CHAPTER EIGHT
“Quincy told me I couldn’t bathe her,” Harrison told his father as entered the sunroom after dinner. “She said she wanted Mamma T.”
“She’s developing a streak of modesty, as girls do.” Dad stretched out his legs on his footstool. He gazed into the red depths of the wine glass cradled in his right hand. “And she’s fond of Tasha. It’s nothing to be alarmed at.”
“I’m missing her childhood.” Harrison went over to the piano with its pictures of Stephanie and their boys. He picked up the studio portrait of himself, Stephanie, Harry Jr., Willie and Kenny. It’d been taken before Steph got pregnant with Quincy. And they had never had a chance to have one done with all six of them. Even after all these years, looking at his beautiful wife and his three sons made his throat close.
“Quincy’s grown so much, it’s hard to believe.” Harrison’s voice was raspy.
The frog blocking Harrison’s throat was also in Dad’s. “Stephanie was quite a woman. And those boys were as fine a parcel of rascals as any grandfather could ever hope to have. But Quincy needs you as much as they ever did.” His voice seemed to give out.
Harry nodded, afraid to speak. “How can I have her with me?” he asked when he could. “Special Forces has me flying all over the country on a moment’s notice. I had the team in the Arctic in January, and I had seminars to give in Florida last month. I can’t leave a four-year-old alone on base while I go away, and I can’t expect to be allowed to bring her with me.”
“You’ll think of something,” Dad’s voice was hoarse but gentle.
Mom came into the room carrying a tray with more glasses and the bottle of red. Harrison took it from her and set it beside the photographs on the piano. Quincy gazed solemnly out of a silver filigree frame, older now than all of her brothers but Harry Jr. Jesus. Time was passing him by.
“Myra Block said it was morbid to keep those pictures out,” Mom remarked. She took her glass over to Dad’s chair and sat on the arm.
“What pictures?” Dad’s arm went around her and Mom relaxed against it.
“The photos of Stephanie and the boys,” she said. “And the one of Judy.” Stephanie’s mother had had a heart attack a week after her only daughter’s death.
“Are we supposed to pretend that they didn’t exist?” Dad thundered. He set his wine glass down, and took Mom’s out of her hand. “Myra Block is an idiot.”
“All my pretty chicks and their dam,” Mom murmured into Dad’s chest.
Dad’s arms tightened around her and he kissed her hair. “What on earth would we tell Quincy if we hid away her mom and brothers?”
“Be as good as saying that they weren’t part of the family because they were dead.” Harrison’s chest was stiff with rage. What the hell did Mrs. Block know?
Mom sat up again trying to smile. “Myra thinks we should be over it by now. That we should make room for Lincoln’s boy. And Pierce’s baby.”
“Over it?” Dad snorted. “Not in this lifetime. I love Harding. I’m glad to have another grandbaby. When Pierce and Diana’s baby is born, I will love him or her too. But Hardy didn’t replace his cousins. And the new baby won’t either.” He looked across at Harrison, picked up his glass and drank.
It was a pledge and Harrison drank too. The three of them must have made a sorry, somber tableau for Reynolds when he turned up. But Mom smiled as if they were not all on the verge of tears or rage. “Do you want a glass of wine?” She waved a hand at her glass.
“Thank you, ma’am,” Reynolds said politely. Poor bastard was going to have no sort of leave if he was intending to stand on ceremony the entire week.
“Reynolds and I are going to drink beer,” Harrison announced.
“Of course,” Mom said. “I bought your favorite, son.”
Reynolds looked around like he did not know what to do. As he didn’t. “Have a seat, Reynolds,” Harrison said before he headed to the kitchen. He had nothing against wine, but he preferred beer.
When he returned, the girls and Tasha were back. Tasha looked a little damp and a lot weary, and the girls looked far too excited to sleep. “Is it story time?” Becky asked. She was sitting on her uncle’s lap rubbing his chin with two fingers. She whispered something too faint even for phoenix hearing.
“If you want,” Reynolds said. “Do you want me to read you your new book?”
“Yes, and Quincy too.” Becky bounced. Reynolds prevented her from falling backwards.
