Page 14

THE TRACTOR sputtered to a stop in the middle of the trail.

Smoke rolled from the exhaust pipes as it stammered to life, then stalled again.

“Shit. I must be out of gas.” At least once a week, I took soiled straw and wood chips from the stalls out to the far back of the property where I kept the compost pile.

I made sure to steer clear of Dad’s grave so he couldn’t tell me all the things I had done wrong.

Remnants of his voice flittered in the air around my head. “What’s wrong with you, fat-ass? Just because you eat like a hog doesn’t mean you can feed the chickens that much scratch.”

Sometimes the nit-picking made me mad, other times I just rolled my eyes. “Are you stupid or something? Don’t you remember anything I taught you? You need to pull the eggs early in the morning instead of just before lunch. ”

I talked out loud more often than not; no one else was around, might as well have conversations with myself. The only other voices I heard were from the news anchors on channel four.

Late at night, I would fall asleep to the eleven o’clock news while waiting for the weather report for the next day.

It had been an easy summer; temperatures hovered between sixty and seventy during the day and dropped to forty at night.

After a fully frozen winter, it had been nice to work outside without a parka.

Without my mom’s cooking expertise, I didn’t eat as much as I had in the past. My dad’s insults about how fat I was rang true in my head every time I looked in the mirror.

Working the farm alone allowed my muscles to expand and my excess fat to disappear. Before my mom died, I stood a respectable five foot eight. At the end of the summer, I had to duck to see the top of my head in the mirror on the bathroom vanity.

Every day after my chores were done, I visited Mom in the backyard. I brought her a glass of iced tea with a slice of lemon, just how she likes it—liked it. Until I ran out of lemons.

We talked about ways to keep weeds from popping up in the garden and how to get rid of the infestation of snails.

If my tomatoes were going to produce as much as I needed for canning, they must stay healthy.

We discussed the best number of chicks to allow to hatch versus how many chickens to freeze.

Everything I tried to do on my own failed.

Reluctant to keep with her old ways, eventually I gave in. Mom was always right.

Even though I never got any concrete answers, I still felt better after confiding in her.

She had always been a good listener. “I'm not sure I'll ever be able to come to terms with what I've done. I can’t stop thinking about pulling the trigger. On the other hand, it was him or me. Wasn’t it? It had been self-defense.

“What happens when someone finds out, though? I can’t hide in plain sight forever.

School starts soon and I’ll need to register.

At some point, the bank is going to come, right?

They’ll want to take the house. I don’t know how to pay any of the bills.

Even though you used to talk about getting delinquency notices, I don’t know how to make a payment. ”

I had overheard Mom and Dad fight about money; she never understood why he refused to pay the bills on time when he made more than most people in Alaska.

They would fight about where his money went.

She even accused him of having women on the side.

After the first time she yelled at him, I heard a thud and their arguing stopped.

“I miss having someone my age to hang out with and wish I could invite Scott over. But I know I wouldn’t be able to keep my stupid mouth shut. I’d end up showing him everything and risk the cops finding out.”

Every few days I would thumb through the photos in the album I saved.

“I love this picture of us. Even if Dad did take it. Your hugs are the best—were.” I sighed.

“I felt so safe when you put your arms around me and squeezed. I’m sorry I used to complain that it was too tight; I just didn’t want Dad to think I was soft. ”

I flipped the page and smiled. My mom had been so pretty in her youth.

“This one is great, too. Soloman loved you.” Dad bought the horse the year they moved to the farm. He said he had to give her something to keep her busy. Otherwise, she constantly begged to go here or there, and he didn’t have the time or money.

“He’s getting used to riding beside the river. Doesn’t spook like he did at first. You’re right, by the way, bareback is a totally different experience. We’re both getting used to that, too.”

Birds chirped in the tree above where Mom rested in her grave. A slight breeze cooled my tired body. I tilted my head back and soaked in the sunshine. The warmth made me drowsy.

Just as I was about to doze off, Mom whispered, “Be careful,” then brushed the hair from my eyes. I smiled, happy to feel her touch. Or was that just the wind?

