Dark Sky (Joe Pickett #21)(68)

“Jus’ cuz you cain’t fug her no mo’,” Brad said.

Earl froze. “What did you say?”

“She’s god. Your liddle Princess. You’re puddin’ us frew dis ’cause you cain’t fug her no mo’.”

Earl turned to Kirby.

Kirby hesitated a moment. His face was ashen, and Earl was pretty sure it wasn’t from his injury.

“Kirby, what did he say?”

“He said, ‘Just because you can’t fuck her anymore, you’re putting us through all of this.’”

Kirby’s tone wasn’t sarcastic or mocking like it usually was, Earl noted. Kirby said the words cautiously.

“Are you sure he said that?” Earl asked.

“Yes.”

Earl wheeled in his saddle and hit Brad with the butt of his rifle in his shattered jaw. Brad cried out and fell to the ground beside his horse with a heavy crash.

Earl was on him in seconds, moving faster than he had in years, and he brought the rifle butt down again and again, even though Brad managed to parry a few of the blows. Brad lay on his back with his knees in the air and his arms out in front of his face. He didn’t try to fight back. All Earl could see was the massive form of his son writhing through a curtain of red.

“Dad, stop it,” Kirby cried out. “You’re killing him.”

Earl saw an opening between Brad’s forearms and slammed the rifle butt through it and into his chest. Brad wheezed and rolled over to his side, exposing the side of his neck.

Earl took aim and raised the rifle when Kirby shouted, “Dad, stop it!” Kirby sounded panicked, which was unusual for his second son.

Earl hesitated. He was out of breath and the red curtain faded away. Brad groaned beneath his feet and turned his bloody head toward him. His expression reminded Earl of the last look from a severely wounded animal before he cut its throat. The look was dispassionate and almost understanding in regard to what was about to happen.

Instead, Earl spun the rifle around and lowered the muzzle until it was pressed against the flesh of Brad’s forehead. His son’s eyes were white and wide and they stared stupidly up at him.

“Do not ever say anything like that to me again,” Earl said calmly.

“I won’d,” Brad replied. He sounded like he was gargling at the same time.

“If you do, I’ll kill you. I’ll kill you.”

Brad blinked his agreement and his understanding.

Earl turned on his heel and walked away to cool down. As he did, he glanced over his shoulder. Kirby had dismounted and was helping Brad get to his feet. Brad staggered and Kirby held him up and tried to steady him. They embraced for a moment and then pulled away so they could look into each other’s eyes. Something passed between them, something unsaid.

Earl fought an urge to turn, raise his rifle, and shoot them both down.

For the thousandth time in the last year, he asked himself why Sophia had been taken away from him, leaving these two in her place.

The guilt he felt about Sophia was paralyzing to him at times. It wasn’t her fault, it was his. He recalled her firmness, her smell, her blond hair, her innocence. The fact that she was the only female in the house after his wife left him. Her realization that what he asked of her was wrong, and his pledge to her to stop, now that she was older.

But before he could follow through on that pledge, Steve-2 Price had intruded, and he’d taken her away from him. Before he could make things right.



* * *



—

After he’d walked it off and wiped tears from his eyes no one would ever see, Earl returned to his sons and the horses. No one said a word.

This was how a Thomas male dealt with things, Earl thought: by not addressing them once the storm had passed. It had served them well over the years.

Earl mounted up and said, “We better get going if we’re going to find that asshole.”

“What about Joe?” Kirby asked.

“Fuck him,” Earl said. “He didn’t have to protect that prick or shoot either one of you. What happens, happens. He brought this on himself.”

“Fuggin’ ride,” Brad replied.

Brad was back in the fold, Earl thought. Kirby, he wasn’t as sure about.





TWENTY-TWO


The Vibram sole of Joe’s boot slipped off the icy surface of a perfectly round river rock in the dark and he lost his balance and performed a clumsy dance from rock to rock, his arms windmilling, until he hurtled away from the creek as if launched and hit face-first into the trunk of a spruce tree, where he collapsed in a jumble of arms, legs, and the J. C. Higgins Sears and Roebuck Model 41.

He found himself sitting down with his back to the trunk and his legs spread as bright yellow spangles passed across his vision like so many electric clouds.

“Wow,” Price said from where he’d been stepping from rock to rock on the creek bed. “That was quite a spectacular crash.”

Then, after a beat: “Are you okay?”

Joe closed his eyes, but the spangles didn’t quit. He did a mental assessment of his limbs and torso. Nothing broken, he didn’t think. He reached up and touched the growing goose egg above his right eyebrow with the tips of his fingers. He didn’t feel any blood.

“I’m okay, sort of,” he said. “But I need a minute.”