The Breeders Part 9

I shake my head. "Not yet, but I need you to tell me where I'm going. Where's my mama?"

Clay stares, red-eyed over the moonlit road. He shakes his head. "There's no use. You'll never get in."

I veer around a stretch of blacktop that's completely fallen away and then meet his eyes. "I'll get in."

Clay snorts. "Sure. Let's just break into the Breeder's facility, shall we? Brilliant. Even my pa wouldn't mess with those sons-a-b.i.t.c.hes."

I grip the steering wheel with white knuckles. "It's your pa's fault in the first place. If he hadn't sold my mama to the Breeders, we wouldn't be in this mess."

He doesn't meet my eyes when he answers. "I ain't sayin' it's right, but she was of fertile age. They pay good money." He looks off into the star-filled horizon. "'Sides, if you don't, they come burn the town down."

I shiver in the darkness, thinking about the Breeders again. I picture men's bodies with grotesque animal features-slitted snake eyes, forked tongues, arms that extend to scorpion pinchers. I shake the image out of my head. Those are just old wives tales. They gotta be.

"Have you ever seen a Breeder?"

He shakes his head. "Don't want to."

I drive around a charred car frame and fight off images of my mama being tortured. "We're going to the hospital," I say, my jaw tight.

Clay pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. "Are you gonna be this difficult the whole time?"

"Yes."

"Fine. I'll take you to the hospital, you'll see it's locked up tighter than a bull's a.s.s during mating season and then we can go. It's 300 miles west in what's left of Albuquerque. We'll stop at my friend Bennett's, fuel and water up. Get a decent night's sleep before heading out."

I straddle a crinkled car m.u.f.fler between my tires. "We stay one night and then on to the hospital."

He shakes his head. "We need time to come up with a plan."

"One night," I say. Suddenly, my eyelids droop and my vision's doubling. The Jeep jostles as I pull to the shoulder. "You can drive. I'm tired."

We slip out of our doors and walk around the Jeep. As I'm almost to the pa.s.senger side, I spot the eye shine in the distance. Three pairs of copper coin eyes glow in the moonlight. A black and white tail twitches up at our scent. It's a mother skunk leading two kits on a hunt. One of the kits, curious and alert, sniffs toward me. The mother yaps once and the kit trots back in line.

As their bushy tails recede into the darkness, I ache for my mother. I used to think her rules were the source of all my problems. Now I have all the freedom I want and feel completely lost.

"You coming?" Clay removes his hat and runs his hands through his wavy brown hair.

I hop in the pa.s.senger seat, close my eyes and hope Clay will take us where we need to go.

When the Jeep lurches to a stop, dawn is spreading out in reds and oranges on the horizon. Next to me, Clay rubs his red-rimmed eyes.

"We're here." He pops out of the Jeep and walks toward the house in front of us.

At first glance the red farmhouse reminds me of home. The simple one-story ranch sits alone on a few acres of dirt. There's a windmill in back for water and an outhouse in the side yard. When I look closer, the differences are clear. The yard could double as a junk heap. On either side of the walkway, rusted car parts, worn out shoes, a crooked bike tire and loads of other junk, discarded and forgotten. A beat-up barn cat with one eye slinks out behind a stalk of scrub gra.s.s and darts under the rotting porch. The stink of human waste wafts from the outhouse.

Clay hops up on the porch and knocks on the door.

"Where are we?" Ethan leans forward and brushes the hair out of his sleepy eyes.

"Bennett's. Stick close to me. If I say run, bolt to the Jeep."

Ethan furrows his brow. We watch as Clay peeks in the broken sidelights beside the front door.

I pull the bandanna up over my mouth and nose to disguise my face. I have to pee, but I'll hold it as long as I can. Catching me peeing would uncover my secret for sure. The smelly outhouse might be my only bet. The dozens of flies buzzing around the back promise an interesting experience.

The front door bangs open. A naked man stands in the doorway. His emaciated frame reminds me of a skeleton wrapped in beef jerky. He points a double-barrel shotgun at Clay's chest. The c.o.c.king of the barrel echoes around the front yard.

"Who's goes?" the naked man growls. His look is wild, almost rabid.

Clay holds up his hands and takes a step back. "I-I'm looking for Bennett."

"Who in Sam Hill are you?" The wrinkly old man keeps both barrels pointed at Clay.

