Deep Dirty Truth

by Steph Broadribb

  ‘Well, damn.’ Moving around the Jetta, I head towards the overgrown area and the spot I saw glinting in the sun. I’m careful to stay shielded by the bushes, unsure what the vehicle is. As I get closer I reach for my Taser.

  Be prepared. It’s one of JT’s rules, and it’s mine, too. Important, always.

  Staying as low as I can to avoid being seen in the vehicle’s mirrors, I peep out from behind the bush. It’s my first proper look at the back end of the vehicle. It’s a Lincoln Navigator. Silver.

  The inside of the rear window is sprayed with blood.

  My heart races. My throat goes dry. Are we too late? Is this where Luciano’s man, Klate, killed the Old Man? Am I about to find his body?

  Turning, I beckon for North to come join me. Then, staying low, I step wide around the car and towards the front. As I get level with the back seat, I raise myself a little so I can see inside. Bite my lip. It looks like a goddamn abattoir.

  The cream leather seats and the upholstered roof are splattered with blood and gore. The man on the back seat doesn’t have much of a face left, but from the little I can see of it, I know for sure he’s not the Old Man.

  Then I hear it – groaning coming from the front. Moving forward, my finger on the trigger of my Taser, I peer into the driver’s seat. Exhale hard.

  A man is slumped sideways against the door. Embedded in his right shoulder, the one furthest from the door, is a knife. It’s been sunk all the way up to the hilt, a few inches along from the neck towards the shoulder. It’s a miracle he’s not dead. It must have somehow just missed the major arteries, but there’s still a hell of a lot of blood. Pain too, no doubt.

  The man’s face is against the window. His usually smoothed-back grey-flecked black hair is plastered over his sweaty forehead. It’s the Old Man himself. As I gasp, he looks back at me and his eyes widen. ‘Gabriella? Is that …? No, how can it be, I must be delirious, or dead…’

  ‘You’re not dead, and I’m not Gabriella.’

  ‘Then who—?’

  ‘Lori Anderson.’

  He grimaces. ‘You’ve come to finish me off, have you?’

  ‘Actually, I’ve come to help you.’

  I can see from his expression that he’s as disbelieving that I’m here to help him, as I am that I’m actually doing it. This asshole is responsible for putting a hit out on me and my family, and a big part of me wants to leave him here to rot. It’s only when North appears at my side that the Old Man’s expression changes and I see hope in his eyes.

  North opens the driver’s door. The cream leather is smeared with bloody fingerprints. He swallows hard as he views the scene. Still holds himself in a tough-guy stance as he looks at the Old Man, but I can see that there’s a muscle twitching in his neck, and I hear disbelief in his tone as he asks, ‘What happened here?’

  ‘I was driving. We’d been planning on stopping here but saw on the way down that it was closed. Still, Klate said he wanted to pee, so we stopped. He tried to do me with his pig stick when he got back in.’

  North inspects the knife and the wound it’s made. He looks at the Old Man real concerned. ‘He had a good go I’d say.’

  ‘He got it worse.’ The Old Man glances down at his left hand. He’s holding a little stub-nosed pistol. He grins at North. Wheezes. ‘Didn’t figure on me having this.’ His expression darkens. There’s doubt in his eyes. ‘Did you turn Klate? Was this your doing?’

  North shakes his head. ‘I never betrayed you.’

  The Old Man gives him a hard stare. Points the pistol at him. ‘A good man would die before agreeing to testify against his family.’

  ‘Luciano isn’t any family of mine.’

  ‘He’s your—’

  ‘Don’t you go telling me he’s my brother, because it’s not true, and never has been.’ Ignoring the snub-nosed pistol, North moves closer to the Old Man. His jaw is clenched, and I can tell that he’s biting back the cusses he wants to use. He shakes his head. His tone is laced with anger. ‘After I show you the evidence I have on him, and tell you all the things he’s done to hurt this family, you’ll agree with me. He doesn’t deserve to be your son.’

  The Old Man lowers the gun. Turns his face away from North. ‘I doubt that’s true.’

  ‘Fine. You want us to leave you here?’

  Fear sparks in the Old Man’s eyes before he can suppress it.

  ‘Didn’t think so.’ North opens the car door as wide as it’ll go. ‘Then let us get you patched up and out of here.’

