face deep in the protection of the cool sand floor. The Winchester shatters as if made of glass. Its explosion fills the shed with a flash of orange and white light. Chuck falls back, clutching his eyes and throat, tiny fragments of the metal barrel lodged deep within his skin. The Winchester falls onto the floor beside him, its barrel cleanly split.

Ben cusses loudly and drops his beer, jumping back. His eyes widen as he watches Chuck clutch his right hand where his index finger blew off. The finger lies in the dirt beside him, oozing blood. Blood runs down Chuck's throat from where he first clutched it with his bleeding hand as he tried to get the metal fragments from his skin. As the realization of his missing finger sets in, Chuck's screams split through the night with panicked horror, drowning out all cricket song.

Ben fumbles with the Colt he's held by his side, quickly raising it, but it's too late. Jasper springs from the ground, Ben's dropped beer bottle raised high above his head. Sticky, frothy beer spills out of its neck and down Jasper's arm showering the sand with tiny drops of beer spray rain. The bottle comes down over Ben's head just as he manages to pull the trigger. A loud crack echoes through the tiny shed as the bottle breaks over Ben's head and as his skull cracks open. His body falls with a gangly sort of grace to slump down lifeless on the dirt floor. The blood from the crack in his skull slowly colours the sand bright red.

The .22 just fired from Ben's Colt grazes Jasper's neck as he springs forward, leaving an angry gash in the skin between his shoulder and his collarbone.

Eddie turns, his trousers just dropped down, resting on his boot tops between his knees and ankles. One hand fumbles to pull his trousers up, while the other reaches frantically for the pistol he'd discarded. Screaming like a man possessed, Jasper hurtles forward across the tiny shed, broken beer bottle held like a prison shank. He presses the jagged glass into Eddie's jugular to the point where the skin just starts to bleed. The cool barrel of Eddie's pistol presses against Jasper's stomach.

Their eyes meet.

‘You don' deserve a happy life. Not after what you done.' Eddie pulls the trigger and the bullet releases into Jasper's gut with a loud crack. He feels where it tears into him. Feels the cool metal of the gun against his gut turn hot. Feels where the bullet again breaks free, ripping through his back.

‘Neither do you.' Jasper's eyes hold Eddie's a split second longer. Then the jagged edges of the bottle twist as they sever Eddie's jugular. His eyes pop open wider as the glass goes in, cutting and cutting, and Jasper would be lying if he said he didn't like the surprise on the other man's face as he chokes to death on his own blood.

Crumpled in the corner, Chuck keeps screaming, holding his hand clutched tight to his chest.
He is an oil man
, Jasper muses,
not cut out for blood and violence
. For a moment, Jasper pities him, watching him writhe on the floor. He picks up the Colt .22 that just shot him, fallen from Eddie's dead hand. The grip on it is still warm from the other man's palm. Jasper limps across the shed, bent over as he clutches his bleeding stomach then straightens, forcing himself to stand tall over the screaming, crumpled man. He watches him for what seems like a great while, and yet no time at all.

‘You would have watched them hurt her,' he says. And the gun sounds, leaving only silence after.

She looks at Eddie Saunders with fearful eyes. Her heart slams in her chest. The smell of Eddie's breath still lingers thick upon her. The feel of his lips and tongue still burns her cheek. His body lies next to her, slumped over the table; his blood pools under her, around her, and it smells bad and feels real hot and sticky. Uncle Jasper crosses the room to her quickly after the last gunshot fades. The silence after Mr Ryan's screaming stops rings inside her head louder than any sound. She did not see what happened to him. But, inside, she knows. She had closed her eyes when the first loud bang sounded. Had
only opened them and looked over once Mr Ryan started screaming, but she couldn't see much, just Uncle Jasper rising up as Ben slumped down. The loud crack of Eddie's gun as he struggled with her uncle echoed through her, as did the gurgles deep in Eddie's throat. She turned her face away as blood sprayed from him. Squeezed her eyes shut even tighter as she heard his body fall. The bubbling noise in his throat had grown louder before it stopped. Then there was that last loud bang that took the screaming with it. And the roar of the silence that followed. Eddie's blood felt warm as it seeped over to touch her skin. It was only then that Joanne had opened her eyes again.