My hand reaches toward the driver seat, but Clay took his revolvers with him. d.a.m.n. I reach around the seat for some sort of weapon.

A figure steps behind the old man and puts a hand on his shoulder. "It's okay, Pop. Clay's a friend."

The old man spits a wad of phlegm on the porch, but lowers the shotgun. The young man steps around his father and pats Clay's shoulder.

The young man, who must be Bennett, is bare-chested and I'm worried nudity is a rule here. Luckily, his lower half is clad in a pair of jeans more holey than Mama's colander.

"What you doing here?" Bennett smiles and whacks Clay a couples more times on the back. "Wasn't expecting you."

Bennett is a little older than Clay, probably in his early twenties. He has most of his teeth and a thin, wiry physique. He's got long, dirty-blond hair that trails down to his bare shoulders and a crooked nose that looks like it's been broken a few times. I notice a heavy limp when he shuffles around the porch. Nearly everyone falls prey to some injury or illness by the time they reach their third decade. Bennett seems friendly enough though, clapping Clay on the back, but something about this whole scene makes my skin crawl.

Clay tucks his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels. "We're just pa.s.sing through. On my way to Albuquerque. Thought I'd stop by and say howdy."

Bennett hitches up his jeans that have slipped down his hips. "Albuquerque, eh? Big daddy got you taking stock to the Breeders?" Bennett leans around Clay and scans the Jeep. I stiffen as we lock eyes.

"Naw. Just some friends who need a lift into the city." Clay waves us out. I stiffen. After seeing this place, I want to stay in the Jeep the whole visit.

"Well, bring 'em in," Bennett says, waving us into the house.

Clay gestures again and, when we don't move, glares at us while Bennett's back is turned. I guess staying in the Jeep isn't an option. Ethan and I slink toward the house. When I step on the porch and Bennett sees me, his smile falls.

"What's with the mask, extrano?" he asks me, his eyes narrowing.

Any good feelings evaporate. I shrug.

He turns to Clay. "You bringing fugitives into my home?" His tone slips from friendly to dangerous.

Clay offers up a smile and turns to me. "Cut the act, Riley. Smell's not that bad." He nods toward the outhouse. "What you got in that outhouse, Ben, a maggot farm?"

Bennett doesn't answer. He keeps his cold eyes locked on me.

I got no choice. I slip my bandanna down and offer a weak smile. Bennett scans my face. He's not happy with what he sees. I keep my eyes on the guns at Clay's hips.

Finally, Bennett limps into the house. "Y'all hungry?"

Clay leans towards me and whispers, "Stop acting nuts. These are good people." He disappears inside.

Ethan puts his hand in mine. He looks up at me for rea.s.surance. I got none. I follow Clay into the house with a lump in my throat.

Chapter Ten.

The smell inside the house is a strange mixture of body odor, feces and mildewed air. The floor crunches as we step. Dirt, eggsh.e.l.ls, and bits of garbage I can't name litter the floor. In one corner a stack of decaying newspapers is piled so high if it topples, it would crush a small child. In the other corner, a horse saddle is splattered with dried blood. Alarm bells go off in my head as we follow Bennett in through the hallway.

The steady buzz of flies greets us as we enter the kitchen. They're everywhere-on the dirty plates piled in the sink, on the broken eggsh.e.l.ls that litter the floor, on the gelatinous smear on the table. I notice a swarm of them on the floor and realize they're cl.u.s.tered on a dead rat's bloated stomach. I swallow bile. Is this what Clay was expecting? A similar look of disgust flashes on his face before he can politely cover it up. Bennett says nothing about the mess. He pulls out a couple of the battered chairs, one with three legs that I perch on carefully. While we sit at the garbage-strewn table, he selects a cast-iron skillet from the dish pile and brown speckled eggs from a basket.

He holds up the eggs. "Over easy? Scrambled? How you like 'em?"

"Over easy, but don't go out of your way, Ben. We've got supplies in the car." Clay swats a fly off his arm.

Bennett cracks eggs into the skillet with deft fingers. "Least I can do. Things are tight 'round here, but we've always got good laying hens. G.o.d, I eat so many eggs one day I'll turn sunny side up." Bennett's laugh is hollow and tragic. I can count his ribs from the table.

