Blood Brothers (28 page)

***

They walked clear across town. It seemed that
no matter what, Jerry and he walked more than they did anything
else. For fun, Michael tried to imagine what it would be like in a
couple more years, when he had his driver’s license. Probably just
the same, since he had no money and he didn’t see his dad kicking
in any for the purchase of a car. Still, no matter how accustomed
you are to it, sometimes walking so much just plain sucks.

Besides, Michael was all little bit worried
about Jerry. Whatever illness had brought on the fever seemed to be
doing a real number on him. He walked and talked as if he were a
ninety-year-old man, struggling to remain upright. But he wouldn’t
allow Michael to give him any assistance.

Finally, they made it to a tree line leading
into some thick woods. This was old man Burnett’s property. And
while it looked as if every other tree was posted with a No
Trespassing sign, the boys had spent many an hour within its depths
without so much as a glimpse of Grady Burnett. And that was just
fine with Mike. So he didn’t think much of heading in this time
either. What he didn’t understand was just why exactly Jerry felt
the need to drag him across town, on foot, him in his sickened
condition, right now. But Michael wasn’t about to ask another
question. So far along their journey, talk had been kept to a
minimum. Michael knew it wasn’t just because Jerry didn’t feel
good; it was something else. Since leaving the park, Jerry had worn
a very stern look and Michael was smart enough not to push him too
much. He’d find out what was going on soon enough. Or so he
thought.

As concerned as Mr. Burnett was about
privacy, he sure didn’t show it by the condition of his fences.
Rotted and falling down, the posts that suspended the rusted barb
wire looked as if they’d been stuck in the ground well over a
hundred years ago.

Michael had to hold the top strand of wire up
with his hand and the second down with his feet to allow Jerry to
step through. He was getting pretty worried about Jerry. The kid
just didn’t look good. If curiosity hadn’t been getting the better
of him, he would have done his best to convince his friend that
whatever task he had on his mind could be held for another day. But
that was just it, curiosity was getting the best of him. No, strike
that, the suspense was getting the best of him; it was killing him,
actually.

From the fence they moved off into the woods.
Going deeper and deeper with each footfall, they got so far in that
the treetop canopy dimmed the sunlight, then cut it off altogether.
It was as if night had fallen prematurely, casting the land in a
nocturnal kingdom. They’d been in a very good ways before, but
today they were exploring a whole new section of land.

Just when Michael was convinced they’d walk
right off the edge of the world, they came to a break in the dense
forest. The trees opened up and a meadow spread out a hundred yards
in all directions. Sunflowers, wheat weeds, and cat tails grew
wild. As the two boys stepped into the clearing, Michael saw Jerry
step it up just a little bit, as if he were finally approaching
home plate and his body found a morsel of energy, just enough to
propel him onward. Unfortunately, however, the meadow didn’t seem
to be Jerry’s ultimate destination. So they headed south, leaving
the majority of the field behind them.

Michael was tired as all get out and he had
no idea how someone as sick as Jerry could continue on. But Jerry
did. A real trooper, this kid was.

The field began a slow, but steady downward
slope. Michael started to hear something he couldn’t quite make
out. It sounded like a quiet popping at first. As he strained his
ears and they came closer to the source, he recognized the strange
sound as that of a burbling creek. Sure enough, at the bottom of
the decline, amidst an outcropping of slate was a stream about ten
feet wide that looked as if it belonged in some state park or
something, rather than in old man Burnett’s field.

Jerry in front, Michael right behind, the
boys cautiously made their way down to the bottom, picked out the
largest flat rock and finally sat down.

“Man, you’re looking pretty bad, Jerry.”

The other boy laughed, but only a little.
“Well, I guess that means I look better than I feel.”

Michael sat, cross-legged, staring at his
friend.

“Buddy, you look like you’re about to
explode. Don’t worry. As soon as I get my breath, I’ll tell you
what this is all about.”

It was exactly two and a half eternities
before Jerry seemed to get his breath back. When he did, he started
talking.

“You ever heard of blood brothers?”

Michael thought about that for a moment. He
didn’t want to look like an idiot in front of Jerry, but the truth
was he had never heard the term. “No, not really.”

