by Todd Young
“Franco!” Em said.
“What the fuck does Franco have to do with this?” Jack muttered.
He pulled up in the gravel alongside the fence and got out. The wind plucked at his shirt, and rippled it across his back. He turned toward the house, saw no one, frowned, and then heard, “What the fuck have you done with it, Franco?” Carol’s voice.
Jack set off, headed for the front porch. As he approached, he heard the Lincoln’s passenger door slam.
“I gave it to you to look after. Not to do whatever the fuck you liked with.”
The living room window was open, the curtains blowing in the breeze.
“I might have it,” Franco said.
“You might have it?”
“What’s in it for me?”
“Ten thousand.” Jennifer’s voice.
“Not enough.”
“Eleven, then.”
“Still not enough.”
“I’ll give you thirteen.”
“Okay,” Franco said. “Okay.”
Em stepped up onto the porch. “You going to knock?”
Jack shook his head.
“I will.” She knocked.
Silence inside as a reply. Then a head appeared at the living room window. Franco. He looked old and grizzled and gray, a real mess, nicotine stains on his beard.
“Jack!” he said. “What you doing here?”
“Looking for Carol. We picked her up from the hospital.”
“A mess, ain’t she?”
Jack nodded.
Franco disappeared, and then more than a minute passed before the front door opened. Franco let them in. Em stepped through ahead of Jack and walked into the living room. Carol and Jennifer were standing by the window, talking to one another quickly and quietly. Jennifer was holding a large, brown paper package. The drugs, he guessed.
“What on Earth are you doing here, Carol?” Em began.
“I’m here to support Jennifer.”
“To support Jennifer?”
Carol nodded.
“I thought I was supporting you, Em? Through some pretty difficult times, too. Don’t you care about Susan?”
“Of course I care.”
“What about the funeral arrangements?”
“The funeral arrangements?”
“I thought we were making those this afternoon.”
“What funeral?” Franco said.
“My sister’s.”
“Oh. She’s dead? Susan?”
Carol and Em nodded.
“Did she die?” Jennifer said.
“Yes.”
“And just why are you with Jennifer?” Em said. “I thought that little fascination was over.”
“Perhaps it’s not.”
“No.”
Jennifer frowned. “I’m not gay.”
“Yes, but you could be,” Carol said.
Jennifer looked affronted. She tucked the package under her arm and collected her handbag from the floor. “I’m leaving,” she said.
“Just before you go,” Jack said. “I want everyone here to understand that these drugs,” he nodded at the package, “have nothing to do with Rafe.”
“You mean Rafe Carter?” Franco said.
“Exactly.”
He stared at each of them in turn. “If his name comes into it, then I’ll go ahead and finger each and every one of you.”
46
Jack took Em home. He packed a bag, and then reappeared in the kitchen. Em was seated at the table, her head in her hands.
“You want a coffee or something?” Jack said.
She shook her head. “Where are you off to?”
“Rafe’s.”
She nodded.
He drove the Lincoln out onto the highway and headed west. In Sebring Lane, a fire engine was parked outside Rafe’s house. He must have called for it, or someone had, but by the look of it, the firemen were packing up, ready to leave.
He said hi to them as he passed and heard, “That was some storm. Lucky we weren’t out here.”
He walked on, up the path, and rang the front doorbell. Rafe appeared, dressed now in a pair of jeans and a T-shirt.
“Who called them?” he said.
“A neighbor.”
Jack nodded.
“What’d they say.”
“They said it looked as though lightning had struck the barn, so that was just—brilliant.”
Jack grinned. The body was gone and it looked as though Rafe was out of trouble as far as the drugs went. They were home and hosed.
Then someone knocked on the door. It was the police.
Wilmott appeared. “We have a warrant to search the grounds,” he said.
Once again, Jack sat in the hall with Rafe and Gray-Hair, though the other officers this time traipsed outside. After five or ten minutes had passed, Gray-Hair said, “We can sit on the veranda if you like, seeing it’s so hot.”
Rafe led him toward the back of the house and each of them took a seat on the steps. Three officers were picking through the charred remains of the barn. One of them looked up, spied the trio on the veranda, and said something to the others with a series of gestures and nods. They turned and began to walk toward the house, their figures shimmering in a heat haze.
“Your barn caught fire?” One of the officers said, incredulity in his voice.
“That was convenient,” another remarked.
“Lightning struck it,” Rafe said.
“During the storm?”
Rafe nodded.
They turned to each other and shrugged, and then walked off into the garden and disappeared around the side of the house.
Another group was on the rise that led down to the stream now. Jack looked up, caught sight of them, and wondered where they’d come from. One pointed in the direction of the stream, and they disappeared over the hill.
Jack glanced at Rafe, who remained immobile.
Almost half an hour passed in silence, the birds chirping, the wind rustling the trees, but no one talking. Then the officers re-emerged. One of them—Casey by the look of it—was carrying something in his hand. They talked animatedly, caught sight of Jack and Rafe and Gray-Hair on the veranda, and began to make their way toward them. Jack wondered what Casey was carrying. Had they left something down by the stream? he wondered. But as they neared, he saw it was Rafe’s flip-flops.
