Preacher: The East End Boys

by Christopher Harlan

  He’s angry. But I’m still not getting the story. “What happened with him?”

  “You know I used to be a wrestler? I was good, too—my coaches told me if I kept my record up I was on my way to a full ride to Iowa State or Ohio State. Maybe the Olympics after that. That’s how good I was.”

  I had no idea. “Really? You’ve never said anything.”

  “That’s because I don’t wrestle anymore. My father hated that I wanted to be an athlete. He hated a lot about me—that I always got into trouble, that I didn’t want to put on a suit and be groomed as next in line to his little empire. I don’t think he liked any of us—maybe Pope.”

  “So what happened? Something had to have happened, right?”

  “What no one knew about my father was that he liked to hit my mom. He beat her all the time right in front of us.”

  Oh my God. “What? Are you serious?” He nods. “Is he a drunk?”

  “I wish I could have blamed what he did on alcohol, but he beat her sober, drunk, when he had a bad day at the office, which was often. Some of my earliest memories are of visiting my mom in the ICU.”

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing. My heart is breaking. “Lucien, I. . .”

  “It’s okay,” he states. “This is why I don’t say shit about it—I hate the look of pity on people’s faces.”

  “It’s not pity,” I tell him. “It’s sadness. I hate that you had to go through that.”

  “When I got old enough, I started fighting back. Every time that piece of shit would put his hands on Mom, I’d try to fight him. He’s a big guy and I was just a little kid, so he’d shove me off at first. But later, when I got bigger, that’s when my beatings started.”

  “He beat you also?”

  He turns around and lifts his shirt. “Do you see this?” I’ve never noticed before, but there’s a surgical scar on his lower back that looks like it healed a long time ago. “One night we got into it—about Mom, about my future, about a lot of shit that had been building up for a long time. It was a real fight.”

  “And what happened?”

  “Dad made sure I was never going to wrestle again. He fucked up my back to the point I needed surgery. It ended any athletic career I was ever going to have.”

  I start to cry. I don’t mean to, but like I said, no half measures with me and emotion. “I can’t believe that happened to you.”

  “Don’t worry,” he says. “I got it back.”

  “Got it back?” I look at him, not sure what he means.

  “I healed up. Got my strength back, and waited, patiently.”

  “Waited for what?”

  “For the next time he tried to put his hands on my mom. I knew it would happen, it happened all the time—even when she swore up and down that he’d changed, I knew better. I waited and waited until I didn’t have to anymore. I came home from a friend’s house one night, and I saw the fear in my brother’s face. I didn’t need him to tell me anything—that’s when I knew. I saw the bathroom door was shut, which meant our mom was in there cleaning herself up. When I saw my father, I thought for a moment that I’d let it go, but then I saw it.”

  “Saw what?”

  “My mom’s blood on his shirt. It was just a little, a few drops, but I knew right then and there that one day he’d kill her, and maybe us also. I knew one day I could come home and I wouldn’t find her in the bathroom, I’d find her body. It was the most clear thought I’ve ever had in my life, and that’s when I did what I did.”

  “You fought him?”

  “No. A fight is when both people hit each other. I destroyed him.”

  I’m scared for his next words. I think of all the things I heard about Lucien before he got to town—that he was a criminal, that he was dangerous, and hearing him I’m wondering if it’s all true. “What did you do?”

  “I crippled him. Put him in a wheelchair for the rest of his miserable life. He told me he was going to get his bat and do to my legs what he did to my back. I thought he was bluffing, but when he came out with the thing in his hands I took it from him and left him on the ground. If Pope hadn’t grabbed me, I would have killed him.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “You don’t have to say anything. Neighbors heard the commotion, called the cops. I ended up in Harmony. And the only reason it wasn’t jail was because I was a minor and my brother told the judge about the abuse. They let me off easy. My dad’s in a wheelchair. After my mom said that she wasn’t going to kick either of us out of the house, my father divorced her. That’s how we ended up in the East End of Arkham. It was all we could afford.”

  “You couldn’t touch his money? He owed you guys.”

  He nods. “More than he could ever pay—but no, we couldn’t. My dad had some of the best, most cut-throat attorneys in Manhattan and my mom had about two hundred dollars in the bank. No charges were ever brought about the abuse, and even if she had tried, he would have buried her in court, so they agreed to split up. My mom took a small check—enough to live on—and we get child care checks until we turn 18–so not much longer now.”

  “That bastard.”

  “And then some. That’s why Pope wants to be a lawyer. He saw the power my dad had over my mom. He wanted to make that right one day and help other people who couldn’t help themselves. We’ll see if he actually does it, the kid talks a good game but who knows?”

  When he’s done, I understand him more than I ever could have before.

  We don’t speak. There’s nothing that I could say.

  I just snuggle up next to him, and he wraps his arm around me.

  That’s all we need right now.

  Forty-Six—Lyric

  The Present

  When I saw the text from Pope, I knew something had to be wrong. We don’t really talk like that, we never have. I gave up talking to him right around the tenth or twentieth time he wouldn’t tell me where Lucien had disappeared to. We pretty much didn’t talk the last couple months of school. Even at my birthday we barely talked, so when I saw his name on my phone I was a little shocked.

