GAME

by Janet E. Irvin

 

 

Ellis
lived alone now. He still wore his wedding ring, but the picture of him and
Nell rested in his sock drawer. His daughters lived too far away to do more than
fret about his withdrawal from the social commerce of the world. Hełd sold the
town home, donated all the extra furniture to a charitable cause, and demoted
his favorite pastimeshunting and playing pokerto scrapbooks and stories told
at Thanksgiving. Although he no longer saw a use for them, he kept his guns and
playing cards, markers against a future need, in the shed behind the house.
Some days he missed the young minds, the sharing of Aeschylus and Caesar, the
sense of making a difference, but he believed the students didnłt miss him. He
suffered under the self-induced stigma of irrelevance and hated it.

 

During
the daytime hours Ellis read or played fetch with the dog. At night he dreamed
about food, recalling favorite dinners in places he and Nell had traveled:
Istanbul, Prague, Athens, Rome. He passed the darkest hours poring through
accumulated recipes in search of the perfect meal. Today he intended to
duplicate the rabbit stew Nell had made the last time she was here. Settling
more firmly into the rusted porch rocker, the taste of meat and potatoes on his
mind, Ellis gathered his ghosts around his shoulders and started peeling. Down
by the creek a branch snapped. Deer, he thought. Ellis looked up.

 

A
boy stepped out of the tree stand that bordered the creek and limped toward the
house. He swung a stick in low, tight circles ahead of each step, looking for
snakes hidden among the thistles and rye grass. Ellis placed one large hand on
Catołs collar. In the other he cradled his paring knife. The potato slipped
loose and disappeared, forgotten, into the creases of his lap. Just west of the
giant beech, a stray slant of sun caught the boy from behind, firing his short
white-blond hair into a halo of brightness. Ellis rolled his shoulders slow and
easy to release their tension. “Ecce homo," he whispered. “Behold the
man." Cato thumped his tail once, his eyes and muzzle centered on the stranger.

 

The
boy moved like a wounded animal, stumbling through the rutted field. He
startled at the whine of a truck along the road, lifting his nose, turning his
head toward the noise. Ellis turned, too, the grind of shifting gears and the
drone of an engine just this side of a tune-up fragmenting the still moment
into shards of sound. The truck noise faded and the boy returned to beating the
weeds. Ellis returned to watching.

 

Carrying
his shoulders like they ached, the boy came on. He startled a second time at
the whir of birds breaking cover. The doves flew up in smoke gray circles,
filling the space above the boyłs head. Cato grumbled. Ellis, certain he still
held his camouflage in the shadow of the porch, hissed the dog quiet. Cautious
and silent, the boy drifted closer, stepping from the weeds to the bare dirt
patch of yard. He licked his lips at the sight of the hose and the bucket
waiting on the lip of the garden wall. Thatłs when Ellis noticed the dark
stains that streaked the boyłs hands, his face, and the clothes he wore. And
Ellis noticed something else. The boy wasnłt a boy after all.

 

Cato
raised up, the fur on his neck bristling. Ellis patted him down. “Stay," he
said. The boy who wasnłt a boy dropped the bucket, spilling water over the worn
hiking boots that peeked out beneath the cuffs of the tight, frayed jeans. She
shook her head, and her hair gathered in thin strands around her wet mouth. She
put up one hand. “WhereÅ‚d you come from?" she said, drawing her breath in one
long pull.

 

“WhereÅ‚d
you?" Ellis answered.

 

“I
donłt want no trouble." Her voice was a low burr of anxiety and bravado. She
raised the stick. “I donÅ‚t want to hurt your dog."

 

Ellis
and Cato stared at the girl. She stared back. Out on the road, the echo of the
same truck passing, grinding its way along. The girl crouched lower, grunting
with the effort of balancing on the leg that limped.

 

“I
donłt want to hurt your dog," she repeated, wiping the hair away from her lips,
brandishing the stick like a shield.

 

“And
he doesnłt want to hurt you. Absit invidia."

 

The
girl scowled. “WhatÅ‚d you call me?"