The old man shuffles in and plunks in a stool to my right. Thankfully, he's pulled on some ratty long underwear. His chest is still bare and he's even thinner than Bennett. His ribs ripple down his chest like a washboard and his collarbone juts out like jar handles. The pure desperation in this place weighs on me heavy. I glance between Ethan and the door. Should I signal him to bolt? His attention's drawn to a skinny hound under the table. The dog gives Ethan's hand a pathetic lick and then slumps lazily at his feet.

Clay seems to have recovered from his shock and tries to strike up a conversation. "What was it, Ben, six months since you left the crew? Never did hear why."

Ben hunches over the skillet. "Pop got pneumonia last spring and almost didn't make it. I came home to take care of him. Then I fell off my horse in July and was laid up pretty bad. We d.a.m.n near starved to death 'til I could get back on my feet. Been slow going since. We're getting back to it, though. Right, Pop?"

The old man says nothing, but I can feel his eyes glaring at the side of my head. I pretend to look out the busted window, then realize he's not looking at me. His eyes are locked on Ethan. My shoulders tense. I lean forward to pick up a fork buried in papers on the table and block his view.

Clay continues. "Sorry to hear. You know we'd take you back quick as a lick. Sheriff always said you were a crack shot and a hard a.s.s." Clay smiles at this. Bennett comes over and slides some eggs onto his plate.

"Can't leave Pop and he sure ain't a townie. Won't leave the homestead. Right, Pop?"

The old man says nothing, but continues to stare at my baby brother. I picture punching this frail, old man in the face. It sounds cruel, but his creepy cataract-filled eyes keep tracking Ethan as he strokes the dog or twirls the rusty b.u.t.ter knife found on the kitchen table.

Clay picks up his fork. "Well, we 'ppreciate the hospitality. Won't bother you long. We need some fuel and water, which we'll pay for. Maybe a little shut-eye?"

Bennett sits next to Pop, hunches over the plate and shovels big scoops of yellow into this mouth. Between bites he says, "I can bunk with Pop and you can have my room. Be happy to have ya. Right, Pop?" Pop doesn't answer.

I nearly choke on my eggs when I finally grasp what Bennett is saying. I'll have to share a room with Clay and Ethan. This cannot happen. Clay might notice something fishy when I sleep in my coat and jeans. I try to think of a solution while a fly rubs his feet together on my fork. It's going to be a long day.

After breakfast, we spend hours helping Bennett do his ch.o.r.es. He limps around, showing us what to do. His left leg is pretty well useless, but somehow he works through it, tending his straggly garden, hauling bails of hay, cleaning out his horse stable of the skinniest horse I've ever seen. Clay, meanwhile, tosses heavy bags of feed and slings a shovel like he's been doing it all his life. When he takes off his shirt in the barn and shows off his muscular chest, my cheeks grow hot. I keep my eyes on my pitchfork.

As I'm spreading hay into the horse stall, Clay saunters over to Ethan, who's sprinkling chicken feed in the coop. Clay's hand casually rubs my brother's mop of hair. They could be brothers with their dark hair and easy smiles. Ethan turns his on Clay now, a smile normally reserved for me. I feel a pain beneath in my ribs. I skewer an innocent bail of hay with my pitchfork to stifle the feeling.

Working in ninety-degree weather in a coat and jeans has me so hot black blobs dance in my vision. With the fresh hay spread, I need a break. I walk over to the shade of the chicken coop where Ethan has sought out shade. He sits cross-legged behind the coop with a chicken on his lap. He's stroking the thing like a dog. I shoo away the skinny bird. She scuttles off, throwing up feathers and squawking at me.

"These chickens look sickly. Don't touch them." I feel bad for my crankiness. Is it the heat and or my burning jealousy?

"They're nice," he says. Then his eyes slide to the slanted shadow on the porch. "Riley," he whispers, "that old man keeps staring at me."

I follow his eyes to Bennett's father, who's leaning against the porch rail. Why is he so fixed on my brother? Ethan's a cute kid, sure. People sometimes marvel at his blue eyes or the way he asks a question that everyone's thinking. But this old man's not watching him with wonder or fascination. He tracks him like a hawk tracks a rabbit.

I squat down next to Ethan and whisper, "If you notice anything, if you even get a strange feeling, we're out of here. I don't care how much Clay trusts Bennett. We can find Mama without him."

Ethan nods and lets his fingers stroke a pa.s.sing hen before he remembers my scolding. "Gives me the creeps, Riley. That's all."

