In the dyin firelight, he don’t see me crawl to the camper. I should’ve had it on me all along. An ember pops in the background. Two or three ticks on a watch pass, if that, and that fast, I know what I have to do.
I pull my shotgun from its pegs and inch back down the camper’s rickety wooden steps, my mind animal keen.
He struggles with Nessa, his hand clamped over her mouth, swearin at the thing hangin limply between his legs like a tree limb struck by lightnin.
I give him no warnin’, my finger cocked and the trigger pulled by a hatred floodin’ me bigger than the creek swollen with ten spring rains.
I aim for the heart.
At the last minute, he turns toward me, and I blow a hole through his upper arm. The slug passes clear through his hide, thunkin into the hickory behind him.
“Stay down, Nessa!”
“You fuckin’ bitch!”
He shoves Jenessa away and she crashes to the ground. I hear my voice, clear and true, betrayin’ nothin’ of my intentions. But boy, do I have me some intentions.
“Go in the camper, Jenessa, and lock the door behind you. Don’t you dare come out until I come get you myself, you hear?”
She’s a frozen heap on the ground, but I know she can hear me. I have no choice but to yell at her.
“GO! Get your skinny ass in that camper NOW!”
In that moment, it’s like I’ve prodded her with a white-hot poker. She scrambles to her feet, wailin’, but she don’t make a sound. I stand in front of them, half-naked, but I don’t feel shame. I’m a mountain lion landin’ on the back of a whitetail buck. I’m the rapids rippin the river to shreds, pretty to watch but able to kill.
I see it in his eyes, fightin to sober up quick: He thinks I’m crazy. He must have me confused with Mama. I’ve never been like Mama.
Once I hear the lock click, I turn to him.
“I’m comin’ back for your sister, bitch. For both of you. And I’ll keep comin’ back, if you catch my drift.”
He don’t think I’ll do it. My mouth slips into a crocodile smile. His stench lingers on my skin as his stickiness runs down my legs. I cock my shotgun. He runs.
He’s off tramplin bushes, getting’ thwacked in the face by low-hangin branches. He cuts a careless, sloppy trail. It’s perfect for trackin’ an animal.
I only have time to shove my feet into sneakers and grab the flashlight from a crate under the table before settin off after him, trackin’ him deeper and deeper into our Hundred Acre Wood. Soon, a heaven of stars map his trail. I see the violin constellation, the one I don’t know by its real name. More than once, its brightest star has been my point of navigation, leadin’ me back to the camper if I’ve wandered too far.
The man is mak’ decent time, if all be told, only he don’t know he’s travelin father into Obed. I follow stealthily, thankin’ Saint Joseph for all those years of practice huntin’ our own food. I’m a sure shot, exerci-sin a precision that comes from those things we do over and over again, day in, day out.
When I get close enough, I hear Mama’s voice in my head, her words slurred but true.
“We get what we deserve, Carey. Sometimes we’re the getters, and sometimes we’re the givers.”
I palm the flashlight, glad to have it. By the light of the moon, I see him bent over at the waist, palms on his thighs, breathin’ hard. When I snap a twig, he ups and dominates the clearin’, swackin and stabbin the night with a broken branch while turnin’ in circles.
Lookin’ for me. He’s naked from the waist up. He’s tied his sweat-stained T-shirt tight around his upper arm, I reckon to stop the bleedin.
When I’m close enough to smell him, I shoot straight toward his form, aimin’ at heart height. His mouth forms a scream that never comes. He collapses to the ground.
I circle him, careful not to get too close. I sweep the flashlight over his chest, his face. I see no signs of breathin’. I feel nothin’—no triumph, no remorse. Bness. Although my body shakes against my wishes, and I let it. He’ll make a bear or a pack of coyotes a right fine meal.
On my wrist, I’m wearin Mama’s watch, like I always do, the one she taught me time on. The one I’d used to teach Jenessa. Checkin’ it, I see it’s taken more than forty-five minutes to get back to the camper, and it’s a lucky thing. No one wants a corpse rottin close to their camper. He’s too heavy to drag or carry, and diggin graves is an act of respect.
The river sees everythin’ and is cold to the marrow, but I peel off my T-shirt and wade in up to my chin, the moonlight blue on my bare skin. I hold the shotgun over my head; I can’t get myself to put it down. The river cools off the swollen parts, baptizin me back into skin and bone and savin me into a new Carey, a Carey who, tonight, let go of childish things.