My father cocked his head. Over the past few days, the bruising on his face had transitioned from reds and purples to blues and blacks. Now it appeared yellow and green. The swelling around his eyes had eased, and both were open again. “You don’t need a drink?”
I thought about this for a second. Only a few days ago, I would have jumped at that bottle and chugged the contents. Between tremors, cravings, and an all-out dependency after years of drinking, alcohol had become a necessary part of my life. No different than water or food. I couldn’t survive without it. But now, “I haven’t needed a drink for a few days now. I’m good.”
And I was. No shakes. No cravings or dizziness. Like Stella’s hunger, this was probably only some kind of reprieve, but I’d take it.
My father drank his shot, then set the glass down on the milk crate. “Alcohol dependency is a side effect of the shot. None of us drank heavily prior to the shot, but after it was administered, we all went out to a bar to celebrate our newly-acquired riches. A few days later, we began to realize we craved alcohol. Soon, we had to have it. The people from Charter said it was just a side effect and would wear off. A metabolic thing. It didn’t, though, just got worse with time. Odd thing is, none of us really get drunk anymore. Haven’t really since the shot. We can, if we really push it, but for the most part, it does little to us—only keeps the withdrawal symptoms at bay. After you were born, Charter ran a series of blood tests and concluded that you would most likely suffer from the same dependency when you got older. All the children would.”
Hobson slowly lifted his glass to his mouth and drank. When the glass was empty, he handed it back to my father and wiped his lips on the bank of his hand.
“Okay, but that doesn’t explain why he’s untied,” I said.
“Come here,” my father said. “I’ll show you.”
I took a few steps closer.
My father leaned in toward Hobson. “What did David Pickford tell you?”
“He told me to go to Cammie’s house and say hello for him, then kill her. Shoot her dead. He also said he loves Stella, and he’s cleaning up the whole mess, just for her. Like it never happened.”
My father said, “But you don’t want to hurt Cammie, do you?”
Hobson shook his head.
“And you understand you do not have to do what David Pickford told you to do, right? You have free will?”
“That crazy little shit tried to hijack my head. If I put a bullet anywhere, it will be in him,” Hobson said. He nodded at his glass. “One more.”
My father poured him another shot. “Is Cammie safe?”
Hobson drank and turned to Cammie. “I’m sorry, Cams. Are we good?”
Cammie smiled and nodded. “You don’t kill me, I don’t have to kill you. I think we’re good, and the world is better for it.”
My father turned back to me. “David’s ‘suggestions’ are just that. His ability causes them to become necessary actions in the mind of the person he speaks to, but they’re not carved in stone. You can talk someone out of what he may have told them to do if you phrase yourself properly, if you break through. I think the alcohol may help to speed that up, cut through to the subconscious, but it’s tough to say for sure.” He looked back at Hobson. “What do you say, can we trust you with a gun?”
I’m not gonna lie, when Hobson went to the table near Preacher and Adella and picked up some kind of long-range rifle, less than ten feet from Cammie and her daughter, the tension in the air was palpable. Even Hobson appeared nervous. The only person who didn’t seem worried was Cammie.
She smiled at him and nodded toward a box of ammunition on the corner of the table. “444 Marlins. You could drop a grizzly with those.”
Hobson loaded the rifle with practiced ease, pointed it toward the back wall, and peered into the sight. “I can work with this.” He looked back at Adella and Preacher. “Where do you want me?”
Adella tossed him a handheld radio and nodded toward one of Dunk’s men standing outside our door. “Cortez will take you up to the the roof. You can help cover the woods. Most of our guys are good up close, but we only have a handful of sharpshooters.”
Hobson nodded, scooped up the box of ammunition, a pair of headphones, gave Cammie a wink, and disappeared down the hall behind the one called Cortez.
When he was gone, my father returned his gaze to me. “We need to talk about your girlfriend, Jack.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“She could kill all of us. She’s not in control, and she’s getting worse,” Cammie said. “I’ve got a daughter to think about. We need to secure her.”
“Stella’s not gonna hurt anyone. If we’re going to talk about anything, we should discuss who called Charter from Whidbey. They’re already here. Got here right after us. Gotta wonder if someone is tipping them off. Detective Fogel said whoever called told Charter where we were. Stella was out cold. My father and Hobson were tied up. That leaves you and Preacher.”
“How do we know that detective of yours was even telling the truth?”
“Was it you?”
“No, it wasn’t me,” Cammie insisted. “And I trust Preacher. It wasn’t him, either.”