  The Old Man takes a rasping breath, and exhales loudly. ‘Do it. But don’t go thinking you’re anywhere near forgiven.’

  58

  SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 23rd, 12:43

  I fetch my go bag from the Jetta, looking to fix up the Old Man’s shoulder as best I can. I figure I have to take out the knife, but I’m real cautious. I might hate the man, but I need him alive; he’s the only person who can take the price off our heads, and bring Luciano to heel.

  We keep the Old Man sitting in the driver’s seat for now. While I ready my field kit, North holds a bottle of water to the Old Man’s lips and he drinks. Beneath his tan he’s looking pale. Every few moments he shivers. North and me glance at one another, both fearing that he’s going into shock.

  ‘You able to do this?’ The Old Man growls. ‘Or is it too much for you?’

  I clench my jaw. Know we need to be fast so we can get back on the road. Whatever Luciano’s planning in Miami, I’m sure it won’t end well for me and my family … assuming they’re still alive. My stomach flips. I can’t think about JT and Dakota right now. Have to focus on the job in front of me.

  I look back at the Old Man. ‘I’ve pulled a bullet from a man’s leg before with pliers, and he was someone I cared about, so I sure as hell can do this.’

  He winces at my use of a cuss word. I don’t care a damn.

  The Old Man’s dark-grey suit jacket and shirt beneath are bunched around the knife, preventing me from getting a proper view of the wound.

  I look him in the eyes. ‘I’m going to have to cut your clothes around the knife to see what’s going on.’

  ‘It’s a two-thousand-dollar suit,’ says the Old Man, looking pissed. ‘It’s worth more than you are.’

  I’ve had enough of his moaning. ‘Well, if you want my help, you’re going to have to suck it up.’

  Still looking pissed, he gives a small nod.

  I get to work. Using my nail scissors I cut through the suit fabric and the shirt below, until I’ve got the knife clear of material. The blade is stuck into the muscle between his neck and shoulder, entering from behind, at a slight angle.

  ‘It looks clear of any main arteries, but it’ll most likely bleed like hell when I pull it out.’ Ignoring the Old Man’s wince at my swear, I look at North and say, ‘I’ll need you to hold him down when I do it.’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ the Old Man growls.

  ‘Can’t risk it. It’s going to hurt like a bitch. If you start moving when I’m removing it, you could do more damage – maybe make me nick an artery.’

  The Old Man scowls at me. Says nothing. I take that as him conceding.

  I nod to North and he holds the Old Man still. Then I jump into the Lincoln’s cockpit and, with one knee resting on the seat between the Old Man’s legs and the other foot braced against the car door, I grab hold of the knife.

  It’s hot in the car, and my hands feel sweaty around the knife, making the handle slippery. Hoping to hell it’s not plugging a hole in an artery, I grasp the knife harder and pull upwards fast.

  For a brief moment the blade refuses to budge. Then I feel it release.

  The Old Man bucks beneath North’s grip, and bellows in pain. I pay him no mind. Cling on, and yank the knife clear. Dropping it onto the passenger seat, I reach for the sanitary napkins I placed there ready and press a wad of them against the wound in the Old Man’s shoulder. He writhes beneath me.

  Ignoring his squeals, I press down hard.


  The Old Man passes out.

  North relaxes his grip on him, letting him slump a little to his left against the side of the car. He peers over his body at the wound. ‘How is it?’

  I keep up the pressure of the napkins against the wound. Try to ignore the pain shooting through my left arm. ‘Give it a minute.’

  I hold the towels in place for another thirty seconds, then lift them clear. There’s no spray, just some normal bleeding, and it’s slower than before. ‘It’s deep, but if we can keep him still and get the bleeding stopped, there’s a good chance he’ll make it.’

  ‘Just a chance?’

  ‘He’s lost a lot of blood.’

  ‘He’s a fighter.’

  I can think of a whole bunch of less complimentary ways to describe him. I look at the Old Man’s ashen face, then at North. ‘Considering what we’ll likely face when we get to Miami, he’ll need to be.’ I gesture towards the napkins. ‘Keep these pressed against the wound. I need to get the stuff to clean it.’

