In his hotel room, Webb took a small plastic bag and put some wooden matches in it. He slipped the sealed bag of matches into his money belt.
Then he practiced packing and repacking all his gear. The Wi-Fi connection gave him good access to the Internet on his iPod, and he’d just finished reading an article on hiking that advised putting all the heavy stuff as close to the bottom of the backpack as possible. The article also said that keeping some matches dry was a cheap insurance policy.
After the tenth time he refilled his backpack, he realized he was doing it out of nervousness, so he moved to a chair in the corner and picked up his guitar.
He didn’t start playing but just held it because it made him feel better.
He began to mentally poke at his nervousness, in the same way he used his tongue to poke at the hole where his tooth used to be.
Was he nervous because he’d be walking a trail in one of the most remote spots in the world? No, he told himself. Knowing that George had lied to try and protect him from Brent gave Webb a sense of comfort. He could trust the older man; the guide would be there to help.
Was he nervous because of Brent?
He gave that serious thought. If the man had actually killed and buried two men out in the wilderness, any rational person would be afraid of Brent. But there was no reason to be afraid tonight.
Sylvain had locked Brent up for the night, at least, expecting that Brent’s lawyer would not be able to get him out until sometime the next day. By then, Webb would have left Norman Wells, safe from the guy Sylvain had called a psycho. Webb had a lot of experience with psychos.
When he was fourteen, his stepfather had come home unexpectedly, catching Webb in front of the television, playing his guitar in sync with the Rolling Stones on a music video.
Elliott turned the television off and faced Webb. The silence—after the loud music from the television—seemed to echo in the room.
“I told Charlotte that I forgot my wallet,” Elliott said. “Can’t pay for dinner without it. I left her there at the restaurant and told her I’d be right back.”
Third anniversary. Dinner at a fancy restaurant. Webb was old enough not to need a babysitter, and he had expected them to be gone for hours.
Standing in front of the couch, guitar in his hands, Webb glanced out the front window at the darkness.
“I parked down the street,” Elliott said. “Headlights would have been obvious. Didn’t want you slipping away as I came up the driveway.”
Because that’s exactly what Webb would have done: slip out the back door, into the backyard and through the gate near where Niblet was buried. Instead, Elliott had caught Webb watching MTV. The Rolling Stones. Long-haired musicians who had definitely taken drugs.
“Nothing to say?” Elliott asked.
It had ripped out Webb’s heart to bury his beagle. Maybe once a month, Elliott had found an excuse to make Webb kneel on rice grains to protect Niblet. Elliott had not once hurt the dog. Webb had never given Elliott reason to. In the end, a stomach virus had taken Niblet.
“Nothing to say?” Elliott repeated.
Webb reached down. Picked up the remote. Clicked on the television again. Mick Jagger answered Elliott instead. The music was satisfyingly loud. And there was a great closeup of Mick and his thick long hair. A combination sure to irritate Elliott. Much as it hurt not to have Niblet waiting at the gate anymore, Elliott no longer had a hold over Webb.
Can’t get no satisfaction.
Keith Richards was Webb’s guitar hero. The opening of “Satisfaction” was just a three-note guitar riff. Then some bass. Then drums and acoustic guitar. But the three-note riff drove that song, made it what it was. Webb could play all of it now. But never at home.
Can’t get no satisfaction.
Elliott gave his cold smile. He briefly turned his back to Webb to unplug the television, and then in the new silence, through the cold smile that did not waver, he said, “Drop your guitar. Sit on the couch. Take off the sock on your right foot.”
“Niblet is gone,” Webb said. “You can’t do anything to me now or I’ll report it.”
“Not once did I hurt your dog,” Elliott said. “I just want us to be a happy family. All of us. You. Me. And Charlotte. I really want her to remain happy.”
Webb felt like he couldn’t breathe, and that sudden weakness took away his ability to speak.
Webb sat on the couch and did as commanded.
Webb felt that horrible blackness again, the feeling of sinking into mud he’d felt years earlier when Elliott first made him kneel on rice. Elliott wasn’t making a threat about his mom, was he? It was just Webb’s imagination, his fear rising like this because he loved his mom so much. Right?
“Hold your right leg straight out in front of you and keep it there.”
Webb waited like that as Elliott walked to the kitchen and then returned with a broom. Elliott snapped the broom handle in half and gently slapped the rounded side of the broken piece against the sole of Webb’s foot. It was a gentle slap, but Webb still felt it like a sharp and unexpected electrical current.
Elliott spoke in his silky voice, the voice that Webb only heard him use when the two of them were alone. “Amazing, isn’t it, how sensitive nerve endings are in the skin of your sole. Won’t leave a mark. I expect not to have to do it again. Am I understood? I’m trying to teach you to be a man, and I hope we are past physical punishment.”
Webb nodded.
“I want to hear you say it.”
“You are understood.”
“Not enough.”
“You are understood, sir.”
“Good,” Elliott said. “I’ve learned that you’ve been taking guitar lessons even though I expressly forbade it. Tomorrow, I will watch as you smash your guitar in the garage with a hammer. I want you to think about this all night and all through school tomorrow. As you think about it, remember you will never defy me again.”
“My dad gave me the guitar.” Webb hated that he began crying. “It’s all that he left me. Leave the guitar. I’ll do anything.”
“Tomorrow, I will watch you smash the guitar at my command. And then you sign up for cadets and begin military training. Agreed?”
Webb realized he wasn’t afraid of Elliott hurting the soles of his feet. Webb had learned he could deal with pain, and Elliott had just said they were past anything physical. He was terrified, though, of losing what he loved. His dad had been taken unexpectedly and unfairly. Niblet was gone. That left only his mom.
Webb had to protect her at all costs. “Yes, sir,” Webb said through his tears. “Agreed.”
But in the end, hadn’t he hurt his mother far more by leaving home a few years later without a word of explanation?
In the hotel room, guitar across his lap, Webb realized he wasn’t feeling nervous. Dealing with Brent earlier in the day had brought back way too many memories about dealing with his stepfather.
He’d abandoned his mother because he believed he needed to protect her.
He knew of only one way to deal with that kind of pain.
Softly, so it wouldn’t disturb anyone in the rooms on either side, he strummed the guitar and lost himself in a song he’d written a few months earlier called “Monsters.” He sang the first verse under his breath.
Under the bed
What’s in my head
That I can’t see
You walk the halls
I hear your steps
You haunt my dreams