“It’s a very, very old tradition. My mother
was a librarian before she…before she…”

“Died,” Michael offered. Jerry looked at him,
sadness etched into his face.

“Yeah. Well, I would help her sometimes. I
really liked the library, but most of all, I liked being there with
her.” Jerry stopped and collected his thoughts. “Anyway, I started
reading some of the books. Not just the popular stuff either. The
old stuff, classics, history, literature, biographies, stuff like
that.

“Anyway, I read about this Norwegian warrior
named
Orvar-Odd
He
was one mean mother, if you know what I mean. Well, one time he
like testing his fighting skills with a famous Swedish warrior
named
Hjalmar
.
Orvar-Odd sailed to Sweden with five ships and met Hjalmar, who had
fifteen ships. Hjalmar was an honorable man, couldn’t accept such
an uneven balance of strength, so he sent away ten of his own ships
so that the forces would be even. The two warriors fought for two
days with a lot of blood-letting, but in the end it was a draw,
dead-even. Finally, they realized that they were equals and decided
to become sworn brothers by letting their blood mingle together.
Thus they were allied together for the rest of their lives.

“But that’s not the only instance. They said
that the Lone Ranger and Tonto were blood brothers. And Tom Sawyer
and Huck Finn, too. But Orvar-Odd and Hjalmar were real.

“Do you see what I’m saying?”

Man, Michael didn’t want to come across like
a real moron, but despite the improvised history lesson, he was
still unclear about what Jerry was getting at. So, he took a leap,
“You want us to be blood brothers?”

“Exactly.” For the first time all day,
Jerry’s face brightened and a smile grew across his lips. “Even
though we’re not brothers, like if we had the same parents, we’ll
be just as close…closer even because we do this by choice, not
by…”

“Obligation?” Michael again offered.

Jerry snapped his fingers. “That’s it. When
we’re blood brothers, nothing in the world can ever change that.
It’s a bond, Mike, one that lasts a lifetime. So what do you
say?”

Michael didn’t even have to think about it.
Not really. It sounded like a good deal to him. He had no brother
or sisters, and Jerry was just about the coolest kid he’d ever
known. No, the coolest. This was not only a good way to prove his
loyalty to Jerry, but just maybe some of his friend’s good luck
might be passed on to him. Jerry was already one of the most
popular kids at school. Without this blood brother stuff, Michael
was sure that the day would come that he’d prefer to hang out with
the other popular kids rather than Mike. But not after something
like this. Could Michael become just as well liked around school
and town as Jerry. Such a thing boggled the mind. But maybe, just
maybe…

“What do we do?”

Instead of directly answering him, Jerry
fished in his pocket for a minute. When he withdrew the hand, it
held a very shiny red pocketknife. “I bought this the other day.
It’s a Winchester. Bought it just for this right here.” Jerry
popped out the blade. Michael had to admit, it was a really nice
knife.

But knives and blades made him think of his
father and something sick started to grow in his gut. The day was
warm, but not hot, all the same Mike’s brow broke out in a cold
sweat.

“You okay, buddy?” Jerry asked as he fiddled
with the knife. “You look like you’re getting sick.”

“I’m fine. I just don’t like knives very
much. I don’t like them very much at all.” Somehow, someway, Jerry
seemed to get it, to understand. He just slowly nodded.

“Don’t worry about it. This won’t take but a
second.”

And he was right. Michael watched Jerry as if
he weren’t really there with him. As if he were watching the events
in front of him unfold on a television screen with him sitting on
the couch, munching on chips. Jerry laid his left palm out, face
up, and deftly, with the tip of his Winchester, sliced a cut two
inches long across the tender flesh. It was a diagonal slash that
bled as soon as the skin separated. When it was Mike’s turn, it was
as if his hand offered itself up of its own accord. But the feeling
of being removed disappeared the instant the blade point struck
home. White hot fire flamed to life as the knife tip moved across
his hand. And then, his own blood, the very essence of his life
seeped through.

“There’s probably a ritual or maybe a chant
that’s supposed to go with this, but I couldn’t find anything when
I looked at the town library. So, I can up with our own.”

