White Space

That had to be wrong. They ought to be home by now. He tried to recall if they’d passed a single town. There were three on the way to the cabin, seen from the trails as glittering strings laced through the trees like Christmas decorations, but he didn’t remember having seen any towns or lights at all, and now they were on a road curling around a mountain that shouldn’t exist, not in Wisconsin. When had they left the snowmobile trail?

He said, “Case, how long have we been on this road?”

“I don’t …” Whatever Casey said next was garbled by static.

“Say again, Case.”

More static. “I … ember. It …”

Interference from the storm, he guessed, which made some sense. Their system was old and hardwired into each sled’s battery, with headsets plugged into jacks. Eric did a quick peek and tapped the side of his helmet to signal Case to say again. A second later, there was more fuzz, and then Casey’s voice stuttered through the hash: “… said I don’t remember. I’ve been following you and … peekaboo, I see you. You can’t run, you can’t hide, and it’s time, boy, time to come down and play, come and plaaay, come …”

Jesus. “Case?” Eric twisted to look back at his brother. “What are you—”

Whatever had his throat cinched down tight.

Because Big Earl was there, right behind him, slouched in the rumble seat.

Big Earl, who was …

2

“IS HE DEAD?” Casey’s cheeks are streaked with tears; a slick of snot smears his upper lip. His jeans puddle around his ankles. The whippy wood switch has slashed right through Casey’s flannel shirt, scoring the boy’s skin with angry red wheals and splashes of blood. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

“I don’t know.” But that’s a lie. In the space of eight months, the Marines have turned him from a gawky eighteen-year-old kid into a very fine killing machine. So he knows. His right hand cramps, and he forces his fingers to relax. The empty bottle of Miller Lite—Great Taste! Less Filling!—thuds to the cabin’s rough floorboards. Eric watches the bottle roll a halfturn, then another, and butt his father’s left leg.

Big Earl doesn’t flinch, and is beyond telling Eric just how badly he’s going to hurt him. Instead, Eric’s father stares up at the bare rafters, his muddy brown eyes at half-mast, his liverish lips sagging in a slack O. There is something off about Big Earl’s head. That dent in his left temple, mainly. A thick red tongue leaks from the split in his father’s scalp. More blood dribbles from his left ear to soak into a tired braid rug.

A blast of wind buffets the cabin. The windows rattle in their frames with a sound like bones. That breaks the spell. Blinking away from the body, Eric looks up. The afternoon is nearly gone, dark only a couple hours away.

They have to get out. They can’t stay here. He has to think. He can’t think. What’s wrong with him? The world has gone a little soft around the edges, a bit out of focus. The cabin’s hot, the air sullen with the stink of rancid beer and fresh blood. Maybe call the police? No, no, they’ll throw him in jail, and he doesn’t deserve that. This isn’t his fault. Big Earl pulled his gun; Big Earl squeezed the trigger.

They have to get out.

Sidestepping the body and a litter of empties scattered around a puke-green Barcalounger, Eric goes to his brother. “Come on, Case,” he says, gently. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

“Oh-okay.” Casey’s flop of blond hair is damp with sweat. His eyes, an indefinite storm-cloud gray and now watery and red-rimmed, slide to Big Earl. Casey makes a strangled sound. “I’m going to be sick, I’m going to …”

They get to the kitchen sink just in time. Afterward, Eric turns on the cold water full blast. The cabin has a septic system and no garbage disposal. They’ll probably stop up the pipes. Big Earl always yelled when they clogged the johns: Who the hell used the whole roll on his ass?

“Hang on.” Eric snatches an old dishrag from a towel bar, soaks the cloth in cold water, and wipes his brother’s mouth. “Better?”

“Yeah.” Tears leak over Casey’s cheeks. “I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault.” Eric pitches the soiled rag into the garbage can under the sink. “It was an accident.”

Actually, it was self-defense. The sight of Big Earl standing over Casey with that switch of whippy ash; the whickering sound that damn thing made as it cut the air … Something in Eric just broke. Eighteen years of pain and empty promises: God, enough was enough. Two long strides, and then he was wrestling away the switch, snapping it over his knee. Big Earl had turned with a drunken bellow—and that’s when Eric saw the Glock in his father’s fist, the bore larger than the world. Eric ducked as the gun roared. A bullet zinged by his ear, but then the bottle was in Eric’s hand and he swung.

And like that, Eric’s future went poof! Up in smoke.

3