The Last Exit to Normal Page 13

  “So that’s why you stole his antlers?”

  I groaned. “Why is it always assumed it’s me? Jeez.”

  “The whole town is talking. You did it, didn’t you?”

  I took her hand and we started back. Glancing to the side, I caught another flash of movement, but couldn’t pin it down. “I suppose I’m the town outcast already, huh?”

  “I can’t say it’s right, but most people around here weren’t too upset about it.”

  I grinned. “Well, I thought it was a good one.”

  “So did a lot of people. Including the sheriff. And besides, you saved my uncle. People are still talking about that.”

  I wasn’t used to people talking about me in a good way, and I had nothing to say about it. “Well, the sheriff didn’t seem too happy about the antler thing.”

  She squeezed my hand, lowering her voice. “He couldn’t be officially happy, but I heard him talking to my dad about it this morning, and they were laughing. Mr. Hinks is definitely the sour apple of the town, but . . .”

  “But it was a prank, Kim, and I’m glad I could be of service.” We walked for a minute, the houses materializing out of the darkness as the weirdness of what we’d seen faded. She let go of my hand, and I felt a tension in her. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  I knew what it was. “It’s the antlers, isn’t it?”

  She nodded.

  “You don’t like it?”

  “No. I think it’s mean. Even to him.”

  “Come on, Kim, he’s a jerk, and it was fun. Don’t you ever feel like getting back at someone?”

  She shook her head. “You know who that sounds like?”

  “Who?”

  “Ron Jamison.”

  That stopped me cold in my tracks. I turned her toward me, taking her hands in mine. “You don’t like him at all, do you?”

  “No.”

  “What did he do to you?”

  She slumped a little. “I just don’t think it’s funny, Ben. That’s all.”

  I nodded. “I, Ben Campbell, will never do anything like that again. I promise.”

  “You’re lying, Ben Campbell.”

  I drew her closer to me. “If there’s one thing I don’t do wrong, it’s lie.” Then I kissed her, cupping her chin in my hand and bringing her body against mine. Her lips were warm in the chill of the night, and when we broke apart, I inhaled her breath. Pure sweetness, and even better that it had capped off a spooky outing to Billy’s graveyard.

  She smiled. “Promise?”

  “Promise.” Then we kissed again.

  Five minutes after I’d walked Kim home and snuck back to the house, I hunkered down behind a clump of sagebrush thirty yards beyond the back gate and waited. I’d seen something. That much I knew, and the chill I’d gotten up my spine said it wasn’t a dog or a coyote or a polar bear. It had been a person. I’d almost felt the eyes on us.

  It had to be Billy. He’d seen me do the antlers, which told me he was an aspiring detective, and I was sure he’d followed us to his cemetery. Probably to see some guy-girl action, for all I knew. Well, turnabout is fair play. He’d get the fright of his life tonight.

  Fifteen minutes passed, and my legs were cramping in the chill. The ground was cold, and my breath came in wispy streams of steam. Another five minutes ground by, and I was about to give up when I saw a figure materialize from the stand of shrub pines. With the moonlight cast over the landscape, the figure looked ghostly, and I breathed into the palm of my hand to hide the steam. Closer. I waited. Then, from twenty yards away, I saw him. It wasn’t Billy. I held my breath, and as Ron Jamison slunk by, icicles ran through me like daggers.

  CHAPTER 16

  Things were still tense with Dad, of course, and my course of action was no course of action. Half of me wanted to move out and the other half wanted to hop in his lap and get a big hug from my daddy. With the realization that the former was impossible because I was a loser who made twenty-five bucks a day and that the latter would be plain odd, I avoided him as much as he avoided me.

  Then, one morning, the doorbell rang. I was in the kitchen, and Edward answered. Muffled low voices, then Edward came back, cradling his hand. “There is a very large, and I might add very attractive, young man asking for you. Don’t shake his hand. He’ll break it.”

  It could only be him. The person of my nightmares, Dirk Johan. Kissing Kim during our romantic sneak-out flashed through my mind. I’d only brushed her teeth with my tongue—no touchies, either—but my testicles shriveled into my stomach. “Tell him I got castrated and joined a eunuch colony.”

  Edward frowned. “Dear our Lord in heaven, Ben. You didn’t . . .”