  He texted that we needed to speak right away, so I cancelled my sessions so I could see him. When he walks into my office, Sophie has the same reaction she had to Lucien—looking at me as if to ask who the hot guy is.

  “Come in, we can talk in here.”

  “Great.”

  Pope looks frantic. He’s usually cool as they come. To hear Lucien tell it, he’s nothing but poised and confident in the courtroom, but right now he looks very anxious about something, and based on the events of the last few days I already know it has to do with Lucien.

  “He went black on me.”

  “Excuse me?” I ask.

  “Preach. . . Lucien, he’s gone. Won’t answer his cell, won’t text me, didn’t tell me or his secretary where he was going—nothing. That’s not like him at all.”

  Really, Pope? Because disappearing without a word seems right on brand for our boy. That’s the petty voice in my head who made her appearance right after we went back to Arkham. I’ve been trying to shut her up but sometimes she screams stuff like that anyway.

  “Well did he say anything before? What made him leave?” Pope hesitates to answer, which means that there definitely is an answer, he just doesn’t want to tell me. “What is it? Look, there’s no point in coming here if you don’t give me the whole story.”

  Ask and ye shall receive, right?

  I get the story. He tells me that Lucien had a confrontation with Draven, of all people. He tells me about the fire that could have taken the whole building down. And then he gives me the punchline.

  “He said he was going to kill Draven?” I ask.

  “Yeah, but not like me saying I’m going to kill that judge who ruled against me. It wasn’t a figure of speech. You know my brother—he doesn’t say things that he doesn’t mean.”

  That’s true, he doesn’t, but I’ve honestly never thought of him as a killer before, but maybe I’m wrong a
bout him and what he’s truly capable of. “And you tried contacting him?”

  “About thirty or forty times, yeah. Nothing.”

  If he won’t answer his own brother I doubt he’ll answer me—but I can try. “I’ll text him, Pope, but past that I’m not sure what I can do. Maybe he just went to blow off some steam—get his head right. He’s been through a lot. You both have.”

  “Yeah.”

  Lucien would never show it on the outside, but I know he’s in turmoil over his mom. He loved her more than anything, and she was the one person who always stuck with him. Everything bad that happened to him—from the end of his wrestling career to going away all stemmed from protecting her from that monster of a father they had. He hasn’t even had time to properly mourn with all of this going on.

  I just hope it hasn’t pushed him over the edge.

  “If he went after Draven, we have to stop him,” Pope says. “This isn’t the kind of trouble I can get him out of. He’ll be behind bars for a long time, if not the rest of his life. Everything he’s worked for—everything we’ve worked for—will go to shit. We have to try and find him.”

  “And he didn’t say anything else after threatening Draven? He just stormed out?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Pope, you have to tell me everything or I can’t help you. Come on.”

  He tells me the rest, but not before I send Lucien a text. It’s not much, I know, and we didn’t leave on the best of terms the other day, but at least it’s something.

  “I honesty didn’t think anything of it at the time because I was trying to convince myself that he was joking about getting Draven back, but now that I’m putting two and two together, he asked me a bunch of questions about some of the corporate hangouts and bars around where our offices are.”

  “He didn’t know about those already?”

  “Preacher? He’s not a barfly like I can be—not anymore. He spends all of his time doing exactly two things— obsessing over you and trying to get this project done, and not necessarily in that order.”

  Obsessing over me? “What did you say?”

  “I said he’s always doing something about you—like planning those dates you made him take you on, paying ridiculous amounts of money to get those tickets for you, planning your birthday, all of it.”

  I’m really touched. I didn’t think he spent much time thinking of me at all, but it’s impossible to tell what Lucien is really thinking half the time. “Really?” I ask.

  “Yes, really.” He sounds annoyed, like he doesn’t want to talk about me and his brother. I don’t blame him. “And not just now, by the way.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean when he was. . . away. All I ever heard from the kid was ‘Lyric-this’ and ‘Lyric-that’ — a million questions about you. Is she doing good in school? Did she get into the college she wanted in the city? How does she look? Is she asking about me? How’s her sister? Is Draven leaving her alone? It never fucking ended.”

  This is shocking to hear.

  I spent literal years assuming that he’d forgotten about me—made a clean break, like he said, and moved on from me and the time we spent together. Now hearing Pope tell it, I’m not sure if his words make me happy or even sadder about the way things have gone with us.

  I can figure that out later—right now I have to help Pope find his brother.

  “Thank you for telling me that,” I say.

  “You’re welcome. I owed you years worth of information I could never give you back when we were teenagers. Figured you’d want to know.”

  “Thank you again,” I tell him. I don’t mean to, but I wrap my arms around him and give him a big hug. I can only imagine what Sophie would think if she saw. “Now let’s do some detective work and find Lucien.”

  Forty-Seven—Preacher

  The Present

  It’s been a while since I’ve hit someone.

  Too long.

  I owe Draven for giving me the opportunity to let my inner savage come out and play.

  The dumb bastard is still trying to fight back. Good for him.

