The bulk of Mom’s messages come through in a span of thirty-eight minutes.
Martin’s not answering his phone.
If you’re near school, check for his truck.
I’m texting Coach.
Martin didn’t show up at pregame.
Tell me if y’all are together.
Something must be wrong. He would never miss pregame today.
Lucy, call me. Please.
His game bag is on the bed and his jersey’s hanging where I left it yesterday. Is there ANY reason he’d be late to Regionals?
I’m headed to the football stadium. If he texts, tell him to go straight there. I have his stuff with me.
His truck isn’t here.
If you skipped school to shoot without telling me, I swear I’ll cancel your flight to the Walther Cup.
Lucy, I’m really scared.
Martin is my seventeen-year-old stepbrother. We got him when Mom acquired her second husband, Robert Carlin. If Mom hadn’t been in love with Robert, she’d likely have married him for Martin alone, and I would have seconded the decision.
Martin currently lives in a scrawny six-foot-three body that contains a heart the size of an ocean. He’s easy. With easy emotions and easy logic and easy friends and easy hobbies. Easy. Easy. Easy. And when he isn’t easy, he’s earnest, charming, and determined. Sweet in a way that worries you someone might bulldoze him. I basically love him so much it hurts.
I type out a quick text to Martin. Where are you? My fingers hover over the letters on my phone and I consider how to finish the message. Should I mention what happened earlier or stick to the topic at hand? I decide to finish with, Mom’s freaking out. Text me back ASAP.
The message doesn’t deliver. Must be the signal on his end since I’m on Wi-Fi.
I wait to answer Mom. I am not heartless, far from it, but better to answer with facts than admit I haven’t heard from Martin in several hours. My family role—de-escalating my worrywart mother—requires an extraordinary amount of patience. In her world, every plane might crash, all boats sink, and cars break down next to cults and murderers. I should be more like her, but for some reason our biggest tragedies hit her one way and me another. Her brain says, Martin’s in a ditch, and mine says, He’s probably stuck behind a tractor on a road with no signal. Because ninety-nine percent of the time, the worst hasn’t happened.
What are the odds we’re having another one percent crisis?
Within the hour the universe will respond: one hundred percent.
The shooting range behind Parson’s Landing is my second home. I’m walking between the range and the restaurant, strategizing a response to Mom’s next wave of worried texts, thinking about everything Martin said this afternoon, when Parson sticks his head out the back door and waves. “Neil’s here,” he calls.
Words that once made me happy now cause me stress.
“Did you finish strong?” he asks.
I lift my rifle and equipment bag, throw on an air of conceit, and say, “You know it,” to my coach, then point at my truck. “Let me drop my stuff. I’ll be inside in a minute.” I need to gain my composure. Why is Neil home?
I pitch my gear into the back seat, send off a preliminary Take a deep breath text to Mom, and attempt to follow my own advice. One deep breath and then one foot in front of the other across the parking lot.
Neil’s supposed to be in West Virginia. Not Grand Junction. It’s just like him to show up today. I should drive to the football stadium and wait on Martin with my mom. Neil would understand. He’s witnessed more than one of Mom’s panic episodes. Instead, I arrive back inside and accept a fist bump from my coach as his wordless and semi-unenthusiastic encouragement for a long practice today.
We step into the bustling kitchen and the aroma is threefold: onions, barbecue, and bacon. Heaven will smell like this, I think. I say to Parson, “The Walther Cup is three weeks away. What’s he doing here?”
Neil, like me, is a Three-Position Air Rifler. The Walther is a major tournament. Even though he’s already made the Olympic team, I can’t believe his university coach doesn’t have him on the range this weekend.
“You’ll have to ask him,” Parson says with a coy wink, eating up this reunion. My coach is of the opinion that I shoot better when I’m not distracted, and I’ve been quite distracted since Neil and I broke up.
“Parse, don’t start,” I say, weaving around the delivery boxes on the floor.