“These yours?” he said as he approached, appealing to both Rafe and Jack.
“Mine,” Rafe said.
“You been down to the stream lately?”
“We swam down there yesterday. They broke on the way home.”
Casey nodded.
“There’s an old wheelbarrow down there,” Wilmott said. “That yours Mr Carter?”
Rafe shook his head.
Wilmott levelled his eyes at him.
Jack held his breath, but Wilmott broke the glance first, and for the first time Jack had the impression that he didn’t think it was serious now, that he didn’t think Rafe was involved in Sissy’s disappearance.
They left fifteen minutes later.
47
“Can I ask you something?” said Jack.
“Go ahead.”
“There’s some photos on your phone—some photos of me.”
Rafe hung his head.
“When did you take those?”
“Last night.”
“Can you please not do that to me?”
“Sorry.”
Jack nodded.
“I’ll delete them.” He reached for his phone, for his pocket, and then with a few practiced movements, deleted the photographs.
Jack ruffled his hair and smiled. “It’s not a big deal,” he said. And then he told Rafe what had happened at Franco’s.
“Carol?” Rafe said. “You mean the one with the white dress—yesterday.”
Jack nodded.
“But who’s Franco?”
Jack explained how he’d met Franco, working for a railroad company in Alabama. He was a lot o
lder than Jack, ten or fifteen years older, and had moved to Texas thinking he’d be closer to him, though he’d ended up in a town Jack rarely visited.
“And he only got thirteen thousand?” Rafe said.
Jack nodded.
“What happened to the rest of it?”
“I’d say they split it between them.”
“Jen and Carol?”
“Yes.”
A horn sounded from the drive. He guessed it would be Mike, or Caleb or Judge, but it turned out to be Martha.
“Look the fuck at this, Rafe!”
As Rafe pulled back the door, she was revealed, holding a little plastic packet of white powder.
“Do you have any idea how easy it was for me to get hold of this? And when I asked, they said it came from you. Are you involved with this shit?”
He shook his head.
“Are you taking it, Rafe?”
“He’s not,” Jack said.
“Oh, hi. How’re you?”
“Fine.”
“Are you two together now?”
Rafe nodded, and Jack followed suit.
“I’ve been asking round about you. No one seems to have a bad word to say, but Rafe, your name is shit. What the fuck are you doing with your life? You’re involved with drugs now?”
“No.”
“But …”
Rafe explained what he’d done, how he’d never taken them, but how, when Mike started, he’d paid a few times. “Then I agreed to finance Sissy. I did it once. I gave her twenty-five grand.”
“Shit.”
“I know. She was a total bitch to me.”
“The slag.”
“Exactly. She took the money, bought some, and started to sell it. I know nothing about it.”
“Where did this come from, then? Where do you think?”
“Jennifer.”
“Exactly. Another cow.”
Rafe nodded. “I paid for a second amount, but I’m out of it now, aren’t I, Jack?”
Jack nodded.
“Oh, are you helping him?”
“Yes.”
“Sorry.”
“No, that’s all right. He needs to hear it, but I think he should be safe now. No one can connect him with it. There’s none in the house.”
“Good. Well, listen to him, Rafe. I’ve asked everyone I know. He’s never hurt a fly, apparently. He’s a really good guy.”
Rafe glanced up at him.
He offered Martha a coffee, and fifteen minutes later, she left.
48
Afternoon wound in to evening, the sun setting in the most spectacular way. They walked outside and over the ruined remains of the barn. There was no indication—none whatsoever—that a body had ever been buried here. Were they safe, then? Jack hoped so.
Inside once more, Rafe’s phone rang. He had it on speaker.
“Hey, Rafe.” It was Caleb. “Have you seen Mike?”
“No.”
“He was acting really weird today—and he crashed his car.”
“Crashed it?”
“Yeah.”
“Is he all right?”
“Fine. But he’s acting really weird. He said he knows something about you he’s not prepared to tell.”
“Something about me?”
“Yeah.”
Jack wondered what this could possibly be.
“Anyway, we’re all really worried about him. If you see him, could you let us know?”
Knows something about me?
“It might be anything,” Jack said.
“I guess.” He began chewing a corner of his lip, and a few moments later he was lost in thought.
“You really love him?”
“No—I thought I did, but after last night … I think I’m in love with you.”
Jack grinned. He felt a little foolish, a little embarrassed, and he blushed.
“You’re so—nice.”
Jack took his hand and turned it over. He kissed his palm, then took his other hand and held them between his. “You want to …?”
Rafe nodded, a slow smile lighting his face.
Once again, Jack picked him up and carried him, though this time upstairs. He reached Rafe bedroom and tossed him onto the bed. Rafe rolled over and lay, looking up at him through sleepy lids. He’d killed someone. It seemed impossible, but this gentle boy had killed a girl.
Jack shook the thought away.
He took a deep breath.
“Can we do it face to face?”
Rafe nodded. “Can I use the tongs on you?”