 

Ellis
heaved himself off the rocker. His body, heavy from wear and sorrow, objected,
needling him with small pains. One foot had gone to sleep. The potato in his
lap leaped out, bounced down the single step, and plopped in the dirt. Ellis
gestured with the knife. “No offense intended is what I said. In Latin. ItÅ‚s a
dead language." He shrugged.

 

She
looked at the sagging porch roof, the trees empty of leaves, the garden plot
lined with dried up plants and fallen tree limbs arranged in small tepees
waiting to be burned.

 

“Lots
of dead things around here," Ellis said. She almost smiled. Ellis thought it
was his voice that did it, broke the ice, opened a path to communion. His voice
and the potato. Maybe. He hadnłt always believed in his power to put people at
ease. Then he met Nell, and she taught him the way of it. She accepted the
contradiction of the country boy inside the university professor, the romantic
buried beneath his bulk and his deliberation. She used to say that his way with
words could tame a human same as a dog. Cato was proof of her philosophy when it
came to animals, but Ellis didnłt know about this girl standing in his back
yard, the water from the hose dripping down her chest, smearing the red from
her hands across the denim of her pant legs. Dripping blood in watery circles
on the dust of the yard.

 

“That
yours?" He used the knife again to emphasize his question. Best she know up
front hełd use it if he had to. Ellis had reason to fear strangers. Just this
morning he heard on the news about a woman whose car was stolen in Columbus
last week and then whoever stole it came back here, all the way to MacArthur,
not exactly on the way to anywhere, and broke into the womanłs house and killed
her. Only two country blocks away. Five miles, give or take, but still close.
And for what? A CD player and a handful of coins? Paper said she didnłt even
know the man. Howłd they know that, that she didnłt know the man? Ellis
wondered, while the boy who was a girl stood shaking in the angle of sun
peering from the west like a witness.

 

“Not
mine," she said, flinging the water from her fingers and running her hands down
her pants, shifting the stick back and forth as she worked. Caught in another
blaze of sunlight, she torched up and shone so bright Ellis had to squint his
eyes more than half shut just to look at her. Sixteen, maybe. Slender hands and
arms. Hard to tell with the loose T-shirt, but Ellis thought he detected a
womanłs softness to her chest and hips. Hełd watched his own girls growing up,
seen their subtle shifting from girl to woman. Cleaned up, she might be something.

 

“I
shouldnłt stay." She lifted her shoulders then and stared straight at Ellis,
her eyes dark and smeary with sweat and something else, something furtive.
Ellis thought it looked like shame. Or dismissal. He hated that.

 

Beside
him, Cato panted. Ellis released him and the chocolate Lab slipped down the
steps, moving in a cautious line around the girlłs still figure. She followed
the dog with her eyes, holding the stick in both hands. Making up his mind,
Cato barked once, but he didnłt wag his tail. He stayed well clear of the blood
patch, sniffing at the backs of her legs and pushing his muzzle against her
elbow.

 

“He
wonłt bite, if thatłs what youłre thinking."

 

“I
should leave," she said.

 

Cato
flopped in the dirt behind her. If she took a big step back, shełd land right
on him. Ellis wiped his face with the back of his hand. Howłd that dog get to
be so smart? Same as you. He heard Nellłs voice, spooling out the
kitchen window like it did before her heart did a double take and quit trying
to outrun fate. Training. He had to rub his face again to guard against
his tendency to speak out loud to the spirit of his dead wife. Ah, Nell.

 

“Got
some place to go then?" Ellis lowered himself back down, picked up another
Yukon Gold, and spiraled his way around the spud. When she didnłt answer, he
lifted his eyes from his work. She still held the stick, but her attention had
turned to the road.

 

Ellis
stayed seated and steady, his mind calculating the facts before him, but he
couldnłt make much sense of it. Teenage girls with bloodstained hands didnłt
wander across his land very often. He felt like a man anted up, unwilling and
unconsulted, in a game of chance. What cards had he been dealt here? What cards
were still to come?

 

“You
that professor guy?" The girlłs voice caught him thinking. He nicked his thumb
with the blade. “The one used to teach at that college? Hocking Hills? Rio
Grande?"