“Okay,” Michael said.

Jerry reached out and took Mike’s hand as if
he were going to shake it. The grip was tight, but not painful—the
knife had taken care of that part. “Repeat after me.” Michael
nodded. “As the blood from another mixes with my own,” a pause
while Michael recited, word for word. “I vow loyalty and harmony
with my newfound brother.” Michael again repeated the words
exactly. “I will never raise a hand against my blood brother. I
will take on his battles and he will take on mine. We will be one
in this life.” Another pause for Mike. “And let no force in this
world break this bond, or either of us forget this commitment.
Because hell is the price for breaking this bond.” Michael
swallowed not really liking the last part, but he knew better than
to say anything besides exactly what Jerry had said.

Jerry let go. He didn’t wipe the blood from
his hand. Taking the cue, neither did Mike.

“Is that it?” Michael asked.

“Yep. That’s all she wrote. Now let’s get the
hell out of here. My hand burns like a son of a bitch.”

Now

Trista, to some extent, hadn’t been lying.
The Reddicks were in bed. Of sorts. Ben and Elise were lying flat.
Their bodies draped in clear plastic sheeting, like a drop cloth
used when painting walls. Their wrists were bound with twine, as
was their ankles. Death had not been kind to them. Dead for at
least a week, their forms had already begun deteriorating.

Michael had one thought: the smell should be
worse. That was the only thought he had time for before he was
clobbered from the side. Falling to his left, he almost lost his
grip on the gun. His ear exploded in pain, and the world blinked in
front of him. He felt like he’d been smacked by a damn Mack truck.
He twirled, at least as soon as he was able.

Trista stood before him. Still dressed
scantily, her bare hands were clenched into fists. Surely, it
hadn’t been a fist that hit him. Right? But he could tell instantly
from her posture that Trista had learned how to fight, really
fight. Not some aerobic martial arts workout bullshit. She held
herself loose, but controlled. Her hands held in such a way that
while they could easily defend her face, chest and midsection, she
could also launch an offensive. Her knees were bent slightly,
giving her the benefit of both, good balance and ease of
movement.

“Who are you supposed to be?” Michael
questioned, “Muhammad Ali?”

“Not quite, man. But I’m sure I can handle
your old, out-of-shape ass.”

“Handle this.” Michael raised the gun but
before he could even move his finger to the trigger, Trista was in
motion. She was a blur as she stepped into him, pulling the gun
from his grasp like he was a child holding a cap gun. Instead of
turning it around and using his own weapon against him, she jabbed
with her left hand and struck his head with the butt of the gun.
All before Michael could blink. If he’d thought her first punch to
the ear had hurt, he’d been wrong. This hurt, really hurt.

Any reservations Michael might’ve had against
striking a woman flew out the window the moment he lost control of
the Kimber. While Trista looked as if she’d been street-fighting
since being spit out the womb, Michael wasn’t as out-of-shape as
she’d like. As she twirled this way and that he grabbed hold of her
hair, thereby effectively gaining control of her entire body, and
slammed the woman into a tall stack of boxes. The entire stack
crumbled, still Michael didn’t let go of her hair. Using his free
hand, he reached for the pistol before she had the presence of mind
to know she still held the firearm. But her grip was vise-like.
Pulling her close to his body, he wrapped his arm around hers,
applying pressure at the wrist. The gun fell to the ground. There
was no way he could get to it without tossing her away and that, he
knew, would have deadly consequences.

If he couldn’t get the gun, he was bound and
determined that she wouldn’t either. Michael gave the gun a stiff
kick; it slid safely out of range across the OSB flooring.

“I’m going to claw your fucking eyes out, you
pig.” She still thrashed about, yanking her own hair out by the
roots as she bucked this way and that.

Tiring of the fight, Michael aimed to end it
right here and now. Only, he wasn’t able to. He planned to use the
sleep hold perfected by wrestlers, but as he slid his arm around
her neck, positioning the bend of his elbow at her throat, she bent
low and bit into him. Hard. She hit like a transfer truck and her
teeth felt like needles. This woman was unbelievable.