“Hey, speaking of people being in unexpected places, why were you on the range today instead of at school? You weren’t supposed to be here until four.”
I shrug. My day was a doozy long before Mom melted down and my ex came home for the weekend. Knowing he won’t get an answer, Parson leads me through the swinging door and out into the crowded room. I don’t recognize any of the diners. They must be out-of-towners because everyone from Grand Junction is headed to the football game.
Neil’s slumped in a booth in the corner, his right hand in his lap, his left sliding a saltshaker back and forth across the knotted pine. My phone buzzes against my thigh, begging me to answer Mom. I weave in and around the tables, reaching him before he notices. His eyes are locked on the saltshaker. I clear my throat. He lifts his chin, and the expression in his eyes is so sad I almost throw my arms around him. Instead, I say, “You didn’t mention you were coming in this weekend.”
“Oh, I promised Astrid,” he says, attempting a weak smile, his jaw locked.
I want to ask what’s wrong or if maybe he’s in pain, but since I might be the cause of the injury, I keep my mouth shut.
Eight hours is a long way to come for a marching band solo, but he’s always been a great big brother. He’ll need a shower before the game. Phew. I can smell the dirt and sweat from here. There’s mud ground into the skin of his forearms and water lines on his pants from where he’s been wading through the marsh. When I look closer, dried crimson lines the creases of his hands and hides under his nail beds.
“You look like a hobo,” I tease. “I mean, you should maybe Clorox the blood off your coveralls before you head to the game. Or at least wash your hands.”
He almost grins and then looks up for the first time. “You could do with a shower too, Michaels. How long have you been on the range today? Fifteen hours?”
Neil’s use of my last name makes us smile. We both glance toward the bar, where my coach and Neil’s former coach stands, pouring himself a drink. We watch a vibrant tension fill his handsome face. Probably there because of us. Or more specifically, me. He needs me at my best, and I’m far from it. He catches Neil and me watching him and gives me an encouraging nod. A nod that means something between a coach and athlete. Do what you need to do here so you can do what you have to do on the range. I translate the particulars: Get back with Neil or get over him.
Parson’s not much on feelings.
He’s a man in need of results. If results require feelings, he’ll muster them. Otherwise, he wants performance. My ability to understand this makes us a great team. And it’s how he managed to build this restaurant when he was so young. To this day, Parson’s Landing is the only establishment in the country where you can order two bacon-wrapped quail grilled to perfection or deep-fried water moccasin tenders in a velouté sauce. A fancy magazine wrote an article recently titled “Parson’s Landing: Where Camouflage Meets Culture.” Around here people say bougie rednecks with pride. On the range when I miss, Parson yells, “Luce, focus. I want you on the cover of Magnolia Magazine with the headline ‘Farmhouse Olympian Strikes Gold.’”
“He hasn’t changed a bit,” Neil says.
“He misses coaching you.”
Neil starts to say something and then stops.
“Well,” I say, turning back to the booth, thinking Mom is going to kill me if I don’t answer her soon.
“Well,” Neil repeats.
There’s a long pause. Long enough I have to think of what to do with my hands. “Astrid’s going to be great tonight,” I say, trying to find a natural way to exit.
“She always is.”
Astrid’s the best drum majorette and soloist in years, maybe ever. Neil’s an Olympic gold hopeful, but his little sister is on her way to Carnegie Hall with a short stopover at Harvard or Yale.
“Okay, well, I’ll see you at the game.” I start my retreat.
“Yeah, totally,” Neil says, but he’s grinding his teeth and staring at a stuffed bobcat mounted to the wall above my head.
I’m almost out the door when I turn and ask, “So did you get one today?” I point up at another mounted creature, a fifteen-point deer with dark, hollow eyes.
Neil gestures to the blood splatter on the fabric at his knees.
“You could say that,” he says with little to no enthusiasm.
