“Well, it’ll be pretty suspicious if we bust in and go right for the goods, like we already knew where everything was. Besides,” she says, chucking a framed picture of Dillon’s mom against the wall, “it’s fun. Try it.”
I lay the guitars down and walk over to the TV. I grab it with both hands and yank it loose from the wall mounts. I lift the TV over my head and smash it into the coffee table. I smash it like Moses smashed the Ten Commandments. I stomp it and stomp it and stomp it till it’s nothing but a mass of glass and wire.
I stop when I feel a hand on my shoulder. Kayla’s smiling.
“That’s it, baby,” she says. “Just like that.”
We get the guitars and go back out the window. I never stole anything before. It’s fucking easy. You just bash a window, walk in, and take whatever you want. It’s that simple. Why does anyone ever get a real job?
We drive off toward town, not a single flashing blue light in sight. Me and Kayla avoid the highway, moving only on back roads toward Madison. There’s always a million cops out on 463 and they’ll pull you over for nothing. At night, if you got long hair or a sticker on your car or you’re not driving a Beamer, you’re fucked.
When we get back to town, me and Kayla decide to drive back to her house and wait the night out. To do that, we have to cross the highway, the only time we won’t be on back roads. I don’t like it, but if we keep driving around, eventually a cop’s going to pull us over, and I can’t think of a better idea.
Everything’s going just fine until we catch a red light next to a new strip of lawyer offices and my passenger window explodes. Glass flies all in my face, in Kayla’s hair. Before I can do anything the door rips open and Ty the Thug yanks Kayla out of the car by her hair.
The headlights from a car parked along the side of the road cut on. The door of the Mustang opens and Kroner steps out.
“You trying to bail on me?” he says. “Going out for a stroll with your lady friend?”
“I got half your money here,” I say. “Now let her loose, a’ight?”
I pull Dillon’s prize Les Paul out of the car. The pickups sparkle in the headlights. Kroner takes it and gives it a once-over.
“What the hell am I supposed to do with a guitar?” he says. “I quit lessons after like two months. I need cash.”
“You give me until tomorrow and it will be cash, moron.”
Kroner takes the guitar by the neck and smashes it onto the pavement until it’s just splinters and strings. “Always wanted to do that,” he says.
“Yeah, you’re a real fucking rock star,” I say.
Kroner pulls an ugly-looking buck knife out of a sheath on his belt and points it at my chest. “You think I’m a pussy, don’t you? All motherfuckers around here think because I’m not from Jackson I’m a fucking pussy. Well, I ain’t a pussy. And I’m about to show you.”
He punches Kayla in the face. I can’t believe it. She falls back onto the street.
The big guy kicks me in the knee. I go down on the pavement. He puts a boot on my neck and keeps it there.
Kroner bends over Kayla. “Look me in the eyes,” he says to me. “I will rape her. I will fuck her every which way I want to. I will make that tight little pussy bleed. Do you hear me? I’m on a whole new level, Dougie. Nobody’s ever gonna fuck with me again.” He spits on Kayla. “Get me the money and I’ll give you your girl back. Meet me at The Spot in three hours.”
Ty takes his foot off my throat and I can breathe again. He grabs Kayla and shoves her into the trunk of Kroner’s Mustang. They drive off into the night.
I try to get up all calm and dust myself off. I walk away from the main road, away from where any passing cars can see me, behind a strip of disposable stores, and puke. One of the stores is under construction, they’re building a new bathroom or something, and there’s all kinds of shit — boards, glass, metal beams, nails — all over the place.
A noise like a window getting busted erupts out of the woods. I think it’s Kroner back to kill me or the cops or somebody wrecked a car. But a doe comes bounding out, bewildered and bleeding down its legs. Then comes a buck and a limping fawn, a whole lost family crashing on the construction material, sounding like a pack of looters.
The buck stares me down, its horns like weird fangs jutting out of its skull, like he will charge me at any moment if I so much as lift a finger toward his family.
I know I only got one person I can call.
Pastor Jerry answers on the sixth ring. His voice is rusted, croaking, not the cheerful high-pitched happy routine he gives the youth group. He sounds busted, worn out, and tired.
“Pastor Jerry, this is Douglas. I got a problem. It’s Kayla. We need to talk.”
He tells me to come over and I’m there in ten minutes. Pastor Jerry’s got a look to him like he’s halfway between pissed and confused. I sit him down on his front porch and tell him everything, like he’s a priest, like he’s my dad, like he’s God Himself.
“We have to go to the cops, Douglas,” he says. “There’s no way I’m letting anything happen to Kayla.”
“Can’t. They’ll hurt her. These guys are on some crazy shit.” It’s the first time I’ve ever cussed in front of him. If he notices, he doesn’t show it.
“How much you need?”
“About ten grand,” I say.
“Come inside,” he says, flicking his cigarette off into the bushes.
Pastor Jerry takes me to his bedroom, to a wooden trunk he has in the back of his closet. There’s a letter in it, some bottled water, canned food.
“It’s Kayla’s Rapture kit,” he says. “You know, in case she doesn’t come to Jesus in time. If I get taken and she gets left. It’s enough for her to live safely on for a while.”
The trunk has a false shelf. When he takes it out, there’s got to be twenty grand down there. Pastor Jerry counts out ten grand. We put it in a Walmart bag.
“I got to go,” I say.
“I’m coming with you. I’m a pastor, and I want to make sure no one gets hurt. Especially not my baby girl.”
“No fucking way you’re coming with me,” I say.
“If I don’t go, you don’t get the money.”
“Christ, fine, whatever. Let’s go.”
“Let me pray first,” says Pastor Jerry.
“We don’t have time for that kind of crap.”
Pastor Jerry looks hurt, like a dad whose kid just got caught cheating on a test. It makes me feel kind of shitty.
“Look, you can pray in the car. Let’s just go.”
We drive without any music, just the wind sliced by my busted window. Pastor Jerry prays to Jesus. He prays with his hands lifted up, same as he does in youth group, in that soft, sincere voice, begging God for the safety of his sweet Kayla, his good daughter who stumbled off the path.
“I know she doesn’t believe yet, Lord, but please let my faith be enough. Please let the faith of a parent get her through.”
It’s pure TBN Joel Osteen horseshit, but you can tell Pastor Jerry actually means it. He asks for forgiveness for all kinds of stuff — for his failure as a dad, as a husband, all his own faults and shortcomings. Never once does he blame me.
That hurts, you know? This guy was never anything but good to me and I have him begging Christ for his little girl’s life. Same daughter I fucked earlier tonight and who might get murdered because of me, same one who he doesn’t even hardly know, not really. Pastor Jerry never stole anything from me like Dillon, and he sure stuck around longer than my own dad when I was in trouble. I’ve done nothing but take from him. I’ve made a fool out of him.
All the while Pastor Jerry prays.
We pull up to The Spot in my bashed car. Kroner’s leaning against his Mustang with his arms crossed like a gangster in a movie. A bit-off chunk of moon hangs in the sky half-hidden by clouds. Ty holds Kayla by her arms. He’s got sunglasses on even though it’s dark. When I get out, I slam the door like I’m a tough guy and the rest of the glass shatters out in shards. Pastor Jerry steps out gingerly over the glass.