  I smiled, his words reminding me of something Miss Mae would say. Edward might be different, but the fruit didn’t fall far from the tree. “Just a kiss, man. I didn’t even feel her up. I swear.”

  He brushed that off with an absent wave of his hand. “Then go. Mother is here. She’ll protect you from the goliath.”

  I stood. “Have a slingshot handy?”

  “He’s waiting. Don’t be rude.”

  I walked to the front door. Dirk stood on the porch. I stayed inside. “Hi, Dirk.”

  He looked at me. His arms and chest bulged. He could wear loose-fit jeans and they’d be tight. Square jaw, blue eyes, blond hair—he was like a redneck Viking waiting to plunder my tender flesh. He asked me if I was going to come out.

  “Not really. So, what’s going on? Collecting for church? Here, I’ve got some cash on me.” I fumbled in my pocket.

  “Sis tells me I need to get to know you.”

  “Me? No. I think we’re fine, don’t you? I mean, we have a great repertoire, really. You grunt, I smile, all good, huh?”

  He smiled, and it might have been a wholesome, full-grain country-boy smile, but I knew better. “I’m going skeet shooting at two. I’ll pick you up,” he said.

  I stared through the screen at him, then realized that finding protection against him behind a screen door was like covering yourself with tinfoil against an atomic blast. “You know, I really appreciate the offer, but . . .”

  “Listen, I wanted to thank you for helping out my uncle. I’ll be back. See ya.” Then he was gone, trudging down the steps. I walked back to the kitchen in a daze.

  Edward sipped coffee. “Going on a date?”

  “Ha. I’m going to be the target.”

  Edward laughed. “Shooting, huh?”

  I rolled my eyes. “You heard every word he said. Yes, shooting.”

  Dad walked into the kitchen. “Shooting?”

  Edward nodded. “Dirk, Kimberly Johan’s brother, has invited Benjamin to go on a skeet-shooting foray this afternoon.”

  Dad walked to the sink and filled a glass from the tap. “You’ve never shot a gun, Ben.”

  “I don’t think I’ll be shooting.”

  He turned. “You’re going?”

  “Apparently so.”

  He walked across the kitchen. “Oh.” Then he walked out.

  I looked at Edward. “What was that all about?”

  If Edward was good at one thing, it was deflecting conflict. “Well, Ben, if you are wondering, why don’t you go find out?” Then he walked out, too.

  I leaned against the counter. Great. Shooting. Guns. Traditional rural life. I wondered if “skeet” was some secret code word for “city people,” and I was the only city people here.

  Dirk pulled up in a shiny new Ford F-350 pickup truck. It was huge and red. There was a stepladder under the doors to get in. Back in Spokane, it was a joke we had going that all the guys driving around in jacked-up trucks with huge tires were compensating for something, but here it wasn’t that way. The storm out at Uncle Morgan’s had taught me that. Trucks were utility items here. A necessity.

  Dirk honked and I walked out, saying goodbye to Miss Mae, who sat on one of the front-porch rockers. She chuckled. When I got to the passenger door, I reached—at chest level, mind you—for
the door handle and opened it. “Hi, Dirk.” Then I hopped in.

  “Howdy.”

  I shut the door, he put the pickup in gear, and we were off. The truck had all the bells and whistles. CD player, electric everything, outside temp, inside temp, leather interior, and an extra cab with seats behind us. I thought about the truck behind the shed, which I hadn’t even had time to look at. “Nice truck.”

  “Money’s good in Wyoming.”

  “Kim said you bust horses?”

  He nodded, steering with his palm while dipping a pinch of tobacco from a can and stuffing it in his front lip.

  I had no idea what “busting horses” was, but I could pretend. “Like racehorses?”

  He smiled, the pooch in his lip stretching tight. “No. The ranch is the biggest wild horse outfit in the country.”

  “Oh, so you tame them. Like rodeo stuff.”

  “Yep. Busting horses.”

  “Oh.”

  We drove, and then turned down a gravel road. Dirk goosed the gas, and the big truck’s rear end broke loose, spinning us to the side and spitting gravel before he straightened us out. He glanced over at me, noticing my hands clenching the armrest and seat. He chuckled. “Gotta pick up somebody first.”