“On me—no.”
Rafe smiled, his teeth appearing with a chuckle. I didn’t think so, but that felt mad.”
Jack nodded. He began unbuttoning his shirt, then took his jeans down. He’d worn his sexiest underwear—a jockstrap, one in black and white designed to accentuate his package.
Rafe sucked back a breath.
Jack climbed onto the bed and began undressing him. He pulled his Rafe’s T-shirt over his head and then unbuttoned his jeans. He was wearing the jockstrap yet, the blue and white one. Jack left it on him, left his socks on, and rolled him onto his stomach. Then he lay gently on top of Rafe and eased his underwear to his thighs. He kissed Rafe’s shoulders, the back of his neck, the crown of his head, and then entered him, thrusting his penis in in three practiced movements until it was sitting inside Rafe. He didn’t want to thrust, but simply lay there, growing harder.
Rafe jiggled a little, wanting him to move, but Jack stilled him by putting his hands on his hips and gripping them tight. Then he kissed the back of his head, his beautiful blond hair.
He slid out slowly and entered him again, a long draw backwards followed by a determined push forwards. He began again, with a second slow thrust, and then built it up determinedly, until he was thrusting, thrusting, thrusting.
Rafe grunted.
And finally Jack came.
He lay on Rafe’s back for minutes, breathing steadily, his eyes closed.
49
In the morning, Mike appeared at the door. He was dressed as a cyclist, in a pair of tight compression shorts and a vest. His genitals were so compressed they resembled a kiwifruit, dark and synthetic. Jack stared at them for a moment, and then lifted his eyes to Mike’s face. Mike looked distressed, red in the cheeks from a ride, apparently. A bicycle lay on its side on the lawn.
Rafe appeared behind Jack. (Jack had opened the door.)
“Mike!” he said.
“Hey, Rafe.” He said slowly, pointedly. “How you doing?”
“Fine.”
“And are you fine, Jack?”
“Sure,” Jack said.
He seemed to be in an odd mood. He crossed the threshold and handed Rafe his drink bottle. “Can you get me some water. Some Gatorade would be mad.”
“I’ll see what I’ve got,” Rafe said. He turned and walked away.
Mike followed him, weaving slowly up the hall as though he was drunk.
“I have some juice,” Rafe said from behind an open fridge door. “Some apple juice.”
“Great,” Mike said.
He really wanted the Gatorade, Jack decided.
He took a seat at the table and returned to his coffee. Rafe had made another omelet, ham and tomato and cheese. He forked the last of it into his mouth and turned to Mike again, who was standing by his shoulder.
“I saw you two the other night.”
Jack coughed, choking a little, and thumped his chest.
“You saw us? Where?” Rafe said.
“I came over the night before last and saw lights on in the barn. I went out there and found Sissy’s grave. I didn’t exactly see you, but what the fuck were you up to? Burying the body somewhere else?” He glanced out of the window. “What happened to the barn?”
“Lightning struck it,” Jack said.
“Oh—lucky for you, Jack.” He paused. “You’re with my friend now. I heard that.” He began weeping. “Rafe,” he said, his voice plaintive.
�
��What is it, Mike?”
“You don’t …?”
“What?”
“Nothing.” He turned and wandered toward the wide, glass doors. He put his hands on the glass, as though he was trapped. Then he said, “I’m going to tell the police today. Sissy was my friend!” He all but spat the word.
Jack looked askance at him. His compression shorts were caught in the cleft of his ass and looked a size or two too small. Did they belong to his little brother?
“I didn’t see her, but how could you do that? Did you kill her, Jack? One of you did it. I know that much.”
“I killed her,” Rafe said. “I hated her.”
Jack waved him down with a hand. “Shush,” he said.
Rafe nodded.
“Just how did you do it?”
“It was an accident.” Jack figured he had to get this much, at least, across. “Sissy fell from the hayloft. She hit her head on the tractor.”
“Fell?”
“I pushed her.”
“It was an accident.”
“An accident! Jack, I just don’t believe that. Rafe threatened her. He more or less told her she was dead.”
“She deserved it.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“She was a beautiful little girl.”
“She was a bitch.”
“Maybe to you.” He coughed. “Can you get me a glass of water?”
Rafe handed him his drink bottle and returned to the kitchen. A few moments later he appeared again with a glass of water. Mike took it and threw it back.
“Anyway,” he said. “I’m going to tell the police. You’re going to spend a long time in prison, unless that is, you want to give me five million dollars.”
Rafe jolted.
“You have that much. You have seven, Rafe. You won’t miss five.”
“I’m not …” Rafe said, but seemed to consider.
Jack knew one thing. You never gave in to blackmail. “Where would that end, Mike? Five now and more later?”
Mike shook his head. “I’d go away. Maybe I’d go to Canada.”
Rafe opened his mouth, but Jack warned him with a frown. He appeared to think, relaxed a little, and then took a seat at the table.
“I’m going,” Mike said. He thumped the glass down, on the counter, then turned and walked away. A moment later the front door slammed.
“Fuck!” Rafe said. He looked distressed.