  North does as I say, and I jump down from the Lincoln and back to my go bag. I’m all out of antiseptic and bandages, so I grab a couple of little bottles of bourbon, some cotton wool, a clean dressing and the duct tape.

  The Old Man’s still out cold, which makes cleaning him up a whole lot easier. I use the alcohol to cleanse the wound, then fasten the dressing over it using the duct tape. It doesn’t look pretty, but it’s clean and secure, and for now that’ll have to be enough.

  We’re hoisting him onto the back seat of the Jetta when he starts to come to, struggling against our hold until North tells him to ease up. We install him in the back without any further issues, but I’m not so sure that’s a good sign.

  As North fastens the seat belt across the Old Man’s lap, I take a moment to observe him. He’s leaning back against the headrest with his eyes closed, his face still real pale beneath his tan. The lines on his face more pronounced than before. His breathing is fast and shallow. His skin’s clammy.

  As North goes to shut the car door, the Old Man beckons him closer and murmurs something I can’t hear. North nods then steps back, closing the door.

  ‘He’s not looking so good,’ I say. ‘He needs more fluids, and something to help with the shock.’

  North’s looking troubled. ‘What have you got?’

  ‘Half a bottle of water is all.’

  ‘Get it.’ North glances back towards the Old Man. ‘It’ll have to do.’

  As I move round to the truck where my go bag is, North asks, ‘You got any more of that alcohol?’

  ‘Sure.’ I frown, thinking he means to drink it himself. I pass him a couple of bottles. ‘That’s all I’ve got.’

  ‘Appreciate it.’

  As I head around to the Jetta’s driver’s seat, North walks back to the Lincoln. He kneels down and unclips the licence plate, and I figure that’s what the Old Man whispered for him to do. But he doesn’t return back, instead he disappears around the side of the vehicle. For a moment I think he’s going to take the dead man, Klate’s, ID.

  Then I see the flames.

  59

  SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 23rd, 13:11

  ‘What the hell did you do that for? You just alerted every cop nearby to the Lincoln.’

  ‘It needed doing.’ The Old Man’s words drift over from behind me. They have a slight slur to them, but I can still hear the pride in his voice.

  North fixes his seatbelt. ‘Our fingerprints and DNA were all over that car.’

  I step on the gas. The wheels spinning over the blacktop, spitting shingle and other debris from the parking lot in our wake as we lurch back onto the highway. ‘But they’ll trace the Lincoln back to the Old Man anyways. You’ve just given away—’

  ‘No.’ North takes the Lincoln’s plate from beneath his jacket and rests it on his lap. ‘They won’t trace it fast enough to know before we’re back in Miami.’

  ‘Quiet. It’s done now.’ The Old Man sounds frail, but also determined. ‘Show me this evidence you have on my son. Otherwise, the pair of you are as good as dead anyway.’

  I grip the steering wheel tighter. Bite back the urge to snap that if it wasn’t for me and North, the Old Man would already be dead. I know that if we’re to get through the next few hours alive we’ll need to play a smart game.

  North lifts the messenger bag from the footwell and takes out the iPad. Tapping the screen, he brings up a series of spreadsheets and, twisting round, holds the tablet towards the Old Man so he can see them. ‘That young guy didn’t kill your accountant. Luciano killed him because he’d discovered the money trail from your accounts to Luciano’s. He’s been ciphering off cash for years and using it to run new business that he’s kept hidden. The accountant told me what he found on the night he died. I went to see him and saw Luciano leaving. Found the accountant breathing this last. The cops arrived fast, stopped me getting into the accountant’s files. So I made a deal with the Feds: said I’d give evidence against Luciano. While I was in protective custody, I got my hands on these files so I could show you. I’ve always been loyal.’

  I glance in the rearview mirror. The Old Man looks sceptical. ‘If you suspected all this, why not tell me?’

  ‘Luciano is your son, you’d never believe me without evidence.’

  The Old Man exhales, his breath sounds ragged, like it’s catching in his throat. ‘Is this all of it?’

  ‘No,’ North’s tone is grave. ‘It’s only the beginning.’

  I stare through the windshield, keep us a few lengths back from the truck in front, listening as North plays each of the videos in turn. The tension inside me builds as I hear the conversation between my husband, Tommy, and Luciano at the fishing lodge a few days before me and JT found Tommy, and I killed him.