I’d lay good odds there’s a dead deer splayed across his truck bed and its rack is not big enough to satisfy him. They never are. I should ask him if he wants to practice in the morning. That would make Parson happy. I don’t. I take my phone from my pocket and think, Maybe I’ll ask him at the game and maybe I won’t.
I’m tapping her name, knowing I can’t avoid her any longer, when the phone rings in my hand. It’s her, calling again. I think, Martin, I’m gonna kill you, and start apologizing before she has a chance to get a word out. “Hey, Mom. Sorry. I was on the range. What can I do to help?”
She’s silent.
Raising my blood pressure is a feat. I train day in and day out to control my breathing and heart rate under enormous pressure on the range. I am exceptionally steady. This, her silence, devours me. The first hollowish heartbeat thuds in my chest.
“Mom?” My voice shakes.
“There’s blood, Luce. Lots of blood.”
“What?” I ask, holding the phone closer to my ear, unsure of what I heard.
“Someone found Martin’s Hummer and there’s blood everywhere.”
I try not to think about what Martin told me earlier today.
I try not to think about someone hurting him, but the thought explodes like grease popping off a hot skillet. Maybe this is how Mom feels all the time.
Joanny Michaels Carlin—my mother—is a tiny woman with hair so golden people whisper the word bleach when she passes. She manages the mess with two braids that fall below her shoulders and a ball cap that never quite contains the flyaway yellow wisps. She wears two-decades-old cowboy boots that her father, my PoppaJack, bought for her high school graduation and a daily version of the same uniform: jeans and a T-shirt in summer; jeans and a sweatshirt in fall. Right now I can bet a hundred dollars that she’s in the parking lot of the school, looking like a lost child in the shadow of the football stadium. She’ll have dropped into a squat, her arms cradling her head and her face buried in the neckline of a GJHS hoodie.
Add a few inches, delete a few fine lines and freckles, straighten my spine, and that’s also a picture of me. Our differences start under the skin. I am the taskmaster of hard things. That’s because if you make the mistake of keeping your cool during personal tragedies, people expect you to continue the trend forever. They use big words and phrases like “strong” and “older than your years,” and then they lean on you until you’re sure you’ll fall over or die trying to stay up.
I will not let my brain run away on a fear marathon.
Martin could have a bad nosebleed and Mom would say he was in critical condition. I need to see lots of blood rather than take the word of a woman terrified something awful will happen to her children. Her fear, it’s founded; it has receipts. My little brother, Clay, died. And since then, Mom became a fatalistic thinker and I became someone who quoted the unlikely odds of terrible things repeating themselves in the same family. I whisper, “This brother will not die,” and then Martin’s voice echoes through my head, “If I’m right about what happened on the day Clay died, none of us are safe.” That sounded so exaggerated at the time. Now I tell myself not to panic.
I take a blue whale breath, as a former therapist encouraged me to do, imagining I’m filling the biggest lungs possible and then letting the air go. “Mom, who is saying this? And where’s Martin’s truck?”
“LaRue,” she says, answering the second question instead of the first. “Trailhead number three.”
“Okay,” I say calmly. At least that’s nearby. “He’s not Clay, okay?”
“Baby,” she says, and I know where her head is, the precise shape of her fear.
Per Wikipedia, LaRue is three things:
- A corporately owned eighty-mile, state-run recreational area that butts up to a bend in the Tennessee River at the westernmost edge of Kentucky. Known for exceptional fishing, hunting, boating, ATVing, and bird-watching.
- Home to Grand Hydro Electric, the wildly successful hydroelectric energy project of Presidential Medal of Freedom recipient and Time’s Man of the Year Robert Carlin. Previously owned by Carlin’s father-in-law, Jack Rickard.
- The infamous site of the LaRue Dam, predecessor of the Grand Hydro Dam, which broke during catastrophic flooding on the Tennessee River and killed fourteen Boy Scouts from Troop 1404 (and my little brother, Clay Michaels). See also: LaRue Dam Break.
