Knowing on some base level what he could not allow to happen.
The man was three steps away when Luther jumped to his feet and took off toward the trees at a dead sprint, his bare feet kicking bursts of sand in his wake, the men shouting as he scrambled up the dunes, Winston screaming at Ben to catch the little f**ker.
Luther glanced back, saw Ben galloping toward him, Katie crying, his parents screaming at him to run, don’t stop, while Winston held them at bay with the shotgun.
Luther tore down the island-side of the dune and ran for the line of trees in the distance.
He could see the lighthouse a mile away in the village of Ocracoke , its beacon shining just above the treetops.
Another glance back.
Ben ten steps behind.
A sharp burn spread down out of Luther’s stomach and into his legs.
Lungs on fire.
He couldn’t keep running like this.
He punched through the treeline into a wood of live oaks, roots and thorns ripping at the soles of his feet, branches tearing at his bare arms and chest.
Much darker here in the trees with the starlight obscured, and Luther could only make out the profile of Ben pushing after him through the shrubs.
The boy veered off the straight trajectory he’d been running and shot up the low-hanging branches of a live oak.
Ten feet off the ground.
Panting.
His feet eviscerated.
For thirty seconds, he couldn’t hear a thing over the pounding of his heart and the desperate intake of oxygen.
When he finally caught his breath, he strained to hear the sound of Ben’s footsteps.
Sweat trickled down the bridge of his nose, burning his eyes.
He clung to a fat, knobby branch with one arm and plucked a series of thorns out of the back of his leg with the other.
There it was—forty, maybe fifty feet away—brittle leaves crunching under footsteps.
Winston yelled something from the beach.
Ben was moving toward Luther’s tree now—he could hear the man forcing his way through bushes, the occasional crack of a branch breaking.
“Boy!” he yelled. “I don’t hear your footsteps anymore. You ain’t that fast, which means you’re somewhere close by, hiding behind some tree, or in some goddamn bush.”
Luther spotted him—twenty-five, thirty feet away—standing absolutely still. A bit of moonlight had wandered in through the branches and it lit Ben’s face with a pale and ghostly glow.
“I’m gonna make you a deal right now, little man. You come out from wherever you’re hiding, I won’t hurt your sister.”
Luther squeezed his eyes shut with such a fierce intensity the tears could only leak out.
“But let me tell you what I’m going to do if you ain’t standing in front of me in the next thirty seconds. I’m gonna borrow Winston’s knife—you saw it right?—and go to work on her pretty little face. You’ll hear her screams all the way from the beach.”
Ben started walking again.
The sweat on Luther’s hands made it almost impossible to grip the bark, and he had to squeeze his thighs against the steep branch to keep from sliding.
“You’re a little chickenshit, ain’t you? Run off and hide to let your family suffer alone.”
Ben stepped directly under Luther’s branch and stopped.
Luther’s chest pounded against the bark, his muscles cramping, tears and sweat stinging in his eyes.
“Ten seconds,” Ben said. “Then I’m walking back out onto the beach. Come out right now like a good little boy, I’ll spare your sister. Won’t make no other promises about nothing else, but she’ll live. I am a bad, bad man, but I ain’t no liar.”
A mosquito wailed into Luther’s ear.
He didn’t flinch.
Let it land just inside the canal. There was a brief, cutting itch, and then numbness.
“All right,” Ben said. “You’re making this decision, little man. Nobody but you. Hope it haunts you the rest of your days. You change your mind, you know where to find me. Just follow the screams.”
Ben turned and started back through the trees.
Luther craned his neck to watch him go, the man passing in and out of patches of moon-and starlight until he reached the treeline and vanished.
For a long time, Luther clung to the branch and cried.
Mosquitoes swarmed him.
He asked God to stop this from happening.
Kept shutting his eyes and opening them again, telling himself every time that it was only a nightmare. That he’d wake up in his bed on the third floor of their stone house on the sound and none of this would be real. He’d walk down the hallway into Katie’s room, crawl into bed with her and snuggle close until the after-fear was gone.
Five minutes after Ben had left him, it started.
Three voices—his mother crying, his sister screaming, his father begging.
All merging into a cacophony of grief, pain, and terror.
Luther scaled down the tree and ran.
He could barely see through the tears, the thorns in his feet sending stabs of pain up his legs.
At last, he broke out of the trees.
Saw the bonfire in the distance, flames twisting in the wind like braids of orange hair.
The sand felt better than the forest floor. It still held some warmth from a day of baking under the sun.
Luther sprinted, the noise of his family getting louder.
He collapsed at the foot of the dunes and crawled through sea grass to the top, where he lay breathless.
The bonfire raged thirty yards away.
Katie was hogtied and writhing like an earthworm, screaming incomprehensibly, Rufus right there beside her, screaming, “Please! Please! Please!” in a guttural expression of absolute horror.
Maxine didn’t make a sound.
Luther couldn’t see anything but his mother’s swollen face, and he didn’t understand what Winston was doing to her.
The man’s pants were pulled down to his knees, and he was lying on top of Luther’s mother, moving back and forth, back and forth.
Maxine wasn’t even crying.
Her eyes were wide and she looked like she was someplace else entirely.
In a daydream.
Another world.
Years later, he would catch her staring off into space with that same catatonic emptiness, and wonder if she had returned to this moment.
“Mama,” Luther whispered. “Oh, Mama.”
The man who’d chased him into the woods stood over Rufus and Katie, pointing the shotgun at them, but watching Winston and Maxine, his meaty face sweaty and smiling in the firelight.
Luther grabbed a handful of sand and squeezed, his knuckles blanching, but it didn’t do a thing to temper the fire that had begun to smolder in his belly.