 

“Shawnee
State." Ellis sucked at the cut.

 

“Yeah.
I heard you used to live here."

 

“Still
do," Ellis said.

 

The
girl blushed. “ItÅ‚s late for tourists," she said.

 

“I
live here year round now." Ellis paused. He didnłt owe her any more than that. Careful,
Nellłs voice prodded. And then the words slipped out. He pinched his lips
together to keep them in, but some perverse remnant of hospitality remained to
taunt his reclusivity. “You hungry?" Ellis asked.

 

She
settled the stick like a walking cane and hobbled two steps closer. “I just
want some water."

 

“Help
yourself." Ellis whistled a tune he and Nell used to sing to the girls when
they were so small each one could fit in the palms of his large farmerłs hands.
He looked at the girl slurping at the cool, spring-fed water and thought he
should call the police. His own children would chastise him for taking chances,
but he sensed a mystery here and the novelty of it brushed up against his
solitude. He felt an invitation extended to ante up. When a man reaches toward
the end of things, Ellis rationalized, hełs entitled to a little sport.

 

He
finished the potatoes. Rinsing them in the bowl at his feet, he signed Cato to
his side and pulled open the back door. “ThereÅ‚s more than enough for two," he
said. He looked at the sky. The sunset coming on flung gauzy red streamers over
the arc of the western horizon. Red sky at night, he remembered, sailorłs
delight. Tonight would be cold but no frost yet here at autumnłs tail end.

 

The
door banged shut. He looked over his shoulder. The girl still stood by the
wall, shaking now with cold and whatever adrenaline rush had sent her into the
rugged southern Ohio hills in mid October. He raised his voice to carry through
the glass storm door. “YouÅ‚re welcome to come in, use the bathroom before you
go on. IÅ‚ll just feed Cato." He lumbered back out and whistled and the Lab came
to his side. They left together, Ellis huffing under the weight of the new bag
of dog food. Hełd store it in the shed next to the doghouse. Not that Cato
spent much time there. Since Nellłs passing, hełd become an inside dog.

 

Ellis
lifted the key off the nail and fitted it in the padlock chest high on the shed
door. Peering into the gloom, he acknowledged the garden tools, the snow
shovel, the cold frames where Nell used to plant her impatiens, the rifle and
shotguns anchored next to the rake, his skeet trophies lined up on the shelf at
eye height. He picked up a box of cards and slipped them into his pocket.
Perhaps shełd like to play a hand or two before they ate. He put his fingers on
the ledge again and felt along its length until he touched the forty-five, its
crosshatched handle rough against his palm. Lifting it down, Ellis checked the
safety, placed it back, grip out, the same ritual every time. Then he filled
Catołs dish and crouched, straining to lower his bulk, to pet the dog. He kept
one eye on the girl.

 

Across
the yard she stood, storklike and brooding, on one leg, calculating the
distance between the shed and the squat, tidy ranch house. He thought she had
made up her mind to go when he heard the truck passing once more. This time
Ellis fancied the driver slowing, then speeding up, like he was sighting down
the lanes of the neighborsł farms, of Ellisłs place. Thatłs when she bolted,
hop-stepping, dragging her hurt leg up the steps and through the door. He
waited five minutes. She didnłt come back out.

 

Shuffling
his way to the side of the house, Ellis stared over the cornfield that covered
the front two acres. The stalks, dried out and rustling now in the pre-twilight
breeze, waited to be cut. Manchester would come by tomorrow or the next day
with his harvester, mow them down, till them under. Until then, it would be
hard to see the house from the road during the day. Nighttime, however, anyone
passing could see the barn light, the lamps in the windows. Now why, Ellis
wondered, did I think of that?

