Fight or Flee Page 5
“This is my fault, all my fault,” Hinton says, his face pressed against the car window. His tears trickle down the glass. “Her father—if I hadn’t, then—my fault.”
“Nothing is your fault,” Horace says. He grabs onto Hinton’s shoulder again, hard so Hinton can’t break free. “We know where this all starts and ends. Clay.”
Hinton repeats the name over and over, faster and faster, like a train engine gathering speed. As Horace drives back, Hinton punctuates his stepfather’s name by ramming his forehead into the window until the tears dripping down the glass are joined by blood.
14
“Should we go ahead and dig a third one for Latrell?” Barry cracks to Frank. They’re in a back field of the Helsinger compound that serves as a graveyard for the Silver Skulls and their families. They already dug Paul’s grave and are starting one for Olivia.
“What’s so funny?” Horace snaps at Barry. “Get back to work.”
Hinton steps toward the empty grave. “How could you be laughing? How could you take this so lightly?” Hinton asks. Neither Barry nor Frank say a word as they hack at the slowly thawing ground with shovels.
“I can’t believe you don’t have to go back inside,” Horace tells Hinton. Hinton shrugs. “So what do you think is Clay’s next move?”
Hinton turns his back on Horace and walks away from the open grave. He pulls his hoodie tight, then stuffs his hands in his pockets. He pulls out the blade, opens it and stares at it like the flame of a burning candle. He quickens his pace. “Hinton, wait up!” Horace yells, but Hinton keeps walking faster, almost running through the melting snow.
Hinton finally stops, puts the knife back in his pocket, and turns to Horace. “What does it matter? No matter what I do or when I do it, the result is the same. I end up here. Clay ends up here. You too. Everybody ends up here. Remember Derrick?” Hinton points to a grave of a fallen friend.
“He got shot by Forty’s father, point blank. He took a bullet for your dad,” Horace says.
“Forty’s going to end up dead like his dad. It’s never if, just when and how. And no one asks why.”
“Hint, come on, don’t talk that way.” Horace puts his arm around his friend’s shoulders. “You’re in a dark place right now. Your dad, Paul, and now Olivia. Anybody would feel like that.”
“I’ve loved two people in my life and both left me. What does that say about me?”
“What about your mom?”
“You can’t love someone that you can’t respect,” Hinton says, then shivers. “How can you love a person that you can’t forgive? She dishonored my father’s memory. She’s no better than Barry and Frank laughing. When she married Clay, she killed my dad a second time.”
“Seems like love makes things worse, not better,” Horace says.
“I did love Olivia, seriously.” Hinton blows on his shaking hands. “I know I told her I didn’t, but I was just trying to protect her. I didn’t want her to get involved in any of this madness between me and Clay, or in the business. I wanted to protect her from all of this, but instead she ends up dead and that’s my fault too. In my rage against Clay, I accidentally killed her dad. I drowned her in that freezing water as much as if I’d held her down and—”
Hinton stops speaking when he sees Latrell running toward the empty grave. There’s some sort of shouting match between Latrell and Barry and Frank that ends with Latrell taking a shovel to both of them, knocking them flat on their backs. Hinton races toward the scene.
“Hint, careful, he’s out of control,” Horace yells. “I bet that he blames you.”
Hinton stops, turns and stares at Horace. “He should. I’m guilty. I belong in that grave, not Olivia. Clay belongs in a grave next to me. We both belong in the hell we created.”
Before Horace can reply, Hinton takes off running toward Latrell. Latrell is on one knee in the empty grave, running his hand back and forth over the freshly turned soil. Frank and Barry try to rise to their feet, their hands and heads bloody. A shovel lies next to them, caked in their blood. While Frank and Barry moan in pain, Latrell screams his sister’s name at the top of his lungs.
“You’ve got no right!” Hinton shouts at Latrell when he arrives at the grave. “You loved her, but as a sister. The love I felt for Olivia was deeper. We were soulmates. Olivia and—”
“Don’t you even speak her name!” Latrell shouts. “This is all on you, Hinton.”
“No, this is all Clay’s doing, all of it. It all started when he murdered my father.”