  “You piece of shit.” He swings. I dodge. I hit back. He falls. For such a big guy, Draven really can’t fight—it’s like a tall guy with no free throw, just a damn shame.

  “I’d save my energy, sport. Talking while you swing is movie stuff. In real life it just tells the person you want to hit that you’re about to throw a punch. Gives them too much time to react. Bad idea, as you can see.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Good one. But I’m not the one who’s fucked.”

  He came out of the bar alone about ten minutes ago, half in the bag and reeking of old cigarettes and entitlement. I was waiting for him in the alley. He came right over to me, cocky and stupid. The asshole even tried to talk shit to me. And all I had to do was walk backwards, step by step, until I was far enough back that I could grab him and drag him to the roof of the abandoned building next door.

  So here we are.

  I kneel down next to him. He’s still got some fight in him, but he’s slow as hell. Not much has changed in a decade except him morphing into the fully formed asshole he only teased in high school. I can only imagine the shit he’s done. But I know a few things he’s not going to do anymore.

  “You’re a real piece of work. You and your whole piece of shit family. A bullshit sexual harassment lawsuit, a fire to burn down the building because my brother made a bitch of your team in court.”

  “Don’t blame me for my father’s shit.” He spits blood next to my shoes and then sits up.

  “And you’re going to tell me you had nothing to do with all that? Are you really going to sit there—excuse me, lie there—and say that shit with a straight face?” Draven needs to be careful. Lies are dangerous in the mood I’m in. But then again, so is the truth. I guess it’s a pick-your-poison kind of situation. “Be careful now—the truth will set you free.”

  I can see the fear in his eyes. Outside of a few ass whoopings—and probably more than a few from daddy dearest—this kid’s never experienced real consequence. He’s never feared for his freedom, for everything he worked for, for his life.

  “For real. My father wanted to get at you any way he could. He came up with the lawsuit idea—he knew that if he couldn’t beat you in court than he could smear your name. When that didn’t go anywhere, he went to the fire, but I had nothing to do with that. I was in the room when he planned everything, but I didn’t come up with any of it. I swear man.”

  He’d say anything right now, but for some reason I believe him. He’s just the lackey—the entitled asshole son. His father is the real villain when it comes to business. On some level I knew that already. I have legal ways to get at Griffin Sr. The lawsuit and the torching of my building was just a smokescreen—a justification in my messed-up head to get him up here, alone with me.

  This isn’t strictly business—this is very fucking personal to me.

  Draven’s not up here on a roof because of what he’s done to The Carter Organization—he’s up here because of what he took from one particular Carter.

  “I believe you.”

  He goes to stand up. He’s wobbly but my guard is still up—I don’t put it past him to take a swing at me at any moment.

  “Then what the fuck are we still doing up here, man? Tell me, I wanna know.”

  Be careful what you wish for, Draven.

  Forty-Eight—Lyric

  The Present

  I really hope he hasn’t done something stupid.

  I know Lucien, that means I know what he’s capable of when he’s as angry as Pope described him when he left their office.

  He’s going after Draven, no two ways about it. I just hope I can get to him before he gets to. . . “Shit, that’s his car.”

  “It sure is.”

  Pope pulls over and parks in the bar’s small lot out front. We jump out, frantically looking for Lucien, but I don’t see him. Pope runs inside and while
he’s in there I scan the street, but nothing. A minute later he comes out the front door.

  “Nada. Where the hell could he. . .”

  “Hold on,” I interrupt.

  “What is it?”

  “Shh. Listen.” I hear men’s voices—louder than regular speaking voices. “You hear that?”

  “Uh-huh. It’s coming from up there.”

  “The roof?” I ask.

  “Yeah, come on.”

  Of all the things I thought I’d be doing today, climbing the fire escape in the seedy alley between an abandoned building and a bar wasn’t on the list. But I’ll do whatever I have to do to save Preacher from himself.

  “She was mine and you fucking took her from me!”

  “You’re fucking crazy. She despised you and wanted nothing to do with you. I didn’t take anything from you. But you, you took everything from me! You knew I’d leave town to protect my mother and Pope. That’s why you were waiting at the bus station when I got there. You fucking mocked me and thought there wouldn’t be consequences. I couldn’t do anything then but I can fucking make you pay for it now!”

  The closer I get to the top of the fire escape, the louder the voices get. There is no mistaking it, Lucien and Draven are on the roof.

  “She meant everything to me and you used the bullshit charges to run me out of town thinking you would finally have her!” I almost stop when I hear Lucien’s confession over the sounds of flying fists connecting with flesh.

  Pope gets the roof and pulls me up hard. He’s more athletic than I thought—stronger, too. He lifts me up like a feather and as soon as we’re up I see the scuffle. Lucien and Draven, going at it again, only this isn’t sexy or thrilling like it was when I first met him—it’s frightening, and I want it to end.

  “Lucien, stop!”

  It’s eery how familiar this seems. The first time was my introduction to the boy who’d change my life forever—and here we are again, with Draven on the ground and Lucien standing over him, only this doesn’t look like a fight, it looks like a beating.