 

Cato
finished his dinner, did a long body stretch, farted, and hustled to Ellisłs
side. When he and the dog entered the house, the girl was washing her face at
the sink. Her stick leaned against the counter. The paring knife rested by the
dish towel, taking up space. Ellis felt a cold prickle along his neck. Goose
bumps. Gravewalking. Scary stories by flashlight when Tammy turned ten and
Sarah, eight, called Scooter, begged him to tell them a story. Instead of
boogeymen or monsters under the bed, he told of Beowulf and Frankenstein and
the picture of Dorian Gray. Nell said he was the best at making them all
scared. Now he was scaring himself. Over the aroma of the stew, he detected the
odor of the girlłs sweat and the metallic blood smell from the stains on her
shirt and jeans.

 

The
girl dried her face and hands. She limped to the table and flopped onto one of
the chairs. “I used to like stew," she said, wrinkling her forehead. “Before."
She fiddled with the yellow place mat, rolling and unrolling the edge. When she
raised her eyes, Ellis thought he saw tears. To distract her, he plunked the
box of cards on the table and patted them with his hand. “Maybe we could play,"
he said.

 

The
girl poked at the deck and pushed it away. “You donÅ‚t want to play games with
me," she said, tossing her head and hiking up her jeans. “I always win."

 

Ellis
didnłt like the way she cut her eyes at him, the way her lip curled when she
said win. “Well," he said, “got an hour to go. TelevisionÅ‚s in there."
He jerked his head in the direction of the den. Recliner. Small sofa. Books and
magazines scattered like popcorn across the floor. Old model color TV with
rabbit ears for when the cable went out. His refuge whenever the emptiness of
the house sought to drown him. He waited until she reached the doorway. “Someone
I can call?"

 

Ellis
watched the girlłs shoulders hunch forward. Her hands curled into fists before
she made the effort to open them up. She looked over her shoulder and shook her
head.

 

“Not
now. What about you?" she said. She surveyed the walls, the odd tables settled
in the corners, waiting to be filled with magazines or picture frames. Ellis
willed the picture of him and Nell back in its former spot, their smiling faces
proof that he had loved and been loved, but there was no way to get it back now.
The girl nodded and slipped out of sight.

 

“Got
a name?" he called, catching hold of the paring knife, looking over at the
cutlery holder to see if anything was missing. He heard the TV hum on, listened
to audience laughter from one of the talk shows, thought he heard the girl
mumbling under the canned laugh track. He tried to match voices to the names of
actors in a sitcom rerun when she changed the channel. The local news anchor
welcomed them to the five oÅ‚clock edition. “And now to our major story. Police
have few leads in the investigation of the murder of Lila Ashcroft and the
disappearance of" The girl flipped channels again. Ellis shrugged. No worse
than what his own girls did when they came to visit. But Nell never could stand
him fidgeting from one show to another. Hełd broken the habit not long before
she passed away. He stirred the stew, inhaling the fragrance of garlic and
Worcestershire sauce and lemon juice, the memories of all the long lost
suppers, just he and Nell and their fall ritual. Esse quam videri. To
be, to be alive rather than pretend to live.

 

“Hey!"

 

Ellis
dropped the wooden spoon, surprised at the sudden strength of the girlłs voice.
How had she crept up without him hearing her footsteps? She held the remote in
one hand, the stick in the other.

 

“SomethingÅ‚s
wrong with this thing," she said. “I canÅ‚t get any channels."

 

“Maybe
it needs batteries," Ellis said. He paused. The girlÅ‚s smell drifted to him. “You
should take off your clothes."

 

The
girl arched backward. Ellis hurried on. “My girls always leave spare tops and
pants in the closet in their old room. Second door on the right." He pointed
down the hallway half obscured by the refrigerator. “Go on. Have a look."

 

She
held her shirt away from her chest and sniffed. In the corner Cato sniffed too.
The girl made a face at the dog. She looked back at Ellis as she sidled past
him. That furtive look was back in the dark eyes that held his glance.

 

Ellis
coughed, stepping back until he felt the counter behind him. The girl pounded
the stick as she passed, humming some wild tune under her breath. Her voice
floated back to him.

 

“YouÅ‚re
pretty fat, you know." Her voice hollowed out as she turned into the girlsł
bedroom. “Maybe you should go on Oprah."