  I was in no position to comment, so I looked out the window as the fields passed. Dirk punched a button on the stereo, and some country-singer guy came through, singing about a pink Cadillac. I sort of liked it, and after a few seconds, hummed along. This wasn’t that bad, actually. We were high up in a truck that probably cost a billion bucks, the fields sped past, and Pink Cadillac Guy sang his twang over the speakers. I wore my ropers and a regular pair of Levi’s with a black T-shirt and a backwards Jeep baseball cap that I’d found at the drugstore. The cowboy hat sat lonely on my dresser.

  I bobbed my chin to the music, but not like a dork. This was cool. I could get into this. The longer I lived here, the more I liked the open space. Less people, more sky. Solitude. The attitude wasn’t hokey, either. Dirk had it going, I realized. He spit into an empty Pepsi can in the cup holder. “Ever been shooting?”

  “No.”

  He smiled. “Didn’t think so. Suppose the only shooting going on in the city is aimed at people.”

  “Pretty much.”

  He shook his head, his tone even and friendly. “Get a bunch of people together and they go crazy.”

  I smiled, adjusting my hat back to frontwards. “I’d agree with you there.” He drove and the minutes passed, the truck speeding across the rolling plains. I glanced at the speedometer. Seventy miles per hour on a gravel road. The truck handled like it was on pavement. Smooth as glass.

  Ten minutes and several songs later, Dirk told me it was Dwight Yoakam, like that would mean anything to me. We turned down a drive and came up to a ranch house. Dogs barked and ran out to the truck, and a moment later, a man in dusty faded jeans, cowboy hat, ripped T-shirt, and boots came out of a huge garage. He held a wrench, and wiped his hands with a rag. Dirk hopped out, and a dog jumped all around him. Dirk knelt, furiously rubbing the dog’s neck and back before standing. I got out and came around the truck. Dirk pumped hands with the guy, who looked around forty. “Good to see you, Dirk. How’s your uncle?” the man said.

  “Mending.” Dirk looked at me. “Ben, meet Colt Holcomb.”

  Colt nodded to me, then we shook. “Nice to meet you, son. Good job out there with Morgan.”

  He hadn’t called Dirk “son,” and we were only two years apart. “Nice to meet you, Colt.”

  Colt pointed to the dog. “Been a while since he’s seen you. Still mopes around sometimes.”

  Dirk reached down and petted him. “Damn dog is more trouble than he’s worth sometimes. Thanks for taking him.”

  Colt nodded. “Got me a broken axle to fix ’fore tomorrow, boys. We’ll be seeing you.” He looked at me. “Take care, Ben.”

  “You, too.”

  Dirk walked to the bed of the truck and lowered the gate. “Get on up, Skeet.” Then he slapped the gate. The dog bounded up a good three feet, sliding a few inches on the bed liner and wagging his tail.

  I stared at the dog. “I don’t even want to know.”

  Dirk screwed his eyes up. “Don’t even want to know what?”

  “You, like, give him a head start, right?”

  “What?”

  “The dog. You said we were going to shoot Skeet.”

  Dirk nodded. “He’s been a thorn in my side since the day he was born. Come on.”

  I got in, and we were driving again. A few minutes passed. I glanced back at the dog standing with his head in the wind. “I don’t think I can do this, Dirk.”

  He shook his head. “Just a dog, Ben. Come on, it’ll be fun. You just aim for a leg, then I’ll put him down.”

  “I’m not shooting that dog.”

  A moment passed, then Dirk busted up laughing. “Damn, you are gullible. Skeet are clay pigeons. Little round Frisbee-like things. Skeet is a bird dog, and my best friend. I take him hunting.”

  I smiled a smile of relief. “Who said I was gullible?”

  “Kim. Said you don’t know a lot about things.”

  “Well, when you come to a place with bullet holes in every road sign within a hundred miles, it makes you wonder about life in general.”

  He laughed. “Had him since I was fourteen. He’s like my little bro.”

  “You couldn’t take him to Wyoming?”

  “Nope. Colt hunts more than Dad. Kept him up on it for me.” Dirk drove back down the road for ten more minutes, then hung a right on a narrow, rutted path. We came to a clearing with a stand of tall bushes on the far side and he stopped.