Quincy launched herself at Reynolds as if her father wasn’t even in the room. Harrison handed Reynolds his glass of beer. Mom would have his head if he drank out of the can. Reynolds found room for both little girls on his lap as well as his beer. “Thank you, sir,” he said. Poor devil wanted to stand up and salute.
Harrison was surprised at Tasha’s sympathetic glance. “Maybe you could have two stories tonight?” she suggested. Which produced squeals of joy.
Tasha left the room and came back holding a book. Reynolds read it while both girls sat on his lap as if they belonged there. Harrison sipped his Rolling Rock and kept his jealousy off his face.
“Again,” cried the girls when he was finished. Reynolds shook his head and kissed two cheeks. “Bedtime.”
Tasha stood up and said firmly. “Daddy Danger is going to read to you in your bedroom, and then it’s off to sleep.”
After a long round of hugs and kisses, the girls let him lead them off to Quincy’s bedroom. Tasha sat back down and picked up her wineglass. He followed the girls upstairs, the three of them discussing the merits of Mrs. Pigglewiggle versus A Hundred and One Dalmatians.
* * *
“Now that the girls are off to bed,” George said, “Do you want to tell us what Sheriff Escobar said to get you bent out of shape?”
Tasha felt exhaustion tugging at her but she attempted a smile. “Escobar thinks I’m running some sort of a scam. He’s turned his facts inside out and concocted a crazy theory.”
“A scam?” asked Cam. “What sort of a scam?”
Tasha shook her head. “He’s latched onto the fact that I threatened to sue the car company and the dealership on Thursday night as proof that I staged the accident to create grounds for a lawsuit.”
“That’s nuts,” Cam said.
George looked at Caroline. He cleared his throat. “You were pretty insistent, my dear,” he said.
“Escobar played me the tapes.” She had been insistent, strident, hysterical. Tasha felt like a zombie. “I sounded pretty wild. Apparently someone in the Savannah Police Department told him I shook down the dealership there for twenty grand and a new car.”
“Did you?” asked Caroline.
“I had an accident in Savannah earlier this year – nothing like as bad as the one on Thursday – I settled out of court for a new vehicle off the lot,” Tasha explained. “And ten thousand. But since I am still paying off the first car, I did not exactly come out ahead.”
“But what on earth happened?” Caroline asked.
Tasha looked at Cam. “Would you?” She could not face rehashing the details.
“Okay. You shout out if I get anything wrong.”
He wouldn’t. Cam had a mind like a steel trap.
“Tasha had just dropped Becky off at her Grandmother’s house. Peggy Sutcliffe lives in one of those old neighborhoods with big houses and bigger lots and a stop sign at every corner just to keep things quiet. Tasha came to a full and complete halt at the first one – it was a four-way as it happened. Waited for the car on the other side of the street to cross, made the turn she had signaled.” Her brother winked at her.
She instantly felt better. Escobar and Roberts had expressed utter disbelief in her driving habits. “Nobody stops to the count of three,” the sheriff said. They had never met her Daddy. He had been a by-the-book-or-you-don’t-drive-my-car kind of father. Their eyeballs would have gotten stuck if they hadn’t stopped rolling them.
“She had bought the car six or seven weeks before,” Cam looked at
her for confirmation.
“Forty-four days,” Tasha said. “And I had already taken it in three times because the steering was wonky.”
Cam took up the story again while she closed her eyes. The images were too vivid so she opened them again. Caroline and George stared gravely at Cameron, their mouths slightly open.
“What Tasha means when she says the steering was wonky, was that it would go from loose to stiff in a heartbeat. The dealership checked it out, and each time said it handled fine for them. The implication being that it was all her imagination, or that she was a bad driver.”
Cam took a sip of his beer. “On the day of her accident, when she applied a little gas after making her turn, the steering wheel locked. Tasha wound up on a sidewalk making friends with Uncle Sam’s mailbox.”
“Is that so?” George was sitting straight up.
“Yes, sir.”
“So what happened?” demanded Caroline.
