Ike Hamill - The Hunting Tree Trilogy

“Prolly not,” said Horace. “Bitch like that prolly forgot her purse at home, but better safe than sorry.”

Davey thought of various things to say, but didn’t want to commit to an opinion until he got a better handle on what was happening.

“So, John, how old are you, ehnways?” asked Horace.

“I’m thirteen,” said Davey.

Horace nodded and ran his tongue over his teeth behind his chapped lips. “Whatcha runnin’ from?”

“My stepdad,” said Davey. “He hits me.”

“Yup,” Horace said, raising his eyebrows and shooting a glance at Davey. “My old man was like that too. It’s a real bitch.”

Davey nodded in rhythm with Horace and looked down at his own hands. He absently rubbed them together, but made himself stop.

“My old man broke horses. Di’nt he love to beat things, though,” said Horace, smiling to himself. “Wasn’t gonna matter whatcha did, or di’nt do, sumthin’ was gonna get stove up.”

A mile passed before Horace spoke again. He attempted to engage Davey in conversation—“My dad usetah say that a horse never really trusts you, he only trusts his ability to get away from you. You know?”

“No sir,” said Davey.

“He’ll come close,” Horace explained, “but only if he knows there’s room to run. Get it?”

“Yes.” Davey looked out his window and watched the trees passing. He knew fear—he feared the monster stalking him in the night and what he would do to his family and even himself. And Davey knew threats as well; he had fought off teasing and bullies a few times that year. The sense he got from his new traveling companion was both more immediate and more direct. Davey felt almost like he was leaning over a tall cliff, but without the thrill of knowing that he could move away from the edge.

“So muh’dad would let that horse think he had room to run, but then he’d trick ’em. Trick ’em good, too,” said Horace. “Funny thing—only one Sunday a month would one of ’em get the notion to really fight once he was tricked. Most times they’d just put their heads down and wait for the hammer. Old man would bring it, too. Can you pitcher that?”

“Yes sir,” said Davey. He squeezed his arms close to his body and chewed on a fingernail. He didn’t need to recall the warnings about strangers imparted by his mom, he was certain that Horace meant to do him harm. His thoughts quickly shifted from worrying about living through the next week to simply finding a way through the next twenty-four hours.

“Almost like he was mad at ’em for givin’ up.” Horace chuckled and flipped on his turn signal. Davey looked ahead and saw the stop sign, but Horace traced the direction of his glance and barely slowed down for the turn. He rolled through the stop sign with his hand on the emergency brake, ready to haul Davey back in if he should decide to take his chances with the moving pavement.

“You seem all done up alluvasudden,” said Horace, glancing down at Davey.

“No sir,” said Davey, eyes fixed forward. He jumped when Horace’s right hand landed on his thigh. The man’s coarse palm slid up and down along Davey’s jeans, rubbing the fabric uncomfortably against his skin. Horace squeezed Davey’s thigh as he flipped on his signal and swept into a wide turn onto a dirt drive.

“I hope you don’t mind,” said Horace. “I’ve got to stop at the house for a second.”

Davey swallowed hard and tried to slow his pounding heart. He tried to ignore the man’s abrasive hand scratching his skin through his jeans, but each time the hand rose up it brushed closer to Davey’s privates. Davey tasted thick, sour acid in his mouth as his teeth drew blood from his mangled cuticle. His muscles, tensing and pulsing with his desire to run, already felt weak as if he had run a marathon sitting in this car.

Without understanding his own motive, Davey flicked his bleeding finger at the man’s hand. A tiny drop of bright-red blood stood out on the back of Horace’s craggy hand. Horace didn’t notice; he focused on moving his hand closer and closer to breaking several more laws.

Horace kept the car moving fast as he pulled up to the trailer in the woods. Davey scanned the property and readied himself to spring from the car. Horace finally lifted his hand from Davey’s thigh as he jammed on the brakes, flopping Davey into the restraint of his seatbelt. Just as Davey recognized his one chance for escape, Horace’s fist came crashing down on the side of Davey’s head, snapping it to the right. The man said something, but Davey’s world had turned gray and he couldn’t follow the words.

“YOU ALL RIGHT?” Horace asked.

Davey blinked and shook his head, trying to find his vision in the dark room. The only sources of light were tiny cracks and seams around the windows and door, and a pair of dusty lava lamps in the corners.

“Hitcha a little harder than I shoulda,” admitted Horace. “You was out for a good piece. I di’nt wanna hafta wrestle you all the way ’cross the yard.”

Davey put his hand to his head and looked down at himself. He sat in the corner of a long couch, across from Horace who sat on the edge of a rocking chair, leaning forward.

“I di’nt do nuthin’ to ya,” said Horace. “Aside from that knock, that is,” he amended. “We’ll get to what you want, I promise.” He wagged his finger. “But I’m not feeling just right yet. You want some weed?”

Davey shook his head and stayed silent.

“What’s that? Can’t hear ya?” Horace prompted.

“No, thanks,” said Davey.

Horace reached down next to his chair and raised a tall plastic bong. Its transparent blue surface was covered with white skull stickers. The wrinkled man packed the bowl and puffed away, blowing a cloud of smoke towards Davey.

Davey wrinkled his nose and tried to not inhale until the smell had dissipated. He blinked hard several times, trying to bring himself back to full consciousness.

“I felt great just a minute ago,” said Horace. “It’ll pass. I know I’m a tease, makin’ you wait, but I want to give you my best.” He winked at Davey as he sucked in another bong hit.

Scanning the room, Davey inventoried the blacked-out windows and the thin line of sunlight beneath the door. He watched as Horace inhaled, hoping the man would pass out from the drugs. His captor coughed out another cloud of thick smoke.

“I’m saturated,” said Horace. He smiled and waved to Davey. “Why dontcha come over here for a minute. Maybe you can get me goin’?”

Davey bit down on his lower lip, not hard enough to draw blood, but enough to prepare himself for his escape attempt. He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly as he slid forward to the edge of the couch. He stayed quiet. He didn’t want Horace to guess his intentions until he was past the man’s rocking chair.

Davey kept the round table between himself and the door as he moved over to Horace. He didn’t know much about weed, but Davey suspected that it would slow Horace’s reactions, and give him an even better chance of escape. As he put one foot in front of the other, moving towards Horace’s beckoning wave, Davey willed the world to slow down. His foot slowed to slow, gentle arc, and Davey thought he had done it—he had slowed down the world like when he first fought Curtis. Glancing back up at Horace’s full-speed hand, Davey realized that he had succeeded in nothing more than walking extra slowly. Panic rose to his throat.

He didn’t know exactly what Horace intended to do. In his estimation, nothing good would happen in this dark, dirty trailer. When Davey reached Horace’s side, the wrinkled man’s hand shot up towards Davey’s wrist. This time Horace’s motion did slow to a crawl and Davey realized that the threat of being touched again by those leathery hands had triggered the slowdown that he couldn’t force.