Blood of Cain

47

Courtney Burke finished eating a bowl of tomato soup she’d heated in the microwave, washed dishes, and folded extra towels for Boots. She refused to stay in the trailer for free, and doing some extra work for him was the right thing to do. She heard the 8:00 pm freight train cross the trestle over the creek, and she looked at the clock above the control panel on the microwave.

Leaving at dawn. Better pack my stuff. She half smiled. There was no stuff to pack. Not really. Another pair of jeans, underwear, and two T-shirts. She tried to remember the last time she wore a dress. Mama’s funeral … that was the last time. God, it felt like a hundred years ago. She thought about her grandmother, thought about what she must be going through listening to the news and all the crazy stuff about the senator’s wife, Sean O’Brien, and how she might be their daughter. Then she heard Boots’ falsetto voice echo in her mind. ‘This may sound like a strange question, but I’m strange, okay? Could your parents have adopted you?’

She felt hot, air difficult to get deep into her lungs. The last time she had an asthma attack she had been running, running from the carnival after Lonnie was murdered. She’d had her inhaler with her, but lost it later that night when Sean O’Brien kept those men away from her.

She opened the door to the trailer and stepped outside. The air was a little cooler, but not by much. She stood on the seawall and hugged her bare arms, sucking air into her lungs. Just breathe, stay calm. She looked up and saw a firefly a few feet from her face. Her breathing became easier, back to normal. She bit her lower lip and felt a warm stream of tears roll from her eyes, down her cheeks, falling into the creek. She was so tired, and so alone. She looked up at the moon peeking through the marshes, reflecting from the dark water. There was the solitary hoot of an owl across the creek.

She turned to go back to the trailer.

A noise.

The sound of something moving near the right side of the trailer — close to the canoes. Gun’s too far away — inside. Courtney stood there. Barely breathing. Heart racing. A shadow moved by the garbage can. Gradually, a fat raccoon looked up at her from behind a hard plastic trash can, the black mask around its eyes like a burglar in the night. Courtney smiled. “Hello, Mr. Coon. You scared the dickens outta me. Sorry, but you won’t get much from that. I’ve been eating soup, and we recycle the cans.” The raccoon stood on its hind quarters for a moment, sniffed the breeze off the water, and waddled across the yard.

Courtney saw lightning in the distance, to the east. Maybe rain will cool things down. She walked back to the trailer, went inside, and locked the door behind her. She undressed and crawled into bed, her mind racing, the heat in the small trailer building. The last sound she heard was the train in the distance crossing the trestle over Bullfrog Creek.

She was awakened by another noise. She sat up in bed, the oscillating fan on the dresser pushing hot air around her bedroom. Darn, hardheaded coon. Go away. Then, the sound stopped. She could hear the frogs and cicadas competing in a rousing nocturnal tug-of-war chorus. The sound of thunder rolled a few miles away. How much time before daylight? She tossed and turned on the hard bed, her sheets and flat pillow damp with perspiration.

How long had it been since the train rolled by, heading to some northern city? An hour? Maybe two? She lay there, wishing for the morning sunlight to slip through the cracks in the venetian blinds. But now it was dark, so dark she couldn’t see her hand in front of her face. There was a whine near her ear. A mosquito. She scratched at her forearm and sat up in bed. She flipped on the light, looking around the room for the mosquito. It alighted on her left arm. She smacked it, leaving a red stain of blood the size of a nickel. “Oh crap,” she said, walking into the kitchen to wash the blood off her arm and hand.

Standing at the sink, she felt it getting harder to breathe, to fill her lungs in the hot trailer. She turned out the light, unfastened the lock on one window, slid the glass up, and put her face close to the screen. The cooler air felt good on her damp skin. She sucked air into her lungs, and closed her eyes a moment.

A dog barked.

Fast barking. Courtney recognized it as Clementine the cockatoo. But this wasn’t her normal imitation of a dog bark. It was her frightened mock barking — of a dog agitated, in fear. She remembered what Boots had said: ‘Clementine may be able to imitate sounds, but in her tiny bird brain she has a sixth sense about real threats. Heed her warning.’

Courtney looked up at the Fish Camp office. The lights were coming on. One … two … lights turned on, then the side floodlights illuminated the perimeter yard. Courtney saw the silhouette of a man standing near the office. She could see a pistol in one hand. Her heart slammed in her chest. She grabbed blue jeans, shimmied into them, and pulled a T-shirt over her head. She took the Beretta out of a drawer and scooped up the keys to the truck. If there was more than one intruder, maybe she could create a diversion to save Boots’ life. She lit a candle on the kitchen table, turned on the gas stove without igniting the pilot light, quietly opened the door, and stepped out into the night.

Clementine started the barking sounds again. In less than five seconds, the barks ended. Courtney ran by the canoes on blocks, keeping low. She pressed against the wooden fence that went from the trailer up to the office and the circular drive where the truck was parked. The fence was covered in blooming bougainvillea. She tried to keep the orange and tangerine trees between her and whoever had entered where Boots lived and worked. She was shaking. Breathing shallow. Adrenaline pumping into her bloodstream. A taste like ashes on her tongue. She was frightened for Boots. Was the man inside? Did Boots have his gun? Did he have time to get it?

She held the Beretta in both hands and stayed in the darkest shadows. Lightning flashed in the distance. In that second, she saw two men enter the office from two different doors. Both had guns.

Go! Run! Take the keys, jump in the truck. Leave. She fought the strong urge to flee. Run hard and fast to the truck. She remembered one thing her father had taught about hunting deer. ‘You can stalk a buck all day. Maybe never get off a shot. Or you can surprise him from a stand and bring a buck to his knees with a clean shot.’

She stayed in the long shadows cast by the royal palm trees. Moving closer to the office. She knew the layout. Bedrooms. Kitchen. Bathrooms. Screened porch that served as an aviary. The make-shift lobby. Where would Boots be at the moment? She heard noises — a man yelling. Another man said, “Where’s the girl?” She couldn’t hear Boot’s voice. Then there was a noise that sounded like the thrust of a bottle rocket — a staccato puff sound.

Within seconds, the two men were coming out of the screened door. She ducked behind a sago palm tree. They ran right by her. Courtney stood, raised the pistol, and aimed. She could hear her father’s voice, his advice about deer hunting. But these were men, not deer. She lowered the Beretta as the men went around to the front of the trailer. She heard them kick in the door. Three seconds later, the trailer exploded in a massive white and orange ball of fire that rose higher than the live oak by the creek.

Even from the distance, she could feel the heat against her face and exposed arms. She turned and ran into the aviary, stopping at the base of the T-stand. Clementine was on her back, her neck broken. Courtney held her hand to her mouth, tears forming. She ran in the office and froze as she entered the lobby. Boots lay in a pool of dark blood, a single bullet wound between his open eyes.

“Oh God!” Courtney cried out. She ran backwards, stumbled to the bathroom and vomited in the toilet. She picked herself up and ran from the building, hands shaking so much she couldn’t get the key into the truck ignition. She started the engine, pulled away from the circular drive and drove off into the night. When she glanced up into the rearview mirror, the flames looked like the plume of a fiery volcano.