My father was there ahead of us, of course, the confined space and tattooed hand ruining our chance. My father caught Janie by the hair and yanked her backward. She fell, clutching at her scalp and screaming.
“Let her go!” I grabbed the corpse-white hand snared in her hair, trying to ease the tearing.
He shoved her away. Caught my wrist instead and whipped it to the side, pulling my arm straight and exposing my ribs. He punched, then kneed my ribs, the ones that were newly healed, and maybe not as well healed as I’d thought.
I collapsed. He didn’t let go of my arm, but twisted it up behind my back, driving his weight on my shoulder until the joint screamed and so did I, scrabbling on the ground like a beetle having its legs torn off.
My arm came out of the shoulder socket with a wet crack.
I screamed, almost drowning Janie’s yell as she tried to tackle my father from behind.
She was so slight, and he so big, that she barely swayed him. He let go of my ruined arm and flipped her off his back one-handed.
I rolled onto my side, clutching my shoulder. Got my knees under me, then my feet. Stood swaying.
Adrenaline sewage-dumped into my veins.
The man with the tattooed hand lifted Janie off the floor, hands not taking care what parts of her they grabbed as he hauled her up.
My father strolled toward me, calm as you imagine Death would be.
“So, Jason,” he said, giving a sideways smile and a this-one’s-for-you nod to Michael, “where’s the bag?” He pulled a long face, a comedian going for a laugh. “Outside?” The fang-grooves over his canine teeth reappeared.
My foot edged along the wall. I couldn’t stop myself from backing up. Couldn’t stop my eyes from darting to Janie, twisting in the tattooed hand’s grasp.
I let go of my shrieking shoulder, cocking the fist of my good arm.
“He’s a lying piece of shit who wants to watch you beat me to death,” I told him. “And then he’ll kill you.”
My father started laughing, cutting too-round, ain’t-that-something eyes to his audience.
Michael laughed, too. If I saw a moment of appraisal in my father’s eyes, it didn’t last. He saw what everyone saw: prom king, golden boy, someone with a future assured, a future they wouldn’t risk.
Right assessment, wrong conclusion.
My father turned back to me, massive hands flexing like he was preparing to bench a weight.
“He has the van.” I gestured to the backpack. “And that’s all there was.”
My father smiled and nodded like he thought as much. Took a step closer.
My foot wedged in the corner. No more room to back away. No way out.
“Now, Jason. Time to give it up.” My father fired a huge hand out, batted my injured shoulder with a quick pop before I could dodge.
I gasped, twisted, and realized too late that was what he wanted. He grabbed my shoulders and drove me to the ground. I tasted blood.
And since he wasn’t thinking about the school, or the truant officer, or the social worker, or anything else, he punched me in the face.
My nose snapped. Blood gushed out my nostrils, flowed over my lips and into my mouth. I brought my hands up, tried to jab or claw him, tried to remember myself.
As someone who fought back.
He punched me in the stomach, ramming his fist into my solar plexus again and again until I couldn’t tense around it.
His thick fingers gripped my neck. Cut the blood off and put me out in seconds.
I struggled awake, through pain, through layers of mental cotton that smothered my thudding heartbeats.
My eyes opened.
He smiled down at me. His fingers rested on my throat.
“Where is it, Jason?” He lifted a knee, settled it on my dislocated shoulder. “Where?”
Pain sparks flared behind my eyes.
I strained against the weight on my shrieking shoulder, gagging on blood from my broken nose.
His fingers clenched around my windpipe. Something in my throat broke with a wishbone snick. His grip eased off, letting me grab wisps of oxygen.
“Talk.”
I reached my good arm up. Scratched his hand. Gouged his arm and neck, straining for his eyes or his nose, just out of my grasp. I made his arm run with blood, but he didn’t move, didn’t flinch, just kept squeezing and easing off his grip, giving me a few sips of air. Squeezing and easing.
I passed out.
Came to moments later, my arms flopping by my sides. Heard my sister sobbing.
Wanted to tell her I was sorry. For getting into Michael’s car that day. For taking his money. For thinking I could stay in control of any of it.
I wanted to tell her she’d be all right without me, if only so I could believe the lie.
Don’t watch this, Janie. Close your eyes.
Telescoping haze constricted my vision. My chest filled with lava that burned through my heart and dripped chunks of impotent fury onto my roiling stomach.
Black, churning waters pulled at my heels. Filled my lungs and spread into my throat.
“You’ll kill him before he’ll tell you.” Michael’s voice, close by.
My father’s admiration was grudging. “He’s a tough little shit.”
“He’s what you made him.” Michael watched my face with murderous avidity.
Watching for the moment of death.
I reached out to him, my hand stretching, something I couldn’t control even though I knew it wouldn’t change anything.
“You’re killing him.” Michael’s tone was conversational.
My father merely grunted acknowledgment. I blinked, refocusing. Was there a chance he would stop in time?
My heart skittered, stopping and starting like a stalled engine. My vision narrowed, Michael’s face, the fang-grooves over my father’s mouth.
“Wait,” Michael said.
My father eased off, slapped my cheeks. Over his shoulder, Michael grinned at me. A gun appeared in his hand. Michael showed it to me, feigning surprise at finding it there. He held the gun before his stomach, so the man with the tattooed hand couldn’t see it.