While he’s watching David John talking with the men, he sees something that catches his attention: Wyatt coming up the trail and out of the woods behind the barn. Wyatt’s walking—strolling, really—with his hands in the pockets of his hunting jacket. He’s wearing the same camouflage coveralls, the same jacket, even the same dark knit cap he was wearing earlier when Jessup came across him at the firing range. He’s not hurrying, all the time in the world, and even from a distance, even with fifty people still milling about outside, he makes eye contact with Jessup.
Jessup wonders how that works, what it is in their relationship that allows Wyatt to find him so easily, that means they can find each other in a crowd. He knows he can do this with Jewel, can spot her onstage at a chorus concert, can pick her out of the group of kids breaking from school, knows where she is as simply as he can feel his own heartbeat. But it’s been this way with him and Wyatt, too, from the beginning. Like brothers.
Wyatt takes a hand out of his pocket, points with two fingers to Earl’s house.
Jessup walks around the outside of the parking lot, slipping away. He keeps his head down, shoulders bent, does his best to become invisible, a difficult task for a kid his size, in direct contradiction to everything David John has ever taught him: stand tall, talk steady, look straight.
One of the cops gives him a look, but Jessup keeps moving, and the cop is quickly distracted by somebody who wants to take their car out of the parking lot. Jessup can hear sirens drifting in from the road, wonders if an ambulance has come for Brandon Rogers yet. Wonders what the police are going to do with the two dead bodies. How long are they going to have to lie on the ground, blood pooling around them?
By the time he gets to Earl’s house, Wyatt’s already waiting for him by the porch.
“You okay?” Wyatt says. He touches Jessup’s neck just like Jessup’s mom did. His touch is gentle, thoughtful, and even though Jessup flinches a bit—it stings—he doesn’t move away. “Looks raw.”
“Glass from the rear window fell on me.”
“You should clean that up.” Wyatt moves his finger carefully over the side of Jessup’s neck. “Doesn’t feel to me like there’s any glass stuck in there, but you want to go to a doctor or something?” He lowers his hand. “I can take you to the urgent-care clinic if you want.”
“No. I think it’s good. Just scraped up, really.” Jessup touches his neck himself now. It feels tender and he wants to get a look at it, but he’s pretty sure Wyatt’s right. Doesn’t seem like there’s any glass embedded under his skin.
Jessup looks up and sees Wyatt’s mom standing in the window of Earl’s living room, looking down at them. He raises his hand in greeting, but she turns away.
“Shit,” Wyatt says. “My mom’s pissed at you.”
“I didn’t . . .” He sighs. He’s tired of defending himself.
Wyatt shrugs. “Yeah. I know.”
They both stand there, quiet, even though it’s not quiet around them: one of the cops is standing in front of an SUV, telling the driver to turn around, not quite pointing his M16 at the man, but getting ready. Two other cops stand together talking about something. David John is listening to the collection of men; there’s a lot of angry gesturing now, a roll of frustration coming from the group, heated glances at the cops, though David John just looks sad to Jessup, scared. There are other small clusters of congregants dissecting the morning’s events, somebody’s mother standing outside the front door of the social hall calling for her kid to come in, more sirens coming up the road, police or ambulance, Jessup doesn’t know. The man in the SUV lays on the horn now, gesturing at the cop to move, the cop now raising his M16 and pointing it at the driver, cease and desist.
“Holy crap,” Wyatt says. “This is nuts.”
Jessup looks at him, shakes his head. “Why’d you do it?”