  When he hears them speaking about taking him out, the Old Man inhales sharply but says nothing.

  The video ends. None of us speaks.

  The Old Man doesn’t cuss, and doesn’t posture or try to excuse his son’s actions. He just sits in silence.

  North puts the iPad back into the messenger bag. I focus on the highway ahead of us and stay below the speed limit.

  When the Old Man finally speaks, I can tell from the crack in his voice that he’s been crying. ‘An eye for an eye, that’s the tradition of this family.’ I glance in the rearview as he points towards the messenger bag, the iPad. ‘That dirty truth on there shows me Luciano needs to learn that lesson for himself.’

  North smiles and holds up a cellphone. ‘I took this from Klate. Thought we might have ourselves a little chat with Luciano.’

  I shake my head, still pissed at him – at the pair of them. ‘We need the element of surprise. If the Lincoln burning out gets picked up by the news crews, it’ll alert Luciano that his plan hasn’t worked.’

  ‘No.’ The Old Man’s voice is weak, but his tone is still determined. ‘What we need is a double bluff.’

  Again I look in the mirror at him. For all his injuries, he still expects to be obeyed, and the way North’s acting it looks like he’ll go along with whatever the Old Man is thinking. That puts me in a vulnerable position.

  I make my tone granite hard. ‘For all I know that means the pair of you’ll be using me as some kind of bait for Luciano now y’all are pally again. Why the hell should I listen to anything you say?’

  The Old Man glares at me in the mirror.

  But before he can reply, North turns to the Old Man and says, ‘There’s something else you should see.’

  He pulls the iPad back out of the messenger bag and swipes his finger over the screen. I can’t see what he’s doing, but when he angles the screen towards the Old Man and taps it, I hear a video begin to play.

  At first there’s just background noise: a kettle whistling on a stove, footsteps over wooden floorboards. Then there’s a loud bang, and I flinch. Next I hear JT’s voice telling Tommy to stay real still, that he’s surrounded. There are the sounds of a scuffle. JT’s cusses. Then footsteps running.

/>   My breath catches in my chest. I turn in my seat. ‘What the hell is that?’

  North doesn’t look at me. His voice is gruff. ‘Keep driving, Lori.’

  The video continues. I hear the sound of a window frame being kicked out. Boots running over baked dirt. My heart rate accelerates, and I feel my hands begin to shake. Then my own voice, and the memory of that moment replays in my mind in time with the video.

  Tommy drops from the first-storey window and scrambles to his feet. He hasn’t seen me. I reach into my holster and draw my gun. Don’t want to think on how he’s gotten clear of JT. Heart pounding, I step out of the scrub, into the moonlit yard. Say, ‘Stop, you’re surrounded.’

  Tommy freezes.

  I feel crazy sick. Know all the bad things Tommy’s done, all the evil he’s capable of. I can’t let him escape. ‘Now raise your hands and turn around real slow.’

  He turns and squints towards me, all confused.

  ‘I said, raise your hands where I can see them.’

  He doesn’t raise his hands; he laughs. ‘What the hell you doing?’

  It feels as if I’ve taken a roundhouse kick to the chest. I tell myself to hold it together. I have to. I point my gun square at his chest and force myself to meet his gaze. ‘I’m taking you to jail.’

  He starts walking towards me. ‘Don’t point that thing at me; you ain’t gonna use it.’

  ‘I will,’ I say, hating the way my voice trembles, fighting the urge to run. ‘You gotta pay for what you did to Sal.’

  He stops, but keeps grinning, as if me holding a gun on him is no big deal. Shakes his head. ‘Jesus. You still bleating over that two-bit prick tease? Shit, woman, you—’

  ‘Don’t call her that.’ I keep the gun pointed at him, try to ignore that it’s shaking. Tell myself I have to bring Tommy in, for Sal, and for me. I dig my heels into the dirt. Hold my ground.

  He laughs again. ‘You won’t shoot me. I’m your husband.’

  I glance towards the lodge, wondering where the hell JT has gotten to. ‘We’re getting a divorce.’

  Tommy’s grin fades. ‘We ain’t. You’re mine, and you gonna stay that way, y’hear? Some little whore bleeding out on our floor ain’t doing nothing to change that.’