"Me, too," I say. "Me, too."

When the sun sags low in the west, we call it a day. It's been over a week since I've done a full day's ch.o.r.es and my muscles ache. I'm sweaty and gross under my heavy coat, but there's no bath in sight. It doesn't matter. No one here would notice body odor over the thick smell of waste and decay inside the house.

Bennett sets out crusts of bread and muddy water and then limps to bed. Even with help, the farm work has wrung him out. A wave of pity washes over me. Their life is punishingly hard and working their fingers to the bone might not be enough. Somehow Arn made life on our farm manageable. The image flashes into my head of Arn's lean figure standing on the porch after a long day's labor. The sadness sticks in my throat. I swallow it down with a gulp of cloudy water. I gag and set the gla.s.s down. The water's vile, a taste between wet shoe and rusty pipe. How did Ethan gulp down so much when he came in earlier? It probably made him sick. That's why he's already in bed.

Clay slumps into a chair next to me. The hairs on my arms start to tingle and I realize this is the first time we've been alone together. Stop it. I focus on trying to identify the lumpy brown mush smeared on the tabletop.

He gulps his water, makes a face and then looks at me. He points to the coat. "You wore that thing all day? Jesus. Bet you're dying under there. You can take it off. Ben doesn't care you're a bender."

I shake my head. "Just like wearing it."

"It was a hundred degrees today. You gotta be soaked." He takes another gulp of water. "Aw, h.e.l.l, that's nasty." He sets the water gla.s.s down with a thunk. "Taste like horse p.i.s.s."

I look down at my water and watch the brown flecks swirl in the gla.s.s. I should get more fluids after how much I sweat, but I can't bring myself to gag back any more. Maybe I'll sneak out to the Jeep and drink some of the water there.

Clay pushes some junk out of the way and rests his elbows on the tabletop. His arm sits inches from mine. I can feel the heat of his skin, smell his musky male scent. Despite all my scolding, my body is responding to his presence in ways I haven't felt before. My cheeks flush. My heart pounds.

Clay looks at me and our eyes meet. How are his eyes so blue? "It's okay, you know," he says. "Bennett's a friend. And 'sides, I wouldn't let them hurt you."

I'm fl.u.s.tered and nervous and I want him closer to me. And ... no. I got to do anything but feel how I'm feeling toward Clay right now. I curl my fingers into my palms until my nails bite into the soft flesh there. "I can take care of myself," I say a little colder than I intended.

Clay arches back on his chair, the smile dropping from his face. "I know, tough guy." He looks as though he'll speak to me again, but a wave of fatigue settles on his face. Rubbing his eyes, he sc.r.a.pes out of his chair. "I'm going to bed. Don't wake me when you come in."

Clay stumbles into the spare room. In his wake, I feel cold and alone. The orange light drains out of the room. Only the hound sits with me in the twilight and he's snoring under the table. I stare at Clay's water gla.s.s, the dirt smudges from his broad hands around the base. He must have calluses sprouting on his smooth palms, and if I'm aching with ch.o.r.es, what must a townie kid be feeling? Not once did he complain. He acted like there was nothing he'd rather do than help Bennett. Then there's me, the world's most awkward girl. It doesn't matter that I have to keep my gender a secret. Even if I could tell, no one would line up for the job of dealing with my mess for the rest of his life.

I put my head in my hands, but command the tears to stay where they are. No sense in crying. Pushing Clay away is for the best. The less I get attached, the easier it will be to sever ties once we find my mama. After that we'll have to go our own ways. Naturally.

A stupor falls over me. My eyelids droop and the air thickens. It's time to stop torturing myself and go to bed. I shuffle to Bennett's bedroom. Ethan is curled into a ball on the mildewed mattress in the corner. Clay lies on the floor, his mouth open, sawing logs. I slink in, climb on the mattress and wedge myself between Ethan and the wall. His slight wheezing and the fatigue in my limbs knock me out before I can punish myself again.

Something's moving in my room.

I try to open my eyes, but my lids feel weighted with sandbags. Fatigue pulls me under, but I fight. Something or someone's here. I can feel it. I force my eyes open and blink into the dark. At first, there's nothing. Then a shadow slinks along the wall.

Ethan or Clay? Too big for Ethan, so it must be Clay. Before my lids slip closed, the figure steps into the square of moonlight cutting through the window. It's Bennett. What's he doing in our room?