  I got out, and Dirk opened the extra cab door on his side, bringing out two long cases. Skeet hopped over the bed wall and promptly began sniffing around. Dirk tucked one of the cases under his arm and lowered the tailgate, then set the cases down. “Hey, grab those shells from your side, huh?”

  I opened the rear door on my side and found five boxes of shells. “These are the bullets, then?”

  Dirk spit, then unlatched one of the cases. “Shells, not bullets. Rifles shoot bullets. Shotguns shoot shells.”

  “Oh. Thanks.” I brought the boxes to the tailgate and set them down.

  Dirk laughed, then proceeded to take a humongous weapon out of the first case. “So, Sis tells me you’re afraid of me.”

  I stared at him holding the gun. Why pretend? “Yeah.”

  He smiled. “That ain’t a bad thing, I suppose.”

  I eyed the gun. “Kim will be mad if you kill me.”

  He laughed. “I ain’t going to kill you, little man. Fact is, I think I like you. Her last boyfriend wouldn’t even look at me.”

  “Greg?”

  He shrugged. “Some such name as that. Met him when I visited from Wyoming last year.”

  “I thought everybody knew each other here.”

  He glanced at me, then checked the shotgun. “I’ve been gone four years. Dropped out of school when I was fifteen and took off.”

  “You dropped out?”

  “School ain’t for me. Money to be made, and I make it. Been the ranch manager for two years.” He held the shotgun out to me. “Browning, limited edition. Don’t drop it.”

  I stared at it.

  “Take it. Watch the barrel—don’t put your finger on the trigger.”

  I took it. It was lighter than I thought it would be. Dirk gave me a quick lesson on how it worked. Breech, action, how to hold it, how to load it, unload it, how to shoot it, always know where the barrel is pointing, never put your finger on the trigger until you’re ready to fire. Dirk handed me a pair of earmuffs and put a pair on himself. I put mine on and everything was muffled.

  Then he took out a spring-loaded contraption on a tripod and set it up, taking a big box of skeet from the truck and setting it at the side. The skeet shooter, he said. Then he loaded it. I set down the shotgun and he showed me how to use the shooter thing, then picked up his own shotgun. “W
hen I say ‘pull,’ you push that lever,” he said.

  “What about the dog?”

  “Bird dog. He’ll mind himself.”

  He loaded his shotgun and put it to his shoulder. “Pull!”

  I pushed the lever, the spring unloaded, and the skeet flew into the air at an angle. The barrel of Dirk’s shotgun followed it for two seconds before a boom echoed across the fields. The clay pigeon exploded into dust. I gawked. “Damn!”

  He smiled, opening the breech and expelling a smoking shell. “Lead it just a little bit. I set the choke wide on yours, so the spread will be pretty good.”

  He set his shotgun down, then helped me load mine, putting it on safety. He took his position at my side, getting ready to click the latch. I snugged the shotgun to my shoulder and aimed into the sky, sliding my finger into the trigger guard after I released the safety. “Pull!”

  The spring sprung and the skeet flew. I led it, then pulled the trigger. The kick rocked me back, and it wasn’t a little kick. It was an almost-fell-on-my-ass kick, and I felt like my shoulder was dislocated. Dirk stood by the skeet machine. “Almost. A little behind.”

  I held the shotgun, unable to rub my pounding shoulder. I would not admit pain in front of this person. “Let me try again.”

  Dirk nodded. “Load her up. The red shells.”

  I did so, then clenched my teeth as I snugged the stock once again into my shoulder. “Pull!” This time I didn’t almost fall, but the pain in my shoulder doubled. I’d missed. I breathed deep. “Again.”

  And so it went. I took seven more shots, and on the last, I chipped the skeet, sending it wobbling into the brush. Victory at last. My shoulder felt like it was going to fall off. “Here, Dirk, you go.”

  We shot for another hour, Dirk hitting thirty out of thirty-two and me hitting three out of twenty. By the time we loaded up the truck, I felt like weeping. The pain in my shoulder had gone from a centralized place to the entire right side of my upper body, my right arm, and my neck. I needed a shot of morphine. Instead, Dirk sat on the tailgate, popped a small cooler open, and handed me a can of beer. I drank half of it simply to ease the pain. He smiled. “Did okay for the first time.”