“Your father’s death was an accident, but not my father’s death. That was you. And then Olivia was so consumed by grief that she took her life, swallowed as much by despair as by the icy water.”
“Latrell, that’s Clay telling you his lies. He wants to pit us against each other.”
“He succeeded.” Latrell stands and pulls Hinton into the grave with him. Latrell throws punches toward Hinton’s face. Hinton blocks the blows with his arms, then his hands reach for Latrell’s eyes while he tries to knee him in the groin.
“Stop it!” Horace yells as he jumps into the grave. Horace shouts for help while he tries to separate them. Frank and Barry recover and join the fray. Hinton pushes Horace away, and then Hinton pulls his blade. Frank reaches to grab Latrell, but Latrell knocks him to the ground and pulls his blade. Standing in the grave, the two brandish their weapons of death.
“Hint, it’s not worth it!” Horace shouts, but he’s drowned out by Frank and Barry encouraging Hinton to stab Latrell, the blood from his shovel shots still running down their faces. Hinton and Latrell stand six feet apart in a grave four feet deep, both waiting for the other to make the first move. Latrell takes a step forward, but Hinton holds his ground. Until—
A gunshot startles everyone. Clay advances on the group, his .45 clutched in his right hand. Hinton spits at Latrell, and then quickly runs away with Horace close behind. Frank and Barry wipe away the blood from their faces and stagger, wounded, toward the house.
“Why did you stop it?” Latrell asks as he puts away the blade. “I would have—”
“Not here, not now,” Clay says as Latrell pulls himself from the empty grave. “The art of war is to choose the place and the time of battle. Don’t worry, Latrell, your time is near.”
Latrell nods. Clay embraces him like a father would a son. “I trust you, Clay,” Latrell says.
Clay pats Latrell on the back. “Your sister doesn’t deserve a grave, Latrell, she deserves a monument to her memory. If you are patient, your revenge will be that monument.”
15
“Your stepfather is behind you,” Barry tells Hinton. “But your mother doesn’t want you to do this. She’s afraid for you.” Hinton and Horace stand in the garage. On the wall in front of them is a drawing of a human figure. The once clean drawing is sliced with red-chalk stab wounds.
“The only way to settle all of this—and I mean everything that has happened since my father’s death—is this way and in front of everyone. The truth of Clay’s treachery will become clear to everyone. It is Latrell’s blade, but now they will know it is Clay’s hand that guides it.”
“If that’s true, why is Marcus taking bets and Clay betting on you to win?” Frank asks.
Hinton laughs. “He wants people to think he cares about me. Mostly he wants my mother to think that. Trust me, money means nothing to Clay. He won’t notice losing a few thousand dollars on a bet, but losing my mother’s love by betting against me? That he couldn’t handle.”
“Should we bet on you, Hinton?” Barry asks in an embarrassed whisper.
Hinton shows them the blade and touches the point of it with his left index finger. The skin breaks and blood trickles down his hand. “When a man is confronted with danger, he can flee or he can fight. I should have come to my father’s funeral, but instead I sat in solitary. I’m out of solitary. I’m ready to fight.”
Hinton demonstrates his skills with a blade before Frank and Barry. They applaud.
“What do you want, Latrell?” Horace asks. Frank and Barry back up in fear.
“I want an apology from Hinton.” Latrell stares Hinton down as he speaks.
Hinton nods and steps forward, his right hand outstretched. “I owe you that, Latrell.”
“Say the words, Hinton.”
“Latrell, as a person who lost his father, I know the pain that I caused you. It was an accident, but that doesn’t do you, or me, any good. It was my madness, my grief from my father’s death that caused this rage within me that lead to Paul’s death. I am so sorry.”
Latrell’s fists, which had been balled in anger, disappear. He shakes Hinton’s hand, but then squeezes it and pulls Hinton toward him. Horace tries to get between them, but Marcus stops him. “Thank you for that, Hinton, but we know that honor demands that we fight.”
“But not to the death,” Marcus says. “We need every man for the coming war with Forty. I need Clay focused, and he won’t be if Hinton’s mother is distracted. You may fight for honor.”
“I still think this is a bad idea,” Horace says. “How close is Forty?”