 

Ellis
heard giggling just before she closed the door. He tightened his grip on the
knife and set to work on the carrots. Maybe he heard wrong. The timer went off.
Ellis dropped the vegetables into the pot, sliced the bread, set out silverware
and napkins. He added flour and water to the stew to thicken it up. Nell used
cornstarch but he never could get it to work that way. Before he could call to
the girl, the bedroom door opened. She limped back to the kitchen, wearing
Tammyłs old Pink T-shirt and a pair of cutoffs. He could see her right knee
swollen to twice its size. No wonder she limped.

 

Ellis
told himself to forget the hateful words. Teenage girls were like that. Absit
invidia. He pointed to her knee. “You fall?"

 

The
girl leaned over and tugged at the edge of the cutoffs to cover the swelling. “Time
to eat?" she said.

 

The
phone rang, an indistinct chime in the confines of the galley kitchen. Ellis
recognized the ring Scooter had programmed to identify her calls. He looked at
the top of the refrigerator. His cell phone was gone. The phone kept chiming,
its tone muffled. He looked at the girl. She stood at the end of the table, one
hand on the stick, the other settled protectively over the front pocket of her
borrowed jeans. Ellis stuck out his hand.

 

“Oh,"
she said, lifting one eyebrow and pulling the phone from her pocket. “I just
wanted to see if it worked." She held it out. Ellis reached. The phone dropped
between them, cracking the edge of the table, banging from the chair onto the
linoleum floor. Something broke off and skidded under the table. “Dad?" ScooterÅ‚s
voice barked up at them. “Dad, are you there? Dad?" Ellis leaned over. The girl
watched him, frowning. Using the table to steady himself, Ellis lifted the
phone and hugged it to his ear. “IÅ‚m here, Scooter. How are you?" Lowering
himself into the chair, Ellis waited while Scooter asked if theyłd caught the
man who killed that woman. If theyłd found her daughter yet. Ellis tried not to
look at the girl, but he couldnłt help it. This then was the missing game
piece, the flop, the river card. That poor murdered woman had a daughter. He
answered in monosyllables, trying to sound reassuring. Scooter said shełd fly
down, tomorrow, if he needed her.

 

The
girl picked at the frayed hem of the jeans with two fingers. She shook the
cards out of the box and fanned them across the table. Dealt him three. Slapped
them down one after the other. Dealt herself three. Ellis mouthed the words, “ItÅ‚s
all right. Donłt worry." He swallowed hard. When the call ended, he sat and
stared at the phone, trying to piece together the parts of the story he didnłt
know.

 

“Pick
up your hand," the girl said. Ellis coughed again. He picked up the cards. An
eight of diamonds, a ten of hearts, another eight, this one a club. “Ready?"
she said. The front doorbell rang.

 

Cato
bounded up and raced forward, his barking gruff and frenzied. Ellis pushed his
chair away from the table and moved forward too. The girl put one hand on his
chest. “Stay," she said, her face pointed at the noises around the corner. “Call
your dog, or hełs dead."

 

Ellis
cleared his throat and called, “Cato. Come." He heard the door open, then a
thud and a whimper, and Cato, still growling, backed his way into the kitchen.

 

Ellis
heard the girl speak. “Brad."

 

“YouÅ‚re
here," Brad said.

 

“WhereÅ‚s
the truck?"

 

“Where
you told me to put it, in that old abandoned barn." They stopped talking. Ellis
waited.

 

“So,
letłs go then."

 

“Wait
a minute, will you? IÅ‚m thirsty. I had to walk at least a mile to find you
here."

 

“We
should go," the girl said, but her voice sounded smaller, swallowed up by the
shuffling of their bodies in the hall. Ellis saw the barrel of the shotgun
before he saw the boy who held it. Not quite six feet. Scruffy beard, quilted
vest over a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up to display an anchor on one
sweaty forearm, a skull on the other.

 

“Something
smells good," Brad said. He jutted his face toward Ellis and smacked his lips. “WhatÅ‚s
for dinner?"

 

Cato
growled and lunged for the gun. He caught Bradłs free arm and pulled at his
jacket. The girl raised the stick and slammed it down, grazing Catołs muzzle
and smashing it across the dogłs left foreleg. Cato released his hold, yelping
and backing away from the girl.

