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“Yeah?” Keith turned in his seat to peer toward the darkness at the back of the van. “Looks out to me. Do you know how much chloroform I gave him?”
Hunter shrugged. “As much as you gave me?”
“Don’t be a smartass.” He punched in the cigarette lighter and pulled a Marlboro Red from the pack, set it between his lips. When the lighter popped out, he lit the cigarette. The van’s interior filled with an acrid burning stench. A wave of gray smoke rolled throughout the interior.
Hunter wrinkled his nose and lowered the window a crack.
“Put that back up.”
“Oh, come on, we’re in the middle of nowhere.” They were driving west on the Ohio Turnpike. They were about forty miles past Columbus. “On the turnpike, no one can hear you scream. Or smell your smoke.”
“Funny,” Keith said, the cigarette bouncing between his lips.
Hunter left the window open a bit and Keith didn’t bother him about it anymore.
“The answer is yes.”
“Yes, what?” Hunter asked.
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I gave him the same amount of chloroform I gave you back on that fateful day, or your lucky day.” He turned to Hunter, grinning. “Depending on your perspective.”
Hunter sunk back into the black vinyl captain’s chair and closed his eyes. They were veering into a conversational territory he didn’t want to enter. Maybe if he pretended to be asleep as he suspected the kid in the back, Jeb, was also doing, the talk would come to a standstill. Hunter had learned over the past few years that feigning sleep often delayed or rerouted devious plans.
He’d been with Keith Walker now for seven years, ever since he was nine years old. Walker, who’d called himself Chris Sgro, had dated his mom for a couple of weeks back in Hunter’s hometown of Steubenville, Ohio. One winter night, when Hunter was fast asleep in his twin bed, burrowed down beneath flannel sheets and two quilts, dreaming of sugar-plum fairies, he’d woke to find Sgro standing over him.
“It’s your mom.”
Hunter had gotten to a sitting position immediately. The jolt of fear about his mama was like a stab of adrenaline straight to his heart.
“What’s the matter? Is she okay? Should we call Dad?” Dad was over on the west side of town, in a studio apartment he’d rented when he and Mama had separated back around Halloween.
“No need to call him. Just get dressed and come with me.” Sgro leaned against Hunter’s bedroom wall, arms crossed over his flannel shirt, watching as Hunter pulled on jeans and a black sweatshirt. He grabbed his Adidas from under the bed and, after putting on socks, pulled them on.
Sgro eyed him the whole time, and it made his scalp prickle. It wasn’t the first time he felt as though the man were regarding him a littletooclosely for comfort. Hunter wondered if the glimmer in Sgro’s eyes was just his own imagination or if there was something that went deeper in the man’s glance.
Downstairs, Mama lay on the couch. Her dress, a black velvet thing she liked to wear with the pearls Gram had given her on her wedding day, was bunched up beneath her. Heat rose to Hunter’s face because part of her black lace panties were exposed. He looked away and asked, “What happened?”
“I can’t wake her up. I think she mixed too many pain killers with vodka. I’ve told her before that stuff can be dangerous, especially together. I can help her out without getting the cops or doctors involved, which would be better for all concerned, but you gotta come with me.”
Mama? She didn’t drink much and she certainly hadn’t used pain killers, at least as far as Hunter knew.
Hunter wished, back then, he’d at least insisted he stay with his mom, who was in such bad shape. His heart ached and his nine-year-old mind immediately went to the worst-case scenario—she was dying. Her chest rising and falling was only a small reassurance.
“I just need to get out out to the all-night Kroger’s and get some stuff that’ll help get her up. Now you go get in the van.”
Hunter wanted to, but hadn’t even asked why. He simply went out, climbed in the van, and sat in the passenger’s seat. He even remembered to fasten his seat belt.
And then he fell for the same thing this kid, Jeb, did.
Chris said, “I got to get something out of the back. There’s a loose pop bottle rolling around there and it’s driving meinsane.”
“All right.”
Chris disappeared toward the back of the van. The night pressed in. No lights shined in any of the neighbors’ windows, which upped Hunter’s anxiety even more. It wasn’t a good place to be—all alone in the world with Chris Sgro.
The next thing Hunter knew, Sgro was behind him, reaching across his left shoulder to place a foul-smelling rag over his mouth and nose.
Before Hunter could even wonder what it was and why it smelled so foul, everything went dark.