“His crew knocked over two of our trap houses,” Marcus says. “We need to stand our ground and we can’t afford to be down two warriors. So we’ll get protective gear and come up with ground rules that you’ll both follow. Three strikes, and that’s it. A winner is declared and honor is restored, and then we can get back to the business of doing business. Agreed?”
Hinton and Latrell shake hands, while Horace looks away. Marcus and Latrell head toward the door, but suddenly Latrell turns and says, “Hinton, Clay says if we’re going to fight like men, then we can drink like men. He’ll have a bottle of Grey Goose for each of us.”
“Hinton prefers the purple to the gray,” Frank cracks, but nobody’s laughing.
“Clay says after each strike, the winner gets to celebrate with a toast,” Latrell says. “I just hope I don’t end you too soon so we both can get a nice buzz on. You down with that?”
Hinton laughs. “Latrell, I’ve been down lately, but now things are looking up. See you there.”
***
The garage, empty hours ago, is now filled with Silver Skulls. They form a circle in the center, creating a human cage where Hinton and Latrell will battle. To make sure things wouldn’t get out of control, Clay told everyone to surrender their weapons at the door. Clay and Marcus stand on a table overseeing the action, while Hinton’s mom sits in a chair behind Clay. “Please, Hinton, don’t—”
“No, Mother, this must be done. Even though Latrell has done nothing to me, I must show everyone that I am not crazy and that I am the proud and brave son of Hansen Helsinger.”
“Your father would be proud of you, Hinton, but not for this. He didn’t want any of this for you.” Hinton’s mother is almost in tears. “He said once you came back from Mandan that he wanted to send you away, so you wouldn’t have the life he had, yet here we are.”
“Yes, Mother, here we are.” Hinton kisses his mother’s forehead and turns toward Latrell. He jogs in place and shakes his head back and forth as Marcus informs everyone of the guidelines.
“And one more rule!” Clay shouts. “After each strike, we will toast the winner!”
A round of applause rumbles through the room like thunder, punctuated by the lightning-quick shout from Marcus: “This is for honor. Fight, Silver Skulls, fight!”
Hinton and Latrell advance on each other, circling in the thickly padded parkas that Clay had hastily arranged for them to wear. Latrell motions for Hinton to bring the fight to him, but Hinton hangs back. When Latrell thrusts toward Hinton, Hinton moves, spins, and jabs the knife into Latrell’s side. Latrell lets out a yelp of pain and his hand goes toward his side. “A strike!” Marcus yells.
“Are you okay?” Hinton asks.
Latrell nods his head in the affirmative. “It stings like a million bees.” Latrell shows Hinton his hand. “But no blood.”
“Everyone raise your glass to my son, Hinton!” Clay shouts. Everyone drinks except for Hinton and his mom. Clay gestures to the table. “Hinton, you fight like a man. There’s a bottle for you. Enjoy!”
Hinton says nothing. He holds his blade in front of him while staring daggers at Clay. Clay shakes his head and motions for Latrell to come near him. Clay whispers something to Latrell, left hand on his shoulder, while with his right, he slips something into Latrell’s hand.
“Let’s go!” Marcus shouts. Latrell wipes his blade. When Latrell returns, they begin to circle each other again. After several minutes without a strike, the crowd starts chanting “boring” and ridiculing both Hinton and Latrell. Hinton’s mother yells for the crowd to stop, but no one listens to her. She rises from her chair, picks up the bottle set out for Hinton, and walks around the circle. She stands across the way, staring at her husband, her hands raised like she’s praying.
“Come back, Gabs!” Clay yells.
As the sound of the crowd rises, Latrell lunges and stabs Hinton in the side. Hinton’s mother screams. “Strike!” Marcus shouts.
“You okay?” Latrell pulls Hinton close to him. They speak as Clay leads everyone in another toast. Once again, everyone but Hinton and his mother downs a glass in celebration.
“I know what you mean by the sting of a million bees.” Hinton laughs, but then coughs. Hinton puts his hand to his side as Latrell did, but this time it is blood-covered. Hinton starts to speak, but Latrell pulls him so close that Hinton can smell his breath.
“That was for my sister,” Latrell hisses into his ear. “The next one is for my father.”
