The Reckless Oath We Made(77)

We couldn’t talk with Dane yelling anyway, so I opened the door, even though I figured it was bullshit. Gentry was standing in the hallway with Dane. I left them there and went out to the front room, where Dirk was watching the news.

“They found her dead,” he said. “The other hostage.”

“I know.” I felt the most cold-blooded relief that it was just more details about Molly Verbansky. Cause of death was manual strangulation, and the news people talked like the police were sure Molly had helped with the prison escape, because she was “romantically involved with Conrad Ligett.” For the first time, they started hinting that maybe LaReigne wasn’t innocent, either. All that told me was that the police cared even less about her safety than before.

“You see?” Dane said, standing in the doorway with Uncle Alva and Gentry. “Those are the kinda men you’re messing with. And you think you’re gonna track ’em down and get your sister back?”

“We’re gonna go into town and get a motel room,” I said.

“Why don’t you head back to Kansas, get a motel room after you cross the state line?” Dane said.

Uncle Alva doubled over coughing, and the look Dane gave him was pure contempt.

“Come on, Gentry,” I said.

We hadn’t unpacked much, so it only took a few minutes for us to get everything put back in our bags. I don’t know what was said while we were gone, but when we got downstairs, I could see it wasn’t anything good. Uncle Alva was standing at the kitchen sink. Dirk was at the back door, and Dane was out on the porch pacing up and down, smoking a cigarette.

“Just be cool,” Dirk was saying to him.

“Do you fucking know what they’re up to?”

“I know there’s no sense getting into a fight about it.”

When I stepped outside, Dane stopped pacing, but he didn’t say anything as Gentry and I went down the steps. Uncle Alva came after us, and together we walked across the yard to Gentry’s truck. Dane stayed on the porch, smoking and glaring. The sun was going down, but the outside lights hadn’t kicked on yet.

“I hate to see you go like this,” Uncle Alva said. Because I didn’t know what else to do, I hugged him. The butt of his gun pressed against my hip bone.

“I’ll call you and let you know where we’re staying,” I said.

“I reckon that’ll suit. Better than having somebody come around here while Dane’s bent outta shape.”

I let go of Uncle Alva and nodded. He turned back toward the house and, while Gentry put our bags in the back of the truck, I went around to get in on the passenger side. As I circled the hood, Dane came walking across the yard. Before he got to me, he took a drag off his cigarette and pitched it.

“Don’t you fucking do it,” he said. “I told you to go back to Kansas, and you damn well better.”

I ignored him and reached for the door handle.

“You seen what they did to that other woman. You think some Klansman is gonna sell out his brothers? More likely he’s coming to kill you. Maybe come around here and kill us, too.”

“I thought they were good old boys,” I said.

“I swear to god you better shut your smart mouth.”

Dane grabbed my arm and turned me around. I don’t know what he planned to do, but as soon as he touched me, Gentry came around the truck at full speed.

“I warned thee,” he said.

“And I’m warning you. You better get this bitch of yours under control before I—”

Gentry grabbed Dane’s elbow and did something to it that made Dane shut up and let go of me immediately. Then he turned and took a swing at Gentry.

They were completely mismatched. Dane was tall and lanky, and Gentry was short and stocky. I would have been afraid for Gentry, because Dane had better reach, but Gentry had a real boxer’s stance, and when Dane swung, Gentry dodged it. I backed way the hell up, because I didn’t want to catch a stray fist, but Gentry never even tried to punch Dane. He plowed into him, his right shoulder in the middle of Dane’s chest, and slammed him into the truck. Dane brought both his hands up, but before he could do anything, Gentry jabbed his left fist into Dane’s side, practically into his back. Both of Dane’s arms went floppy, and Gentry caught him around the waist and lowered him to the ground.

“Oh, damn!” Dirk said, as he ran across the yard. When he got to us, he squatted down and looked into Dane’s face. “I told you, man. I warned you not to mess with him.”

Dane didn’t answer. He was slumped against the truck’s rear wheel with his legs crumpled up under him and his hands limp at his sides. He looked pale and sweaty.

Gentry was shaking his left hand like it hurt, which it probably did. His right hand was in a fist, but not the clench and release he did when he was anxious. Just a loose fist. Turning away, he took a dozen steps across the yard to where the dog had watched the whole thing. The dog came as close as his chain would let him, so they were only a foot apart. Gentry stretched out his left hand. The dog sniffed it for a few seconds and then licked it.

“Gentry,” I said, but he wasn’t listening.

“You all right, bro?” Dirk looked at me. “Shit, he really done him. Right in the liver.”

“Gentry!” I tried again.

Dirk and I got Dane on his feet, and when I put my arm around him, I felt the gun tucked in the back of his belt. I pulled it out and handed it to Dirk. Then we walked Dane over to the front porch and lowered him down to sit on the steps.