 

“I
told you," she said.

 

Ellis
grabbed for the stick. The roughness of the bark scratched at his hands, but he
held on, bending his knees to brace his feet. The girl tugged hard and he
tugged back. They wrestled the stick between them until, with a laugh, the girl
released her hold. Ellis fell back, cracking his head on the cabinet door
behind him. The stick skittered loose and came to rest at the girlłs feet.

 

“We
should go, Brad. Now," the girl said. She picked up her cards, set them down
again.

 

Brad
stared into the girlÅ‚s pouting face. “WhynÅ‚t you come with me before? I wasted
a whole day looking for you."

 

“Well,
now you found me." The girl waved her finger in BradÅ‚s face. “In spite of
everything, she was my mom."

 

“Shut
up!" Brad pointed the gun at Ellis. “You said she wouldnÅ‚t be home."

 

Cato
moved in front of Ellis again, his ears laid back. He held his front paw out at
an angle. Maybe his leg was broken. Ellis put his hand on the dogÅ‚s head. “You
didnłt have to hit him," he said.

 

The
girl flipped her head back. Brad grabbed the girl and pulled her toward him. “HowÅ‚s
your leg?"

 

The
girl yanked on her pant leg, exposing the swollen kneecap to the overhead
kitchen lights. “She caught me good," she said.

 

“Well,
whyłd you run?" He shook her. The girl sucked at her bottom lip. Sneaking a
look at Ellis, she crossed her arms and pulled away from Brad.

 

“I
donÅ‚t know." She picked at her sleeve. “I guess I had second thoughts."

 

“Yeah,
well," he stuttered a little as he looked around the house, poking at the
magazines and newspapers piled in the corner with the butt of the shotgun. “WhatÅ‚s
done is done." He opened the refrigerator, took out a can of beer, and popped
the tab with his thumb. He swallowed three times, wiped his mouth with his
shirt cuff, and turned to stare at Ellis. “WhatÅ‚re you looking at?" he said.

 

“A
hungry man," Ellis said. He hauled himself up, pushing through the pain in his
back and neck, and laid a third place at the table. “StewÅ‚s ready." He didnÅ‚t
wait for them but ladled a portion on each plate. He set the pan back on the
stove, covered the paring knife with the towel he used for a hot pad and
slipped the blade into the folds of his belly. Brad jittered back and forth
between the window and the door before settling in a chair. He propped the
shotgun against his knee. The girl picked up a fork and pushed at her food.

 

“We
should go," she said.

 

Brad
wiped at his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt. “What about him?"

 

“No
worries there," the girl said. She flashed Brad a quick smile. She raised her
head to Ellis. “HeÅ‚s just some fat old man living in the country. All alone in
the country."

 

“HeÅ‚s
seen us." Bradłs eyes had the flat gaze of a tiger shark. Ellis recalled a
moment at a table in Vegas, the one where the players bet for big stakes, where
every move was an opening for a kill. Ellis never played for that much money,
but he knew that move, the decision to go all in.

 

The
girl stared at her hands. She lifted a finger to her mouth and chewed on the
nail. “We could put him in the shed," she said.

 

“ThereÅ‚s
a shed?"

 

Cato,
snugged up against Ellisłs thigh, whimpered. Ellis wanted to kneel and cradle
the dog, but Brad would see that as weakness. Rubbing his hand over his
stomach, he felt for the knife hidden there.

 

“IÅ‚ve
got some money in the shed," Ellis said. “ItÅ‚s not much, but itÅ‚ll buy you
plane tickets to somewhere."

 

Brad
and the girl exchanged glances. Greed at war with caution. Ellis counted on
that. “Aut viam inveniam aut faciam," he muttered. I shall find a way or
make one. He hoped he was right.

 

Brad
lifted the shotgun and gestured toward the door. The girl turned over Ellisłs
cards as she limped around the table.

 

“You
have a pretty weak hand, old man," the girl said. “I told you. I always win."