Uncle Jasper sits her up and unties the rope around her gag first. It burns as the ropes peel away. Her cheeks feel dry and raw. He pulls the oil rag from her mouth and she gasps the air in greedy mouthfuls. His hands are already busy untying the ropes that bind her ankles.

She looks at Mr Ryan's lifeless body at the far side of the shed. His face, unrecognizable. His blood, so much blood, staining the dirt floor red. The gash in Ben's head opens like a canyon, and bits of his brains spill out. His eyes are open, wide and blue. The corner of his lip curls up, does not quite smile. She looks at Eddie's bent-over body there on the table beside her. His trousers are still half down. His blood spills from his neck and pools all around her. Frightened, trembling, she asks, ‘Are you gonna kill me next?'

Confusion darkens his features as he looks up at her. ‘What?' He shakes his head, deep hurt in his eyes. ‘No, honey. I'm here to bring you home.'

He's finished untying the rope that bound her wrists. She throws her arms around him and buries her face deep in his chest. Sobs shake her body. Catch and choke in her throat. He rubs her back. ‘Ssssh …' he says. ‘It's all right now. I'm gonna get you home.'

There is blood on Jasper's hands but he does not wipe them clean before scooping up Joanne's trembling form. He cradles her in his arms, like a newborn child. Like a bride brought by her groom across their first threshold together. The girl sobs into his chest as he carries her. He is deeply sorry for what she has seen. Blood stains her hair dark red. Dirt and grime streak her face and body. Her shirt is soiled and torn. As he carries her, his own blood feels warm as it seeps from his gut and dyes his T-shirt red. The wound itself burns where the bullet tore through him. He does not stop to pick up the old Hungerford. Leaves it where it stands, propped up beside all the blood and carnage. Around them, as they emerge from the tiny shed, crickets sing again, calling through the returned stillness of the night.

It is warm still, but not a sticky heat at this late hour. The air on Jasper's cheeks feels like life, feels like living to him. A slow smile spreads across his broken face as he stumbles forward, and he doesn't even mind the pain in his swollen jaw as his face relaxes.

Roy stands by his green pickup, pistol shaking as he holds it up and ready. Jasper stops, not more than three paces from him. Joanne sobs into his chest. Seconds pass that could be hours. Far off a coyote calls and is answered by its pack.

‘Go home, Roy,' Jasper says.

Joanne spooks at the sound of his voice. She lifts her head and screams when she sees Roy. Her fingernails dig into Jasper's neck, tearing his flesh. He holds her, trying to calm her struggle. Blood flows from his side, staining her shirt too.

Roy's voice trembles. ‘Where the others at?'

Jasper chooses his words with care. ‘It's over now.'

Roy takes an uncertain step forward, pistol still ready and aimed. ‘What happened in there?'

‘Only what had to.' Silence stretches between them. Around them. Far off the coyotes stop calling. Wind rattles the rusted oil pump, causing the metal to groan and creak. At length, Jasper's voice breaks through the eerie stillness of the night around them. ‘If I done one good thing in my life, Roy, it's saving this here girl. You know that good as I. Let me bring her home now. What's done here now is done.'

Slowly the pistol lowers. Roy says nothing but steps aside. Jasper strokes his niece's hair, the blood on his hand further streaking her dirty-blonde strands. ‘It's OK, sweetie,' he whispers, as he steps forward. ‘I'm gonna get you home.'

Lizzie feels sick inside. Like her heart's been taken and left her body ill. Every muscle in her yearns to hold her girl. She sits on the porch staring out across Mama's ruined garden, but she does not see the flowers scattered across the lawn or the dark expanse of prairie that stretches out before her. Nor does she gaze up at the stars. She doesn't dare wish on them. She doesn't even pray. She stares at
this flake of white paint that's peeling off the porch railing. Stares at it for hours as if it holds answers for her. But it doesn't. It's just paint. And eventually she tears her eyes from it to gaze out at the night beyond.

She wishes Bobby were there with her, though she knows wishing such things is silly. In a different life, she muses, in a world free of trouble, they'd sit here, side by side, she and Bobby, their girls tucked up safe in bed. But Lizzie has not known that world these eight long years. This is not that life. Her hate for Eddie Saunders boils up inside her. ‘You took my husband,' she whispers to the dark. ‘Please, God, don't take my baby, too.'