Tasha took up the story. “I called 911. I mean, I had taken out the mailbox and I had a huge dent in my bumper. And there were witnesses out walking their dog. Besides my steering wheel was locked. I couldn’t exactly drive off. I was charged with reckless endangerment and a bunch of other stuff, but when the dealership identified a fault in the onboard computer, the police dropped all charges.”
“Good grief,” declared Caroline. “I can’t believe Herman Escobar could turn that into you running a scam.”
“He’s decided that I am going back for another kick at the same can. He thinks that I hacked into the onboard computer so I could stage the Savannah accident and claim compensation from the dealership. And that your pal Tomlinson will find that I did the same thing to the brake system.” She put her hands between her knees to hide their shaking.
“Is that even possible?” Caroline demanded.
“I don’t know.” George said. “Cameron?”
“If you have some way to tap into the system, sir, very possible. But only mechanics would have the correct equipment. It wouldn’t be cheap, and you can’t buy it online.” Cameron’s voice was easy but inflexible. Which meant he was certain of his facts.
“The sheriff seemed to think that I had the skill set to reprogram the car’s steering system,” Tasha said.
Caroline laughed. “But you’re a librarian.”
“I have a degree in Library Science and Information Technology, Escobar has put two and two together to make five. I tried to explain that tagging metadata and cataloging reports was not the same as changing out the chips on a computer or rewriting code.”
Tasha laughed bitterly. “He seemed to think my familiarity with HTML code would give me the knowhow to monkey with the steering program.” She put her arms around her knees and drew herself into a ball on the couch.
Caroline’s arms were suddenly around her shoulders. “It’s okay,” she murmured. “We’ll get this figured out.”
“I take it you don’t program an onboard computer with HTML?” George said dryly.
Tasha tried to laugh. It was a watery sound. “Or Python. Escobar thinks that’s why it took several tries for me to get to the point where the steering locked.”
Harrison walked in. He looked around at their stiff expressions. “What’s the matter?” he demanded.
“Hmm,” said George. “I guess this is the moment to tell you that Escobar loses his bet. Your brake problem has nothing to do with the car’s computer system. Your brakes failed because there was no brake fluid left. The system was completely drained.”
Tasha tried to smile and look reassured by this news. But what she principally felt was bewilderment.
“Another beer, Reynolds?” asked Harrison.
Her brother accepted. Caroline and George murmured. Harrison left. Cam sat down on her other side and joined Caroline in patting her. Harrison thrust a glass at her. She took it mechanically and took a gulp. Fire burned her gullet. She coughed.
Caroline rescued the glass. “Sip it,” she instructed.
The second mouthful of brandy burned less. Tasha sipped until she stopped shaking. Caroline was speaking.
“Does TJ know what caused the leak?”
“Not yet,” George said. “He didn’t have the staff to look at it properly today. But he promised that right after the Fourth, he and his best mechanic would take the vehicle apart.”
“You’re going to bed, sis.” Cam sounded amused. “You’re drunk.”
“On one finger of brandy?” A deep voice murmured.
Tasha laid her head on Cam’s shoulder. The sound of laughter followed them up the stairs like reassurance.
CHAPTER NINE
Shawn Willet hunched over to get the sun out of his eyes. He could barely fit between the concrete block supports of the trailer but he forced his body underneath it anyway. A rat approached the greasy wrapper of his half-eaten breakfast burger, whiskers wiggling. Shawn bared his teeth and after a startled sniff the rodent beat it.
The rat was the least disgusting of the crap lying under the trailer. But he didn’t dare hide someplace else, lest the vicious argument taking place above him swamp him in its backwash. The bitch was mad as a rabid dog this morning and just as likely to gnaw on Shawn if she caught a glimpse of him. Let Malik and Dustin deal with Mom. They were the ones who had fucked up.
From under here he had a view of a slice of the lot and part of the road. Most of their big rigs were out on jobs. The doors of the two tractors waiting for Malik and Dustin were stenciled in white with the words Willet Transport~We Haul For America. He had gassed them up himself. They were ready for the road.
The three empty semi-trailers were stacked broadside to the street. They informed passersby that all Willet Transport drivers were bonded. If he made it over to them he could wait inside away from this stinking shit. Only, they were sealed boxes and probably still as hot as hell from yesterday. He’d fucking cook inside.