 

Ellis
prodded Cato ahead of him. When he stepped off the porch, he lifted the dog and
carried him across the empty yard. His head throbbed. He blinked to clear his
sight. Brad followed close enough to poke him in the back with the barrel of
the gun. The girl tagged along two steps behind. When they reached the shed,
Ellis lowered Cato to the ground. The dog was panting now, his muzzle lifted in
supplication. Ellis winced. He straightened up, took the key from the nail, and
unlocked the door.

 

“Now
just let me get the light." Straining, Ellis reached for the shelf with one
hand while he felt for the knife with the other. He eased to his right, cursing
his bulk. When Brad poked his face in past the doorframe, squinting to see
inside the darkened structure, Ellis struck. He jammed the knife under Bradłs
ribs, using his weight and his desperation to plant the knife in the soft
tissue below the ribs, into the gut and then a twist upward to sever whatever
lifelines rested there. The knife wasnłt long, but Ellis kept it sharp. Brad
gasped. The shotgun slipped from his grasp, slid across the dirt, and landed by
the girlłs feet.

 

“What
did you do?" she shouted. Brad lunged for Ellis, clutching at his shirt as he
fell to his knees. Ellis shrugged loose, let go of the knife and lifted the
gun. Brad struggled to breathe, leaned back, then bent forward and lay still.
Beyond, in the light streaming from the kitchen window, Ellis watched the girl
set down her stick and lift the shotgun. She wobbled a bit on her hurt leg.

 

“DonÅ‚t,"
Ellis said. He edged around Bradłs still form. Cato whined at his feet.

 

“ThatÅ‚s
what my mom said." The girl sighed. “I knew I should have left." She snugged
the gun to her shoulder.

 

Ellis
counted his own heartbeats, steady now as theyłd always been when he hunted. He
could face her down. He could cripple her. Shełd drop the gun then. But it was
all about the moment. What would she say, dressed in his daughterłs clothes,
when the police came? A girl whołd watched her own mother die. A girl whołd
invited her boyfriend to her house to steal and kill. No. Ellis made up his
mind. “IÅ‚m all in," he said, pointing the gun at the girl, haloed now by the
light of the kitchen window that framed her head."Audaces fortuna iuvat."

 

“WhatÅ‚d
you call me?" The girl tightened her grip on the shotgun, fingered the trigger.

 

Ellis
heard the click. Buckshot seared past his shoulder, creasing the roll of skin
around his neck before splattering against the wall of the shed.

 

“Fortune,"
he said, swiping at his neck with one hand, “favors the bold." He lifted the
gun with both hands.

 

“Are
you going to shoot me now?" The girl stepped back. Her leg, the hurt one,
buckled and she fell to one knee.

 

Ellis
inhaled. Think, Nellłs voice cautioned. He counted his chips. The dead
boy. The empty plates on the table. The wound on his neck. No matter what story
she spun, she couldnłt win. Ellis sighted on the stick and pulled the trigger.
The wood bucked and shattered, spewing splinters and chips across the yard,
tattooing the girlłs arms and face. She screamed. Ellis gestured to the field
behind him. “Go," he said.

 

“YouÅ‚re
bluffing." She pushed herself off the ground. She left the shotgun lie. “You
donłt have the guts, old man."

 

“You
said you always win. Prove it." He pointed toward the tree stand, indistinct
and threatening in the dark. “Go."

 

The
girl put one hand out to steady herself. Then she rose and hop-stepped across
the yard. By the time she reached the weeds, she was all but invisible, only
her hair aglow with the reflection from the kitchen light and the moon above.

 

Ellis,
alone with the boyłs dead body, settled his back against the wall of the shed.
He struggled to hear the rustle of the girlłs passing. A gust of wind stirred
the boyłs hair and poked at Ellisłs face. He waited for Nellłs voice to tell
him what to do, but no words drifted toward him out of the darkness. Ellis
shifted the gun in his lap and listened for the sound of a branch snapping. It
was her call now. Somewhere out along the highway, a siren whined and a police
car, summoned, no doubt, by Scooter, turned down Ellisłs lane.

 

Copyright
© 2010 Janet E. Irvin