At the end of our conversation, I poured her tea around the base of the roses I planted near her tree. The plant had grown to over three feet tall in just two months. The blooms made a perfect centerpiece for the table; I picked one stem every night and put it in a vase with fresh water.

On my walk to the house, I hoped there would be enough sunlight to have dinner on the back porch with Mom. At the end of the summer, the sun began to set earlier every night. Winter was coming and I needed to start preparing.

RED AND BLUE lights flashed from the middle of the driveway. The SUV door closed, and a police officer strolled to the front door. He took his time getting to the steps, gazing from left to right, surveying the yard around the house.

With one hand rested on his pistol he seemed to be on guard, as if someone had tipped him off to the killer who lived on this property.

From my vantage point behind the closed barn door, I watched him through a crack where the trim had rotted away after last year’s wet winter. He climbed the stairs and turned in a circle, investigating the open space between trees along the driveway.

Once his gaze landed on the barn, he stopped. I couldn’t make out his facial features through the falling dusk, but I swear he smiled.

Even though I had been certain I was incognito, I still flattened against the wall, out of sight. Metal garbage cans lined the wall beside me, and buckets hung from the rafters. Careful to lace my way between them without making a sound, I held my breath.

Thoughts rambled around my head and exited in the form of questions to the universe. Why is he here? Who called the police? Do they know what I did? I shook the absurd ideas away. No, that’s impossible. Isn’t it?

The screen door to the house opened with a squeak—I made a mental note to bring the WD-40 in from the pumphouse—then he raised his hand to knock on the door. When no one answered, of course, he backed away and let the door slam behind him.

Not expecting the sound, which resembles a gunshot, I jumped. Buckets clanked together above my head, and I tripped into the garbage cans. Angry that I made such a ruckus, I cursed under my breath and kicked the stall door. Chickens stirred; their clucking added to the noise.

“Shit.” I shimmied to the stall, closed the door with a thud, and huddled in one corner. The same corner where I hid when my dad hit my mom. My view was blocked by walls; I had no idea if or when the cop would enter the barn.

Did he hear all the noise I made? My heart beat faster at the unknown. Where was he? Is he coming to get me? Does he know what I did? Adrenaline pumped through my veins, and I grew hot.

The officer must have heard the commotion; he pushed the sliding barn door open and called into the darkness. “Jake Knight? Are you in there?”

Shit. He knows my name. Of course he does, jackass. Why else would he be here? He knows you’re a murderer.

“Son, come on out. I just want to ask you a couple questions. I tried to reach your parents, but no one has seen them all summer. Just looking for some answers.”

He knows. I lifted up on my toes just enough to peer over the stall wall into the large open area of the barn. The police officer had pulled his pistol and held it at arm’s length in front of him. Slow, methodical steps told me he was on guard, expecting me to attack.

Rusted latches held the stall door to the pasture closed. The last time Soloman used this stall was almost three months ago. Lots of things have changed since my parents died. The barn had quickly become off-limits to the animals; if I couldn’t enter it to care for them, neither would they.

My hands shook as I twisted and jimmied the latch. The more it rattled, the more I panicked. Finally, it clanked open. I pushed my way through the small opening and ran into the night .

A shot rang out from behind me. My shoulder erupted with pain, and I screamed.

A second shot sounded just before the outside of my thigh burned.

I was hit. I had always wondered what it would feel like to be shot.

It hurt more than I imagined. All the animals my dad had killed while hunting must have gone through the same experience.

Trees provided cover as I ran toward the road. Even though bears were often spotted in the area, they were my last concern with the officer on site.

The Pass, as locals called this area of the Kenai Peninsula, offered many reasons to stay on alert, including cougars, moose, and giant mosquitos. Being chased by the cops was not on the list. Until now.

I had a choice to make: either run next door to the Madison place where they had an underground bunker I could lock myself inside or hide in the woods. Choice two didn’t seem feasible, so I decided to go to the Madison property. It would take at least thirty minutes to go the back way.