The main road was already busy. Going to be a heavy traffic day. But visitors to Willet Transport were unlikely. They dealt with the fucking customers on the phone or the internet. No one was going to interrupt Mom before she cleaned Malik and Dustin’s fucking clocks. Shawn glanced at his phone. Shit. Ten past nine. Sooner or later, some asswipe was going to call the office. There would be hell to pay if he wasn’t around to answer the phone.
The argument in the trailer got louder. Mom was mad as fire and swinging. Shawn flinched at the sound of flesh on flesh. Her voice got harsher and hoarser with every blow. He could feel her words like a fucking sonic wave rattling his brain. He made himself smaller. Drawn by the burger wrapper, the rat came back. He ignored Shawn’s teeth this time. Shawn pounced. The rat splatted on the busy road. Teach him to mess with a wolverine.
“You dumb fucks screwed up again.” The trailer shook as something heavy was flung against the side. Probably Dustin. Malik was too heavy for Colleen Willet to throw. She was a foot shorter than any of them, but mean as shit. Powerful too. But for all he was no taller than Shawn, Malik was a solid motherfucker.
“How were we supposed to know the brakes would fail where there wasn’t any traffic?” Malik was only going to rile her up worse with his whining. The dumb shit ought to know that talking back only made the bitch madder.
Someone got his dumb face punched. There was a whimper. Mom’s punches fucking hurt. “If you had done it right,” she said unsympathetically, “The fucking target and her fucking brat would be dead, and we could be getting paid for getting rid of them.”
“We were real careful, Mom,” Dustin said. “Next time we’ll get her for sure.”
“Next time you’ll have to try something different.” Shawn could imagine the sneer on Mom’s face. “Car accidents are our bread and butter. You losers ought to be able to set up a simple car accident.”
A smack this time. “This was your second fucking attempt. You’ll have to think of something else next time. Anyone can have a couple of accidents, but three would be too fucking suspicious. And that asshole brother of hers
will be asking all kinds of questions of the cops if she has another one.”
Someone caught another blow. The trailer shook. Mom was getting more worked up every minute. Angrier with every word. As usual. “We can’t afford any more screw ups.”
That indrawn breath sounded like Dustin. Shawn rolled into a tighter ball and covered his head with his arms. Maybe the containers were safer. Nah. They would spot him for sure if he moved. The office trailer had windows. The fact that he had nothing to do with the Texas mess wouldn’t keep Mom from backhanding him one. Or kicking his ass.
Inside the trailer, Dustin and Malik shuffled their feet and bleated, “Yes, Mom.”
Colleen Willet was not appeased. As Shawn could have told his older brothers she would not be. “Well, go on, Malik,” Mom said. “You were supposed to be in fucking Illinois last night. You better get your ass on the road. And there’s a shipment waiting for you in Virginia, dumbass.” Dumbass was Dustin. Usually.
“Don’t we even get breakfast?” whined Dustin.
“I’ll fucking give you breakfast. You want a knuckle sandwich?”
Malik and Dustin stumbled out of the trailer. Their dark hair was greasy and their unshaven faces were battered. They looked like two tough hombres no one would mess with, but Colleen had just wiped the floor with them. Dustin was cradling an arm. Mom had a way of slamming a fellow around that made bruises that took their time healing. Shawn stood up and let them see him.
“What the fuck you doing out here?” Malik demanded loudly. The prick.
“I was just waiting till Mom was done with you guys.” He kept his voice low. Real low. “What went down in Texas, man?”
Malik darted around the side of the trailer. He grabbed a fistful of Shawn’s T-shirt and hauled his face close. Hot gusts of whatever shit Malik had eaten yesterday punctuated his words. “Shit happened, Mamma’s boy.”
Malik’s slap snapped Shawn’s head backward. He turned and bit sideways at Malik’s hand. Even in human his molars were sharp. Blood spurted into his mouth, warm and coppery. Delicious. Malik howled.
Phoenix Aflame (Alpha Phoenix Book 2) Page 6