On the other end of the phone, Mom fails to suppress a worried sob.
“Hey.” I embody the calm I do not feel and coax more information from her. “Who found his truck? Tell me where you heard about the blood?”
“Owl’s radio,” she cries.
I pull my mouth away from the phone and cuss. Owl Uri is the Cleary County sheriff and coroner—two positions that often double up in smaller Kentucky counties like ours—and one of Mom’s oldest friends. He’s a dad-like creature for me and an old boyfriend for her. I’m not surprised she went straight to him when she couldn’t locate Martin. I once arrived home fifteen minutes after curfew to find three officers in our living room and Owl wrapping a wet towel around Mom’s neck.
If he’s worried about Martin, I should be too.
“Mom, what’s Owl saying?”
“I don’t know. He’s on his way to the trailhead in LaRue.”
“And Robert?” I ask. “Does he know there’s a—” What should I call the current predicament that won’t exaggerate the danger? “Does Robert know Martin’s running late to the game?”
Breathy gaps fill Mom’s answer. “The Spector Group meeting’s today. He said he’d be online until closing time in California and that he thought he’d be late to the game.”
“Interrupt him.”
“I tried. He didn’t answer.”
I check my watch. Robert might be on the call for another hour. Spector is a pharmaceutical company trying to court Grand Hydro for some hush-hush thing. We’ve barely seen Robert this week.
I reverse the truck and almost rear-end Parson’s dumpster with my tailgate. That makes me pull forward, put the truck in Park, and focus on the conversation while I have a signal. “Listen, stay at the stadium. I’m at Parson’s and can be at trailhead three in six or seven minutes. Martin could have run out of gas, or it might not even be his truck.”
The latter suggestion is a stretch. Martin drives a matte-gray Hummer with custom yellow trim, making it highly unlikely the truck has been misidentified, but it’s no time to add vinegar to the situation. Because my hands are sweating profusely, I shift Mom to speakerphone and put the phone in my lap. The moment I do, my phone glides into the seat belt crevice and thunks into the bowels of no-man’s-land.
“Lucy!” Mom shouts through the phone speakers. “Are you okay?”
I yell toward the floormats, “Talk loud. I dropped my phone.”
Unlike my stepbrother, I drive a beat-up Nissan Frontier that I bought with my own money, and it doesn’t have Generation Z luxuries like CarPlay or even air-conditioning. My iPhone speakers aren’t quite up to factory standards either.
Mom’s muted yelling continues. “You didn’t, like, get Martin into anything, did you? I heard you two fighting this morning.”
“We weren’t fighting.”
How much did she hear?
“Luce, you spend a lot of time with guns—”
Whoa. “Air guns—” I say angrily and she cuts me off.
“—accidents happen when weapons are involved.”
“Stop,” I say.
I am sharp, too sharp. But under normal circumstances, she doesn’t accuse me of making Martin late for Regionals because of an invented air rifle incident. When it comes to competitive shooting, she’s my biggest supporter.
Digging under the seat requires an act of contortion from my wrist, but I drag up my phone from the crumbs and hair ties. “Buy some popcorn,” I say, more in control. “I’ll ring you when I know something.”
Mom lowers her voice. “Please don’t go out there, baby. What if there’s a murderer on the loose?”
I want to pipe back, A murderer? In LaRue? Instead, I say, “Hey, it’s probably deer blood or a paintball. I’m fine. Martin’s fine.” I am not at all sure he is fine.
“You’re probably right,” she admits. “I love you so much.”
“I love you too.”
We hang up.
My message to Martin still doesn’t show as delivered. I think, You will not worry. The worst things that can happen have already happened. I lost a brother in a freak flood and an environmental tragedy. Unless God is unfairly targeting me, losing another brother doesn’t strike me as statistically likely.
But what if for once my mother is right?
There could be a murderer in LaRue.
And according to Martin, there is. ...
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