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That was seven years ago, or would be in December. Since then, he’d traveled the country with Walker, and done things his boy brain was too innocent and naïve to have even imagined. He’d been sold, traded, and photographed. He’d been used and abused by too many men to count (and some women, too—that part was even worse, because he’d always believed, based on his relationship with his mama, her friends, and her sisters, that women were kind and nurturing).
Through all the torture and the degradation, he’d remained numb—an unwilling victim, but a silent one. He seldom said a word, and that was okay with Walker.
Hunter was pliable and seemed willing, even though when the terrible things were happening, he wasn’t really there. No, he retreated into memories—summers swimming at the lake where Aunt Amy had a little cottage, hiking the foothills of the Appalachians with his daddy and the beagle they used to have, Topper, shopping at the mall in Weirton, going on long, aimless drives through the countryside with Mama and Daddy, which always culminated in his getting a strawberry ice cream cone.
The stuff that was done to him seemed as though they’d happened to someone else. Even when it hurt, as it often did, Hunter learned to project himself out of the pain and the sickening closeness.
He found a way to rise above agony.
He’d become a shell—an empty boy with no thoughts, no spirit, no hope, dejected. Walker had stolen all the good and left an empty black hole in its place.
And Hunter had never found out if his mom was okay.
II
“Why didn’t you fight him?” Sam asked, leaning forward over the café table. “Didn’t you ever try to get away?”
“Early on, I did. A little. But he was older. He lied to me, so many lies. He told me my mama had died the night we left her on the couch. He said my daddy was so destitute over her passing that he blew his own head off. I was nine years old, man, nine. This guy, Walker, was bigger, stronger, older. Even though he hurt me time after time, I felt like he was all that I had, the only way I could survive. And he threatened me. If I ever did manage to get away from him, he’d track me down. And when he found me, it wouldn’t be pretty. I didn’t doubt him.
“You might not get it. You had someone you maybe took for granted, but who took care of you, who loved you, who made you the center of their world. I was a kid, not even a teenager yet, when all this shit went down. I couldn’t get away. And, after a while, I just became numb, doing what I was told. I was an accomplice. And I wasn’t even an unwilling one, just one who went through the motions because I didn’t care anymore and because I never had a choice.
“That all changed, though, when I was sixteen, and he decided he needed another boy, a different one, younger. That’s when he took Jeb.”
Sam shook his head and leaned back in his seat. He lifted his cup, found it empty, and set it back, clattering in its saucer.
“I don’t want to scare you or give you nightmares or anything like that, but you might want to know that Jeb wasn’t his original target.” He paused to draw in a deep breath. “You were.”
Hunter watched as the blood literally drained from Sam’s face. He went as white as the coffee cup in front of him.
Hunter shrugged. “It was a crime of opportunity. When Jeb went back into those woods to take a piss, it was too easy to resist, to wait.”
“My god,” Sam marveled. “You’re telling the truth.”
“Of course I am.” Hunter reached across the table to take Sam’s hand. This time, Sam didn’t pull away. “Look, I know this has all been unreal for you. And what I’m telling you must be hard to take.”
Just then, the barista stepped out from behind the counter. Hunter looked around. He hadn’t even noticed the place had cleared out and the music had stopped.
The barista, a middle-aged guy in clear-framed glasses and a long green apron, neared their table. “Sorry guys, but I gotta close up. As the song says, ‘you don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.’” He smiled and there was a kind of gentle reluctance in it. “You need to finish up.”
Sam shook his head, as though waking from a dream. “What time is it?” he asked.
The barista said, “Going on eleven.” He walked back to the counter and began cleaning up and putting away.
“How could that be?” Sam asked.
“Time just sort of slipped away.”
“And we’re not even having fun.” Sam gave Hunter a half-hearted grin.
“You probably have work tomorrow, no?”
“I do, but I wanna know more. If I went home and went to bed now, I know I wouldn’t sleep a wink, anyway.” Sam stood and took both of their cups to the counter. When he came back, he said, “I have to get home to Vito, my dog. He needs to be walked. Would you maybe want to come with us? Tell me more?”
Hunter stood. “I’d like that.” He followed Sam to the door. “I’d love to see Vito again.”
Once they were outside, Hunter asked, “So, maybe you trust me now?”
“I wouldn’t go that far. But I have so many questions.”
