The Hunt Club_ A Novel - Bret Lott [84]
Thigpen fired again, our backs to him so I couldn’t see the flash off the barrel, but I heard in the instant he fired the swallowed snap the bullet made into the water between Mom and us, and Mom yelped, kicked hard her legs, her arms out of the water, I could see, and she was whimpering again, splashing and kicking, and he fired again.
Then Unc let go of me, slapped the water hard with his hand, shouted out, “Right here! Over here!” and kicked his legs at the surface, slapped again.
He was turned to the bluff and was kicking back toward Thigpen, away from me and away from Mom.
He wanted to draw Thigpen’s fire.
He wanted to save us.
I saw that arm up off Thigpen, saw Unc splashing, saw that piece of moon above them both, saw it all moving away from me, the tide working to carry me out and away from this: the place and time—the Ashepoo, tide turning—Unc had in mind since he’d had me turn him to Polaris, put him in the line of sight of that star, in him the knowledge of tides and time and placement of constellations in the sky. He knew this was where we’d end up, knew the tide would carry us away. He knew.
Thigpen had his gun up, Unc slapped the water.
And then because I was no one, because my name carried on it no meaning, me no one I knew, I shouted, too. “Hey, Thigpen!” I shouted. “Hey, Thigpen!” I slapped at the water.
Thigpen’s silhouette moved, that arm jumping up, lining up with me now, me floating away from Unc, downriver.
Here came light skittering across the water from behind me, the quick and perfect sweep of it there on the water, in that sweep the surface of the river and the Hungry Neck bank of the Ashepoo, its branches casting twisted shadows that moved with the light moving, then came the back of Unc’s head lit up, his arm moving, the light illuminating for an instant bits of water like broken white glass falling from his arm as he raised it and lowered it again, splashing, the light nothing to him, invisible as the rest of his world, and now this piece of light slipped past him and up to the bluff, and to Thigpen to light him up, give detail where none had been the entire night so far: the bright figure of a man in blue jeans and an army fatigue jacket sitting on a gray horse, one arm limp, the spot where he’d been hit by Patrick and where I’d punched him dark with blood, his other arm up, the gun pointed now at the light, ready to fire.
His face was pale, his mouth open. The hat was gone, and he seemed in this moment for all the world some deer caught in the headlights of a pickup, about to be hit.
“Hold your fire!” a voice came from behind me, and I turned, finally, saw where the beam off a flashlight pointed up from the water: it was a boat down there.
And there in the light off that flashlight was Mom, her head in the water facing the boat and this voice, the boat coming toward her.
“Thank God!” she shouted, her head a silhouette to me, her hair flat, and she turned to me, looking for me.
“Huger,” she said, but I looked to Thigpen to see what he would do. This wasn’t over yet.
Unc’d stopped at that voice. “Who’s there?” he called out, too loud, then, “Huger!”
“Right here,” I said, but I was looking at Thigpen.
He still held the gun out, pointed toward that light.
But then he let the hammer back with his thumb, let his arm drop, and he seemed to let out a breath he’d been holding all night.
“Who’s there?” Unc called again, his head moving, looking, listening.
“Thank God!” Mom said again, and now the boat was near on her, the flashlight beam falling from the bluff to shine on her full blast, and she turned to me again, called, “Huger, come on!” and then the beam was in my face, and everything went white.
“Who’s there?” Unc said again. “Who is that?” and the light was off me.
“One guess, Leland,