“There won’t be a next one,” Hinton says and tries to push Latrell back, but Latrell doesn’t budge an inch.
“And the last one is going to be from Clay,” Latrell sneers. “Call it your going away forever gift.” Latrell pushes Hinton backward, and there’s a rush in the crowd. Marcus orders the next round to begin, and Latrell comes out swinging his blade wildly, the end of it dripping blood. Hinton moves, dives, and ducks, avoiding Latrell. Latrell spins, but slips to the ground, the blade falling from his hand on impact. Hinton pounces on Latrell and scores his second strike, this one not in the side but at the top of Latrell’s padded coat, just an inch away from his unprotected neck.
“The next one will be higher,” Hinton hisses over Latrell’s heavy breathing. “Enjoy those deep breaths because I promise you they will be your last.”
“That’s not going to happen,” Latrell says. “You’re already dying. On the tip of my blade is not just your blood. The blade is also coated in poison, courtesy of Clay. You’re a dead man, Hinton.”
Hinton’s face flushes in terror for a few seconds, but he regains his control. Still on top of Latrell, he reaches out and grabs Latrell’s knife. He thrusts it back to him, blade-side up, so that it punctures the skin on Latrell’s palm. “Then you’re coming with me.”
Latrell pushes Hinton off him and cocks his fist. “Gentleman, please, this is for honor!” Marcus says. He motions for Frank and Barry to step between Hinton and Latrell.
“I must insist, son, that you join us in a toast,” Clay says. “If you fight like a man, you can drink like a man. I have a bottle there for you. Pour yourself a tall glass and—”
Clay stops speaking when Gabrielle, not Hinton, pours a drink from the bottle. “My Love, no, that bottle is for our son! Please, Love, don’t—”
“He’s not your son. He is Hansen’s son!” Gabrielle yells. She stares hard at her husband before she throws back the glass half-full of Grey Goose. Clay starts toward his wife, but it is too late. Just as Hinton and Latrell stand ready to fight again, Hinton’s mother collapses on the floor. She is quickly surrounded by some women and a few men in Silver Skulls leather jackets.
“Get out of the way!” Hinton turns his back on Latrell and starts
toward his mom.
“It’s just the tension she’s under,” Clay says. “She just fainted. She’ll be fine. Barry, Frank, please help my Love back to her room. With a little rest I’m sure she’ll be fine and—”
“Liar!” Gabrielle yells as she struggles to stand. Hinton reaches down and tries to help his mother, but she can only make it to her knees. “Hinton’s vodka. Poison. Your idea, Clay.”
“She’s hysterical!” Clay shouts. “She needs medical attention. She needs—”
“To be avenged, just like my father!” Hinton shouts. He pushes through the crowd and rushes toward his uncle. Clay pulls his pistol and aims at the raging Hinton. As Clay pulls the trigger, Horace pushes Hinton out of the way. The bullet misses Hinton and hits Latrell.
The room erupts in panic. Clay had ensured that everyone but him and the fighters would be unarmed. Hinton reaches down and picks up Latrell’s poison-tipped knife. He crawls through the crowd on his hands and knees as Clay screams his name. Hinton kisses his mother’s forehead but does not take time to cry or mourn; he reaches for the poisoned vodka bottle intended for him.
“Hinton! Hinton! Where are you?” Clay shouts over and over, the din of chaos erupting all around him.
Clay stands again on the table, overlooking the wild scene. Clay holsters his pistol and cups his hands around his mouth to magnify his voice. “Hinton, where are you?” he shouts.
It takes Hinton as long to say the words “behind you” as it does to slit his uncle’s throat. As Clay falls toward the ground, he opens his mouth to scream but nothing comes out. Instead, something goes in: Hinton pours the bottle of poisoned vodka down Clay’s throat.
“Horace, where is Latrell?” Hinton shouts when he sees Horace coming toward him. Horace surveys the crowd and finds Latrell lying in a pool of blood. Hinton kicks his uncle’s dead body to the ground and starts toward Latrell, but he stumbles on the way.
“Hint, are you okay?” Horace says, helping Hinton regain his feet. Hinton points to the stab wound on his side where blood oozes. “That doesn’t look bad. I think—”