Free Growth by Jeff Jacobson Page A

as Mr. Rogers. She would never forget his languid wave as he got back in his truck and pulled back onto the highway. She wasn’t around when her dad returned the spare, but she didn’t need to be. Purcell had already made a long-lasting impact. He taught her that the world could be gentle and beautiful and wild and vicious all at the same time.
    The Chisels were on their way in less than ten minutes and even made it to church on time.
    Sandy finally just said, “If your boys get out of line again, they will face some serious problems.” She wasn’t kidding. If Charlie got arrested, he could get kicked out of the armed forces, or whatever the hell he was doing. Edgar and Axel had enough combined charges to put them in the state pen for a long time if they were unlucky enough to face a pissed-off judge who wanted to prove he was tough on crime.
    â€œAnd I appreciate that,” Purcell said. “What happens next?”
    â€œUp to you. They’re your problem now.” Sandy went to the back door and pulled out the boys, one by one. They stood, a little too meek and mild, like they were trying not to laugh. Sandy unlocked the cuffs from Edgar and snipped through the zip ties on Charlie and Axel with her Leatherman.
    Purcell never opened the gate. “Well then. It’s gonna be like this. You three. You look at me. You too, Charlie. You ain’t so big, boy. You get caught doing dumb shit and you’re out with my vehicle, thought you were smarter’n that. We gonna have a talk when you get back.”
    They flinched as if he’d thrown a punch.
    Purcell’s polite, civilized veneer was gone. His features had shifted slightly, eyebrows lowered, eyes narrowed, lips pulled back, as the headlights lit his face from below, giving him a feral, savage look; Sandy understood she was looking at the real Purcell. The transformation unnerved her.
    For a moment, she worried she had made a terrible mistake. If the Fitzgimmons wanted, they could be on her before she could reach her weapons, let alone her radio. And she was the one that had let them loose.
    But Purcell never looked at her. His rage was aimed at his sons, every word a razor wrapped in barbed wire. “Right now, you gonna march on back down to the Whistle Stop and bring my truck back.” Sandy now understood why the brothers had reacted as if each word was a physical blow. God knew what this man had done to them as they grew up.
    â€œThe walk will sober you up and make you think,” Purcell said and gave Sandy a challenging look. She didn’t object. It was a hell of a walk. The Whistle Stop was over twelve miles south. “And if there is one dent, one single hint of a scratch, when you get back here you will beat the living shit out of each other for my amusement.” It was not an idle threat.
    They didn’t argue, didn’t glare at their old man—nothing. They waited silently, like cowed dogs that had the shit stomped out of them.
    It was time to go. “Gentlemen.” Sandy nodded at them and their father and got back in the car. She backed up into a wide space, pulled around, and drove back down the driveway.
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    The spiders crept out of the darkness of the far southern edge of Bob Morton’s private cornfield, drawn toward the movement and soft sounds inside the Einhorn henhouse. The sagging structure was built out of leftover scraps of lumber that Kurt had scavenged from construction sites. He’d thrown it together down at the edge of the huge backyard, where the grass ran up against the rows of crops. He sank a few fence posts, surrounded them with old chicken wire to encircle a ten-foot rectangular pen, and built a little house that sat unsteadily on stilts at the end. Thirteen hens called it home. There used to be a rooster, but when it wouldn’t shut up early one dawn, Kurt, fighting a brutal hangover, trudged down the lawn, grabbed the rooster by the neck, and whipped